Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 31, 2010

Eviction Day

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:16 pm
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Mario Caldrone pulled the Cook County Sheriff’s late model Ford Crown Victoria to the front of a house that looked to have seen much better days.  The screen door was missing the top hinge and had no glass.  There were wrappers and cups strewn around the over grown front lawn of mostly crab grass and weeds.  In the back yard were two Pit bulls that barked their husky bark.  Mario pounded hard on the front door with the palm of his hand that caused an echo against the homes across the street.

            “Sheriff’s department, open up…  This is your…last warning, we’re coming in,” said Mario.

            Mario took his fifty pound lead pipe with two handles attached and hit the door once, splintering the door and ripping it from the frame.  Once inside with guns drawn, he and Officer Leon Jones walked through ankle deep garbage looking for occupants.  Newspapers, magazines, hangers, clothes, shoes, fast food wrappers, DVDs and shoes were strewn though out the house.  The occupants deserted and left two of their dogs in the backyard without food and water.

            “So you gone tell me watchu think, Mario?” Asked Leon.

            “Okay Jonesy…  A black man and maybe a white chick with really poor self esteem.  Bleached blonde hair with black roots, smokers, both overweight, pill takers, and pot smokers, children with other mothers and fathers, no job and in collections for everything under the sun.  They both eat a lot of fast food and have nice cars and  many pairs of sneakers and probably left here and went and shacked up at the elderly grandmother’s home somewhere not far from here.  Her house is immaculate and she has World War II pictures of her husband on top of doilies in the pristine living room.  She was watching soap operas, dozing and reading her bible when her bust-out grandson showed up with a pillowcase full of important belongings and the train wreck of a girlfriend with him,” said Mario while kicking around abandon junk.

            While Mario gave his profile based on the housekeeping and belongings, Leon found pictures of an over weight white woman and a black man with both white and black children in the picture.  Leon just shook his head.  He knew that nearly every time, Mario was absolutely dead on.  It amazed and amused Leon.  Leon hated Mario when they first started working together but grew to admire and respect the wisdom of a man who had been working for the sheriff’s department for thirty years.

            “You know what today is, Jonesy?”  Asked Mario, as they drove to their next case.

            “It’s Friday and I’m taking mah woman out foh some dinner and some dancing and then Imma make love to her like ain’t never done befoh because she was on her cycle last week and whenever that happens, I get crazy.  I wanna throw a damn party when it’s over,” said Leon, while looking out of the passenger window through dark sunglasses.

            “It’s the anniversary of the death of Jesus.  He was killed on a Friday.  I can’t figure out why it is Good Friday.  I went to church this morning and we’re having all our family over on Sunday.  It’s supposed to be warm.  I’d like to sit outside…  You like to sit outside, Jonesy?”

            “I love the summer, dude.  I cain’t wait for summer days,” said Leon.

            “Yeah…  The spring…  When anything and everything seems possible.  If you’re a Cub fan, you start out in April believing that this is the year.  Then with the fall of the leaves comes the stark realization that you may never live to see them win a World Series.  Nobody alive remembers the last time they won a World Series…  Well spring is a great time and Easter is a chance to see your family again since Christmas and sort of reconnect,” said Mario.

            A thin man with no hair up the middle of his head took heavy drags from a cigarette as he paced in front of the building.  He stopped pacing when the Sheriff’s car pulled up.

            “My attorney said you would be here between 9am and noon time.  It’s after 12:30…  You people don’t value anything but your own damn time,” said the man who couldn’t look either of the officers in the eye.

            “You know something, man?  We cain git right back in the car and take the fuck off and let the sheriff’s department know that there was no representative at the building to meet us.  It costs you $30.00 fucking dollars and then yo ass waits til we git back around here again… You dig me?”  Said Leon.

            Mario interrupted before the man could respond.  His smooth demeanor and smile put the anxious man at ease.

            “I’m sorry… It’s just these animals have trashed my place and the court just gave me possession and I just know they’ve ruined my place.  I’m gonna have to spend thousands to restore the place and I’ll send them to collections and they’ll file bankruptcy and I won’t get dick,” said the nervous man.

            Mario knocked three times.  He could hear a television playing in the background.  A commercial was on.  Ironically it was Peter Francis Geraci.

            “Worried about losing your house, automobile or problems with the IRS?  We can help you to become free of debt.  With offices through out Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan, we have operators standing by to assist you…”

            A skinny white male with dishwater colored hair in his late twenties with a moustache was lying on a mattress on the floor of a bedroom in the back when Mario and Leon walked in wearing all black with guns drawn.  The occupant had been smoking crack the night before and had let the better part of a day pass before waking up to his wake up call.  Leon posted a no trespass notice on the door and loudly ordered the white male to get what he needed and clear out.  For Leon, the man was the epitome of what he hated in white people.  He was a an uneducated, drug dealing, bigoted poor white trash that felt he was superior to blacks just because he was white.  Leon showed little mercy.

            “You have five minutes to get what you fucking need and git yo ass outta here.  You fucked this place up, dude…  Look at this shit.  You fucking livestock in this mutha fuckah, huh?  Who the fuck lives like this?  If it were up to me, I’d tie your ass up to your rusted out fucking truck with the confederate flag and drag your ass to the south side…  Watchu you got tattooed on yo arm?  Is that a swastika?  Shit it is, boy,” said Leon.

            Mario stepped in again and spoke with a smile and cool tone in his voice while pointing his side arm at the hold over tenant.

            “Sir…  You were delinquent on your rent and it went to court and the court determined that the owner should have possession of his unit.  This means that you must vacate forthwith.  Forthwith means that you have to grab what you can hold in your hands and get out fast.  Think of it as sort of a fire.  There is a fire and you need to get out really fast and if you have the chance to grab something, grab it or just get out while you can…  I think you should put on a shirt though.  It’s warm now but you know how it gets in Chicago and we’re not far from the lake.  The wind could change and then you’d wish you had a shirt on…” said Mario.

            The young man blurry eyed, found a dirty Harley Davidson shirt and put it on.  He stuffed some items into a pillow case and walked out.  The owner complained about the system that seemed to favor the tenant and not the owner.  Mario blinked heavy and nodded as if to agree with the man.  He calmly listened and then spoke.

            “I personally would turn this building condo and get the hell out of here.  Who you gonna get that’s worth a damn in this day in age?  Nobody has a job, everyone has debt, and everyone is filing for bankruptcy.  The day of the little old lady in apartment buildings is gone.  Turn it condo and go live in Florida…  Have a nice day,” said Mario as they walked down the stairs.

            Leon asked his take on the latest case to be evicted.  He always liked hearing Mario’s spin on what he thought.  As much as Leon detested most white people, Mario was his hero.  Leon hoped that one day he could do the job day in and out and just smile.  Most days Leon went home hating people and not trusting anyone, while Mario left it in his locker like his black clothes and bullet proof vest.

            “Broken family… Mom left dad and went it alone.  Dad went on with his life and tried to forget that he ever had a kid and a wife.  The boy grew up not respecting his mom due to a slew of one night stands and worthless boyfriends. He grew up breaking rules and had no boundaries.  Rather than seeing what was possible and making the best of things, he probably spent his whole life blaming his dad for taking off.  The drugs, lack of discipline and so on he attributes to his dad who probably started over with another woman and got it right the second time around…”  Said Mario.

            Leon shook his head and looked out of the window at young black males that were hanging around on street corners, no doubt look outs for drug dealers.  Mario sensed so much anger in his partner and disdain for humanity.  Mario surprised Leon.

            “I would like you and your lady to come to my place in Elmwood Park for Easter and don’t tell me no either.  We get together about three in the afternoon.  Don’t bring nothing… My wife will make more food than we could eat in a week with desserts and the whole shot…  Hang out with the I-talians for a day.  Then on Monday you can ask me what I think about my kids, my wife, my cousins, my brother, his wife and their kids.  I can tell you what I think about everything and then I think it’s your turn to tell me what you think about many things in life…  Before you explode.”

March 24, 2010

A Republican Answer to Health Care

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:37 pm
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Guillaume Launtandresse was about as handsome a man as one could ever find in politics.  He was a cross between Richard Gere and George Clooney.  Guillaume went to Tulane as an undergrad and then received a law degree from the same school.  Guillaume was a party boy of the first order and could be found just about anywhere in the French Quarter most nights.  Guillaume had a knack for doing well with a minimal effort and breezed through law school without really trying.  Guillaume served on the city council of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana then moved on to state and then onto national politics.  Guillaume was well aware of his uncommonly good looks and his folksy way of speaking to the common man.  It did not go unnoticed by reporters around the beltway that Guillaume had modeled himself strongly after Huey Long.  And like Huey Long, the United States was ready to listen to a down to earth, tell it like it is type of candidate that seem to understand the common man more than anyone else around

            “Now recently I have been hounded like a coon inna tree bout the health care bill.  I been aksed back home…  Guillaume, boy, watchu thank bout the health care re-form?  And I tole the good people of my die-rect parish in Lou-see-ana how I see it…  Y’all ready?  Shore we got many Americans without health care at this minute and I hear the cost of health care rising bout three times as fast as inflation.  Now y’all want what I call post office health care?  You want the government to come in and do foh health care what they doing for every othah thang they involved with?  Who here can tell me how many zeros they is in two trillion?  Yo mind cain’t fathom the idea of numbers so dang high.  Ain’t nothin in our everah day lives where you got to thank in terms of trillion.  Now the government gone need at least that when that fully implemented.  This gone drive private health care intah the grave and you left with post office health care.  Who here trust the post office with they life?  We live in the land of the free and pride our selves on freedom of choice.  You bout to lose yo choice on this hare bill.  Who hare love taxes?  Come on y’all raise ya hands.  They got to be one y’all out thare you love taxes.  Now you must if y’for this hare bill.  How you thank this gone be paid?  Y’all wanna no how Imma vote?  I thank you know, I thank you know well nuff.”

            Guillaume had an approval rating of nearly 72% in his congressional district which is outstanding considering that republicans were held in such poor esteem by the nation as a whole.  Guillaume had a wife and four children but was a supreme womanizer and that was well understood by those close to him.  With midterm elections rapidly approaching, a former member of Guillaume’s harem stepped forward.

            Susan was a young and impressionable girl as she had not yet turned of legal age when she had sent a picture of herself to Guillaume with a letter stating that she believed that he could one day be president of the United States.  The young woman wasn’t as beautiful as she was youthful and vibrant.  Guillaume was attracted to her innocence and her tight physique.  What started out as listening to Susan’s political aspirations of making a difference in the world, eventually led to sex in limousines and adjoining hotel rooms and health spas in the New Mexico.

            It was around 2004 that Susan became disenchanted with the Republican Party due to the fact that one of her cousins lost two legs to an IED in Iraq.  Her cousin’s proud moment was going for a jog with President Bush on the two springs given to him in place of legs.  Over the years, Susan began to not relish being the other woman or other, other woman as it were, in the life of Guillaume Launtandresse.  Finding a female sexual partner that she was compatible with and adopting her liberal ideas ran counter to the patriotic, I believe in America, view point that Susan had been raised with.  Martha, the partner of Susan had gone to Iowa twice for the straw poll in hopes of landing Dennis Kucinich in the White House.  Martha actively petitioned people to have George W. Bush impeached.  It was in Washington DC that Martha met Susan in front of a coffee shop.  Martha had a Dutch Boy hair cut and political buttons all down her jacket as well as two earrings around her lower lip, painted on eyebrows, fishnet stockings stuffed with bowling pin legs inside Doc Marten combat boots.  Martha’s hair was dyed bright orange.  Susan had never met anyone quite like Martha in southern Louisiana.  It wasn’t long before Susan and Martha moved in with one another and Susan became vehemently against the Republican Party, President Bush and Guillaume Launtandresse more that even Martha could muster.

            Susan had told Guillaume off in an email that gave Guillaume a good chuckle.  To Guillaume it was a lot of idealistic bullshit that was probably stuffed into her head from some college professor that was also banging her on the side.  The gray bearded professor from the Vietnam era was probably explaining to her how Marxism could still work in the western world, while helping her off with her panties.  Guillaume shook his head and hit the delete button and decided that when she was younger, tighter and less militant, she sure had been a swell gal.  A few years passed without ever hearing from Susan and Guillaume had nearly forgotten all about her.  Honestly.  The email from Susan to Guillaume was devised by Martha after some frank discussion with Susan.

            “Okay…  You were fucking this asshole.  This fucking pompous asshole with the perfect hair and smile.  It makes my skin crawl to think that you and he were ever together.  I don’t hold that against you because you were totally young and naïve.  The thing that astounds me is that this asshole knew you had Lupus and kept fucking you without a rubber?”  Asked Martha.

            “I was on the pill and at the time I didn’t think the reactions I was having was from his penis.  My body was rejecting his penis and I didn’t know it.  We tried rubbers and that was even worse…  Anyway, what’s your point?”  Asked Susan.

            “My point is that it is a fucking midterm election is coming up and that asshole looks like the next president to any yahoo that cries during the national anthem and believes that we are actually bringing democracy to places like Afghanistan.  You contact that son of a bitch and tell him you need him to find a kidney donor quickly with his ties or that we will go to the Washington Post with the steamy details between him and a young girl seventeen years of age in bumble fuck Louisiana.”

            “I dunno…”

            “Fucking call him!”

            Guillaume sat at his Washington DC desk looking out towards the Washington Monument and called in one of his advisors, a man named Saul from New York City who was as sharp as could be.  Saul saw that Guillaume could really be the populist candidate to ride into the White House in 2012 and offered his services.  Guillaume liked the shrewd little Jewish man with a strong Brooklyn accent.  Guillaume dropped the dilemma at the feet of Saul.

            “I’ve told you on more than one occasion that cameras are everywhere and it’s a matter of time before you’re gonna be crying in front of the goddamn cameras like Jimmy Swaggart.  Pussy is an essential thing for the male species but pussy should never make you go blind?  Am I reaching you, Billy?  You have fucked your way into a corner.  As things stand, you could die and still beat the Democratic candidate provided that your constituents believe that you are above board and honest.  Now this nouveau bull dyke has come out with a gun to your head… Do you have a kidney to lend her in your closet?  Do you, Billy?  I don’t think so and now what?  You’re gonna tell her that you don’t know anyone at the Mayo Clinic and she’s shit out of luck?  No, Billy…   We’ll be shit out of fucking luck.  You are so goddamn close to being the next president without declaring it that it isn’t even funny.  You are the Great White Hope.  The country went with anything but that cadaver the Republicans put up in 08 but now you have emerged as the voice of the people.  The only thing keeping you from the select few men to have ever run this nation is your goddamn pecker…”

            Guillaume sat with his head in his hands listening to the small man with a nasal like voice; beat up on him for his indiscretions.  Guillaume took his verbal beating like a man.  Suddenly Saul stopped talking and smiled as if he had a vision of Jesus and that would have been something since he did not believe in Jesus.  Guillaume looked up and saw Saul snapping his fingers and smiling.

            “I’ve got it…  I’ve fucking got it.  You can thank me later with a cabinet position to Monaco… Here’s what we’re going to do…” said Saul.

            Now Susan was happy to receive a kidney and not face death and dialysis indefinitely.  Saul was able to smooth things out with the donation of Guillaume’s kidney and a few dollars in exchange for keeping quiet.  Susan and Martha both agreed to hush.  A beaming Saul stood off to the side at the press conference after the kidney donation.  Guillaume handled it beautifully.

            “Now many y’all thank that us Republicans are uncaring and selfish when it comes to this hare health care dee-bate.  A woman wrote to me who was originally from my own parish in Lou-see-ana and tole me bout her necessity to find a kidney donor.  Now this was a woman without health care nor a glimmah of hope of finding a kidney in time for her needs…  I was touched by her story and got to thanking bout what we all kin do as Americans to help one another out in a time of need.  We did it during the Great Depression and desperate times call for extreme sacrifice.  Today this young woman in our nation’s capital lives and thrives with my kidney inside her.  I don’t advocate that we all go giving our organs out to each other but ask what it is that we can do for one another so our dang country don’t try to step in and do it for us…  God Bless America.”

March 17, 2010

The Handsome Kiwi or Passionate for the Fruit

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:22 pm
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            It wasn’t often if never that anyone could ever remember ever meeting a “Kiwi”.  In fact none of the stay at home moms knew that a New Zealander was called a Kiwi.  What they did know was that there was a remarkably good looking man with blond hair, chiseled jaw and clef chin, who came to collect his children every afternoon about three in the afternoon. 

            Dan’s wife took a job with an American company and they sent them to Chicago for two years.  Dan’s wife was a vice president of a medium sized international company that had a satellite in Auckland.  The CEO felt that all VPs from around the world should come to their world headquarters to learn how the Yanks do it.  Martha had done a fair amount of studying on the internet prior to moving to the states and found that she could take a train from Oak Park, right into downtown Chicago in almost a damn near straight line.  They bought a home on Oak Park Avenue, down the street from where Frank Lloyd Wright designed and where Ernest Hemingway was born. 

            While Martha was learning the ways of the “Yanks” as they called them, Dan stayed at home perfecting his comedy routine.  Dan gave it some thought and knew that his modified Cockney accent that was derived from England some two hundred years ago would be a novelty.  Dan’s frank way of speaking with his folksy use of the English language was a novelty that he felt he could tap into and so he did.

            By day, Dan spent his time riding his bike, jogging and lifting weights.  The man resembled an underwear model or one of those smiling men, sitting around a campfire in a J. Crew or LL Bean catalog.  When the women who gathered their children after school first caught sight of Dan, he was the topic of all conversation.

Three friends and stay at home mothers commented on the handsome man amongst themselves before Jane decided to approach him.  Jane was short and cute the way a Chihuahua is cute and had the energy level of a frisky pup.  For a woman of forty, Jane was in very good shape.  Jane’s husband worked with computers and made enough for Jane to concentrate on looking good and feeling good.  She sold sex toys to other moms in the neighborhood at parties hosted by various other stay at home moms.

 Saraphine or Sarah was the dumpy Italian woman who was raised not more than five miles away in Elmwood Park.  She married a dentist and elevated themselves from the blue collar, teamster, plumber, mechanic, police officer, fireman neighbors to those that ate cheese and wine and listened to Jazz and bought art and all voted for Obama.  Sarah was the daughter of a second generation pipe fitter who hated the hoity-toity atmosphere of Oak Park.  Sarah felt they had arrived at the height of culture in Oak Park.

Alison was the quiet moody listener of the trio who loved to paint, garden, play the piano and write really obscure poetry about finding a soul mate; a man who was in tuned to her true essence, what ever that was, was not clear to Alison either.  What was clear was that her husband was a super fan of all televised sports and she was not being “serviced” anywhere nearly as much as was required for a woman entering the pre-menopause era of heightened sexuality.  All three envisioned themselves in a harlequin way with the blondish man with a nice physique, blond hair and a big off white wool sweater like an Irish Spring commercial.  Jane was the trailblazer.

“Hello…  I’m Jane and these are my two dear friends Sarah and Alison…  We noticed a new face and thought we would welcome you to Oak Park…”

Dan shook all their hands and cast a smile much akin to Kirk Douglas a la Spartacus.  When they heard the accent, they all melted and assumed he was British.

“Ah wish ah add pound for every time someone thought I was British…  Ave you girls ever eered of a place call New Zealand?”

The women all giggled like little school girls.  Before long, Dan was like one of the girls.  They would meet him at 2:00pm at the Café on Lake Street to chat.  They all liked that Dan always ordered tea.  One day, Dan handed them all tickets to his comedy show that was taking place at a small club in the city of Chicago.  There was no doubt that the enamored trio might not attend.  They road together to the club in Alison’s minivan and had a chance to discuss Dan on the way to the club.

“Okay…  So I have to tell you guys something.  When Dan handed us the invites, it was pretty clear he looked at me when he asked if we would come.  It might not be necessary to bring this up but he didn’t once look at either of you two.  If that man would just say the word, I would soil me knickers at light speed.  I got waxed for this event tonight.  I ain’t saying that anything could happen but you always want to keep house in case you have guests over” said Jane.

“So I wasn’t going to tell you two this but I had a dream last night.  I had a dream that all three of us were in bed with Dan.  I swear to god in my dream, he was asking Alison in that accent if he could slip it into her bum.  He said all suave… Love could I slip it into your bum?  Well I woke up and rubbed out a good one while my hairy dago slept like a brown bear next to me.  Honest to god, sawing wood like a lumberjack and making the China chatter in the cabinet in the hall with that damn snoring…  I think I was just watching in the dream.  He was rubbing Jane’s tits and getting ready to bum rush Alison…  I woke up in cold sweat,” said Sarah.

“Did you guys ever stop to think that maybe he’s just a really nice man who happens to just be good looking?  I mean he is so thoughtful and respectful with us and the way he crosses his legs while tea bagging his tea and those argyle socks… I better stop,” said Alison.

Dan’s skit was entitled, I’m gonna tell you how it f@&cking is.  The girls were shocked by the transformation of their quiet friend that they met every week day afternoon.  None of what was said was expected by the trio.  They sipped their red wine and listened intently.

“Thank you kindly for coming out tonight.  Ma name is Dan and I’m not from England or Australia or Boston.  I come from an island where we are referred to as Kiwis.  A fucking ugly fruit and uglier little bird…  I say fuckall to thaat. 

I was wearing me Rugby shirt while taking ma little ones to Mc Donald’s…  Fucking Mc Donald’s.  Ma two boys are asking me what the fuck eess on the menu like we don’t all conduct business in English, eh?.  Ma son Clive, bless the little bugger’s soul…  He says, Daad… I would loike a fizzy daad…  You bloody well said I could ave one the last bleedin time we went to Mac’s.  I want a fizzy and I bloody well beh-er get chips with number 3 this time…  I had to translate for this African American lad with his li-oole aat cocked to the side and barely moving ees lips like a fucking marionette puppet.  I waas like is E practicing to be a ventriloquist?  Come again, mate?  E said…  You git the Frog Princess wid dat meal…  You want that or what?  So I ask…  Aren’t there some sort of cars or guns or somefing suitable for boys thaat you could give us with the Happy Meal?  He looks at me and says, the who?  I di-n’t know how to respond to that.  In New Zealand, things such as autos or cycles or even a dildo is a what not a who and so I tell eem that eets not a who thaat ma boys would like, eets a what.  You could probably guess what he responded with… Who?  Well now there is a queue building behind me of grotesquely obese Americans, bent on ordering all the fat and sodium necessary for human consumption for a week, een one bleeding meal.  I’m in awe at some of you Americans really.  I’m finking owe et ees thaat anyone gets eet up ear een the states naturally.  Then Ah see the Viagra commercial every two minutes… Of course, Viagra…  Hire an attorney to clear your fucking debt, go buy Viagra and then go buy those fucking devises where you swivel your fucking arse on some sort of a device while on your bloody knees.  On your fucking knees!  You’re going to eat Mc Donald’s, drive to the mailbox at the corner of your street and swivel for ten minutes a day and look like the smiling woman with 2% body fat on the tel-lee?  I think fucking not, mate… Not a fucking ope of a cat’s fucking whisker on thaat one.

 Anyway, what beats the band ees a diet soda pop accompanied by 1200 grams of pure shit…  I caan almost ear them squealing behind me now like fucking pigs and am worried for me life.  A more dignified African man with a moustache and broad shoulders explains to me in a more refined dialect that the boys toys are all gone…  Ah jokingly say…  Well ah suppose the Chinese saved em for all those boys they’re aving while they drown the females, eh?  Man never cracked a smile.  Then ees staring at me Rugby shirt that says, All Blacks.  Now I know ees wondering what een the fuck that ees supposed to mean…  A white man with some sort of a Martian fucking accent wearing a shirt thaat says, All Blacks…  Well E was bold enough to inquire… Ah thought ah would try me and again at comedy…  Well mate, ah joined the million man march and they were shocked to fuck to find one lone white man from New Zealand walking with one million, angry black men.  When ah waas about to be pummeled, ah spoke up, they loved me accent an gave me a commemorative t shirt to mark me bravery…  One large bloke said to meh… eh, cain’t you see that we all black?  And then he said… Homey you okay with us.  Crazy as you is, you git a free shirt…  So ear ah think the stern faced, mustachioed captain of Mc Donald’s number 4,542,331 is going to bite me ed off.  Instead he tells me to wait a moment.  E comes back with a Happy Meal deluxe with two bloody Spongebobs…  Ah said to eem, good on ya, mate…  and you know what he replied?  Can ya guess?  E said who…  Fucking incredible…

Now this processed horse shit ees a bit dodgy for me.  Ah ate some-fing of a square fucking, breaded fish which just about ruined me intestines…  All in all, ah cain’t complain.  Eets a nice place ear…  Ah learned quickly that me tangerine colored togs cannot be worn on the beach… Unless you’re hunting another man.  Nobody wears baggy shorts back home.  We play a really mean, manly sport called Rugby een tight, short shorts.  No bloody pads, no bloody helmets and our team ees called The All Blacks.  I’m watching a football game ear in the states and all the boys are wearing trousers skin fucking tight with a bloke weeth ees ands way up the other bloke’s bum, waiting for eem to pass the ball between his legs and I fink, am I missing som-fing?  I go to the beach in me Speedos and I’m a poofter but you kin wear skin tight trousers with your fingers up an other man’s bum and nobody gives eet a second thought.”

“Well me mum asked me ow ah could sum up America een a few words…  Ears me quick word association; obese, Obama, Osama, Pakistan, Afghanistan, congested, development arrested, congress detested, no jobs, no health care, fake breasts, tattoos, tongue rings, text messaging, Facebooking, video game playing, pill taking, step brothers, step sisters, step fathers, step mothers, 12 step, pro life, pro choice, pro gay, bi-polar, bisexual, gun loving, car driven, flag waiving, leaders of the post Soviet free world where everything ees made een China… I say to me mum, God Bless, America…  Me mum’s a bit hard of earring and after all thaat, you know what she says?  You won’t fucking believe it…  She says… Who?  Ah say… Mum, you’d fit right een ear like a fucking glove…  Come for a holiday.”

March 9, 2010

The Wifeswappers

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:58 am
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Daphne moved to Los Angeles from Detroit ten years earlier, married a doctor and had two children.  Ironically, Daphne lived just blocks away from where the whole O.J. Simpson drama had taken place in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles. 

            Anna had stayed in suburban Detroit her whole life and was married and living in Royal Oak, Michigan.  Anna had two young children and a dog and a house, two cars and a time share in Cancun.  Both women, who had been childhood friends, had comfortable middle class lives.

            After graduating from Southfield High School, Daphne and Anna both attended the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor and rented an apartment together.  It was shortly after graduation from college that Daphne decided to move blindly to Los Angeles without knowing anyone.  Daphne and Anna remained friends over the years and with cell phones and email, they stayed in near constant contact.

            Daphne sent a text message to Anna just a few days before arriving in Detroit.


            Anna was the epitome of whiteness in that she was fairly pale and covered with freckles.  Her nearly platinum hair hung limply and rested on her shoulders.  In the thirty years that both women had been alive, very little changed for Anna.  Daphne on the other hand was black and was vibrant, the take charge type and was very secure in the fact that she was attractive to all types of men.  Daphne landed a black doctor and knew that she more or less a trophy for her husband but she didn’t mind because she had all she wanted and needed and more.

            “Hey girl!  It is so good to see you!  Look at you all pale, hiding indoors during the Midwest winter.  Girl, I gotta get you out to Cali.  I live ten minutes from the ocean in Santa Monica.  You gotta come out this year without excuses,” said Daphne, while hugging Anna.

            Anna noticed that Daphne’s friend was a suave looking mixed race young man with a razor sharp beard and moustache.  He reeked of cologne and wore heavy gold jewelry around his neck, wrist and fingers.  He had a smirk on his face as he watched the two women embrace.  Daphne picked up on the fact that Anna was staring at Javier with a perplexed look on her face.

            “Anna this is my friend Javier.  Javier, this is Anna…  This is the sister I never had.  There are sistahs but this girl would have been my sister.  We were inseparable during junior high, high school and college.  Every weekend I was at her place or she was at mine.  We played volleyball and softball for our high school together…  I love this girl more than I can say.”

            The three of them had dinner in Greektown at the Pegasus Restaurant in downtown Detroit.  Javier marveled at how overweight and dowdy the men looked with their feathered, mullet hair cuts and Detroit Red Wing jerseys.  The women were really nothing to look at either.  Javier did study Anna closely and found her plain look to be intriguing.  Usually he liked a woman of color with a small waist and large ass or a thin, hairless Asian woman who resembled a twelve year old boy but rarely a thin white woman with straight blond hair and freckles. 

            “Eh…  You ever seen that one movie with that chick who be fucking people up with her mind and shit?  Damn…  What was that movie called?  It was an old ass movie too.  She had hair like you and them dots all over like you too.  She was like in high school and people made fun of her ass and she was having a period or some shit and didn’t go to the prom or some shit and then she just started wasting muthah fuckers with her mind…” said Javier.

            “Um Carrie…  Are you referring to the movie Carrie with Sissy Spacek?”  Asked Anna.

            Javier snapped his fingers and pointed at Anna while laughing.

            “Yup, yup.  Carrie… Old girl, she was fucking them all up with her mind.  That was a good ass movie too.  You look like her.  I mean you really pretty but something bout you remind me of that woman.  So I don’t wanna mess with you case you start sending shit flying round the room or some-fing.  I can tell you got that innocence bout you and I really like that in a woman.  You like reserved and stuff.  I aint’t saying prude or nothing but you ain’t like buck wild… Am I right?”

            Anna didn’t know what to say or think.  She politely listened to Daphne’s ignorant friend and wondered why Daphne was friends with someone so crude, unintelligible and inarticulate.  Anna wanted to know what the crux of their relationship was and so she asked point blank.  Anna suspected that Daphne may have left her husband for Javier.  It was more twisted than she had expected.

            “Javier is a record producer of Reggaeton artists in Los Angeles.  He is working on a new project with Daddy Yankee actually.”

            Anna looked at Daphne with a blank expression.  She neither knew what Reggaeton was nor of the artist, Daddy Yankee.  Daphne didn’t elaborate.

            “And so Javier lives down the street with his wife and their kids are our kid’s age are the same and we started getting together and stuff.  We started taking vacations together and got to know each other really, really well,” said Daphne.

            Javier’s phone rang.  He excused himself as he walked out of the restaurant to carry on his phone conversation.  It gave the two friends a chance to be direct with one another.

            “What the fuck are you doing?”  Asked Anna.

            “You’ve lived in Detroit too long.  Drab ass Detroit where people exist and die here but don’t really live.  Javier and his wife Benita and me and Rufus do all kinds of stuff together.  It’s so good.  I mean you marry a dude and it’s the same bullshit over and over again but now we get together, put the kids to bed and then we start out husband and wife, then we switch and then sometimes the two men will get with either me or Benita.  I mean, we take films of each other and sometimes the men will want us to put on strap ons and give it to them.  I know it sounds freaky but really it just keeps us all from going crazy.  I’m like helping little girls get to soccer and tap dance classes all week, buying groceries and all that domestic shit and then Imma have the same dude laying on me for what?  The next forty years?  Shhh-damn.  I wanna little something with some flavah.  Javier a skinny little bitch but I kid you not…  His cock is as wide as a wrist and we finish up and I’m watching Rufus pounding away on Benita’s fat ass.  Rufus all sweating and trying to make himself cum.  He one time quit and yelled at us for laughing at them and then later when they left, he all like it ain’t fair cause Benita can only be got with from behind.  Benita a plus sizer.  Ain’t nobody doing Benita cept from behind and then her shit stank.  It ain’t her booty, I mean it’s some fishy ass shit like that one Filipino girl we used play soccer with…  What was her name?  Patty.  That was it…  We called her Salmon Patty because she was so dang fishy smelling.  Anyway, if you can picture Benita’s fat ass in the air all stanky and shit…  I mean it is nasty but Rufus actually likes an audience.  Me and Javier were laughing at Rufus’ stupid looking fuck faces.  He’s all talking and shit.  You hear him asking Benita if she bout to cum.  He’s all like, I want you to cum on my dick.  I never realized how stupid Rufus looked fucking until I got to watch him fucking someone but me,” said Daphne.

            Anna was astounded by this revelation.  Anna had been with other men other than her husband but nothing anywhere close to what Daphne was describing.  Anna had done it on the beach a few years back with her husband while visiting the Indiana Dunes but had to stop because sand was getting in her vagina and made the whole experience less than favorable.

            Javier came back with the same devilish smirk that he had before.  He plopped himself down and never stopped smiling nor taking his eyes off of Anna.  Anna was uncomfortable with the smile and starring that felt like it was burning into her skin with his eyes.  After a two bottles of wine and a couple of shots of Ouzo, Javier got right to the point.

            “Anna…  Daphne has spoken so highly of you and it feel to me like I know you in a certain respect.  I would like to invite you to have a night with us tonight like you’ve never had before.  We got a room at the top of the Greektown Casino Hotel that looks down at the whole downtown and shit.  We kin git a few more bottles of wine, get the music going and just really enjoy this night together…  I know you gonna say no cause you so sweet and innocent.  If I offered to buy you this dinner tonight, you the type that would demand to pay for herself and that is so nice and sweet but really I aks you to put that aside tonight and let the meek in you take a back seat tonight and let the tiger roar.  I know you got a tiger in you, girl.  You gotta let the cat out the bag tonight,” said Javier.

            With that, he reached across the table and caressed Anna’s hand.  Daphne was hoping that Anna would give in.  After all, Anna’s husband would never know and it was just some fun with no strings attached.  Daphne likened it to trying Sushi for the first time; it may look disgusting but it really is tasty.

            At that moment, a large middle aged Jewish man with a cigar in his mouth came in wearing a yarmulke, talking on a cell phone loudly that may have been homosexual. The man was hoping to buy clothes below wholesale from a source in Vietnam.  Daphne’s whole disposition changed suddenly.  She pulled her hand away from Javier, reached into her purse and pulled out a hand gun.  Anna’s nostrils flared and she pursed her lips.

            “Excuse me…  I have to take care of some business here.  I can deal with people being fat and obnoxious but fat and obnoxious and Jewish with that stupid southern belle lilt to their voice, is more than I can take.  I don’t know one woman who talks that way,” said Anna, as she walked towards the loud man talking about buying cheap t shirts, carrying her hand gun.

You may be wondering if Anna went back to the penthouse and allowed herself to be tagged teamed by Javier and Daphne.  You may wonder if Daphne and Anna took turns with strap on penises on Javier and or other power tool like devices.  You might be wondering if Anna had some sort of anti-Semitic leanings, fat phobias and disdain for people who speak way too loud in public places on their cell phones with a distinct feminine manor because of me…   My characters all loved their mothers and their mothers loved them and found value in their children as human beings even though I wasn’t searching for value.  I know this is sort of random but I felt the story needed a little tension at the end.  What better way to divert the sexual tension than having a middle of the road woman, driven to kill or maim over homosexuality, anti-Semitism, obesity and general abrasiveness?

  I have always been one of those kids who like to lift big rocks and watch the pill bugs and other crawly creatures take off running when the light of day is put upon them…

And so they lived happily ever after all.  Or as happy as could be given their circumstances and poor decision making.  The end.

March 3, 2010

The Gold Medal for Dad or Oh Canada!

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Horace Stewart turned fifty years old on February 28, 2010.  To look at Horace, you’d never know that he was half a century old.  Horace spent his free time biking, running, swimming and playing ice hockey.  Horace played ice hockey four days a week.  He played on a forty and over men’s team in Brampton and then with the Toronto area Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s second team of men over the age of thirty five.  Then there was the Sunday night shinny hockey or open hockey, as it is widely known as in the United States.

            Horace woke up that Sunday morning and went to the local Catholic Church.  Horace was raised Anglican as he was of British descent but after his wife left him nearly ten years earlier, Horace began to go to the Catholic church to meet other single or divorced people.  Horace had been seeing a few women but they all seemed to come apart after the age of forty five.  It was as if a bomb went off inside each and every one of the women he met.  Horace was never sure what the cause of the interior combustion was but he suspected it was menopause compounded by the realization that life was changing in tangible ways like falling summer leaves in a cold stark autumn.  There were always the rink rat women who hung around the lounge above the hockey arenas who watched the games and then chatted with the players after.  Some found their way into the homes and beds of the various adult male hockey players and occasionally Horace was driven by loneliness to take on one of the rink matrons for the night.  Mostly though, Horace was alone.

            Horace’s job kept him busy and he had moved all over Canada working for the RCMP.  He helped bust drug rings in aboriginal areas and murder cases in Saskatchewan and Nova Scotia.  Horace put in for a permanent post in Ontario when his wife left him after twenty years of marriage.  His wife Madeline had met a real estate investor from the United States and was living in San Diego, California.  Horace never spoke to Madeline but could not refrain from asking his son and daughter how there mother was.  Bill was on the cusp of thirty years of age and Alison was twenty six years old.  Neither of Horace’s offspring was married but each had jobs and busy lives.  They usually checked in with their dad by leaving him messages on his antiquated answering machine at home that had the same recording on it since they were children.

            “Hello…  You’ve reached the Stewart Family… We’re not in but if you’d kindly leave a message, we will be sure to return your call… BEEP.”

            Horace returned home from church the Sunday of his birthday and saw the digital display showing that he had three messages, one from Bill, one from Alison and one from a woman he had met at a bar the week before.  The woman lived near Vaughan and she bred some kind of little dogs that looked like their faces were smashed at birth with a frying pan.  Horace had finished playing his league game and engaged the woman in a conversation on which nation was going to win the gold, silver and bronze in the winter Olympics in Vancouver.  The woman believed that it would be the Russians, Swedes and Czechs.  Horace didn’t agree.

            “The Russians have no work ethic anymore.  Ever since the Soviet Union collapsed, they don’t have anyone there to put a bayonet in their spines and tell them that they will excel or go to the gulag…  Swedes?  Maybe bronze.  Most of them are playing for Detroit and Detroit is suffering this year.  Czechs…  Maybe silver.  Gold is going to Canada.  This is our sport and it is being played in this country in front of thousands of cheering fans.  It will be Canada eh?” said Horace passionately.

            “Well Mr. Mountie… Care to see my pugs?”

            Horace woke up with his arm underneath a woman with more lumps than half day old oatmeal, varicose veins, sags, cellulite and a hairy bush.  Horace was afraid to wake the pug farmer.  Somehow he was able to slip his arm free, dress and escape before breakfast was forced upon him.  The woman had his number but little else.

            “Hey baby…  I had a great time the other night.  Why don’t you give me a call so we can figure out where we’re going for Italian in Toronto …  Gimme a call, babe.  Okay, hope to hear from you soon… BEEP.”

            Next message.

            “Eh Dad…  Was hoping to tell you happy birthday live… Well um…  Hope you’re doing something special today…  Talk to you later,” said his son Bill.

            Next message.

            “Hi daddy…  Happy birthday…  You might be a year older but you’ll always be like Peter Pan.  If you get a chance, call me back… Okay daddy, be good and no fighting,” said Alison.

            Be good and no fighting was what Horace had always said to his children all while they were growing up.  It was his way of saying, I have to leave now and I love you.  Horace was an involved father who saw above average abilities in his two children in the sport of ice hockey.  Horace coached his children locally until they moved on to higher levels of play.  His children’s hockey was his love and hobby.  Bill quit around the age of eighteen even though he could have gone on to play juniors and then Alison went to the states to play division I college hockey for a year, quit and returned home to learn how to play an acoustic guitar and mentored poor students from India and Pakistan in after school programs in Toronto.  Both children quitting hockey crushed Horace.  The final blow was the letter from his wife Madeline when she had moved to the United States to be with her investor.

Dearest Horace,

                                        It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter to you.  There is nothing that you did in particular to warrant my departure.  You are at face value, a good and simple man and it might be the predictability and realization that I will not live forever and may never see, do and experience all the things in life that I had hope to experience when I met and married you as a young woman who was little more than a child.  You’ll have your hockey and other exercise to occupy your time.  Know that I love you even though I have out grown this relationship.  I wish you all the best.



            Horace repeated “all the best” to himself over and over again the night he found the letter and noticed that his wife’s wardrobe had vanished with nearly a hundred pairs of shoes.  Horace marveled at the fete of moving so many things during the course of eight hours.  It was a monumental task that had to have been orchestrated carefully and pulled off with blistering speed.  When Horace returned the house nearly echoed with emptiness.  It had been ten years and the emptiness, loneliness and regret over not being a more well rounded and interesting man, constantly haunted him.

            It was a few minutes past three in the afternoon when Horace returned home from the gym and had picked up a sandwich and soup at Tim Horton’s.  The gold medal match between the United States and Canada was about to begin.  Horace spread the sandwich out on the coffee table and dipped the sandwich into the soup in between swigs of his favorite beer called Rickard’s Red.  Horace was as charged up as he had been as a young boy listening to Hockey Night in Canada on his transistor radio in his bed as a boy when he was supposed to be sleeping.  Horace yelled and clapped and made comments that were inaudible to anyone but his Dalmatian that he named Stripes.

            It was during the beginning of the third period when Bill and Alison showed up together with a cake.  Both were aware that their father was going to be deeply engrossed in the most important hockey game for Canada in years.  Horace greeted his children the way children greet their parents while playing a video game; a head flip for a hello and a raise of the eyebrows.  Bill and Alison sat on the couch beside their father and watched as the seconds ticked away towards a Canadian victory.  With less than thirty seconds to go in the game, the United States pulled their goalie to gain another attacker or a 6 to 5 man advantage.

            “Holy cats!  All they had to do was get the blaming puck oat of the zone.  It’s a simple, basic thing you teach the youngsters at the age of five.  You put a little English on the puck so it dies just before the goal line so there’s no icing, for the love of god.  Now over time…  You know if the Americans win, nobody will give a damn the day after.  They probably got more people watching college basketball right now in the states than this game.  I heard they put all the hockey games on some kind of cable news program where hardly nobody could find it…  Send more men to the damn moon, will ya?  For Pete’s sake…  This will be the national disgrace if we lose this one.”

            Now Bill and Alison really wanted the Canadian national team to win.  Alison knew a few of the woman who had played on the women’s hockey team and was happy to see them win a few days earlier against the United States.  Bill still played occasionally but had become so burned out on the necessity to excel, that his love for the game was all but killed off.  They both saw their father as a one dimensional character as did their mom and had resented the fact that hockey and their ability to excel at the highest level, was what seemed to matter most to their father.  Alison was annoyed with the passion and let her father know indirectly.

            “I sure hope they win the gold for your sake, dad…  I don’t know if the world will still be spinning tomorrow if Team Canada loses.  People are dying in Haiti and Chile from natural disasters but I’m sure god has made Canadian Hockey a priority today,” said Alison sarcastically.

            Horace was taken back.  He never asked for either of his children to come visit him for his birthday and certainly would not have asked for them to come in the middle of the gold medal game.  Horace was on his fourth Rickard’s Red and could not prevent himself from speaking without great emotion instead of thoughtful consideration.

            “That’s the kind of stuff I’d have expected from your mum, eh?  Who asked either one of you to come here today, eh?  I did what I was supposed to as a father and I did what I thought was right.  You kids were never beat or starved or belittled by me or your mum.  My mistake was assuming that hockey meant as much to you as it did to me.  I love the sport for everything it isn’t.  It isn’t work and my whole life ever since I married has been work and the need to provide and hockey has and always been my escape.  I don’t know what your escape is but I hope whatever it is doesn’t kill you…  You two can take your cake and get the hell out of here.  You both felt some sort of guilt or obligation to come see me for my birthday, eh?  Well let me absolve you of any obligatory visits in the future.  I wasn’t and am not what you wanted or expected of me as a father?  Well I have a few dashed expectations when it comes to you two and your mum.  Take your cake and get the hell out of my life.  Let me watch the damn game in peace.”

            With that, Bill and Alison grabbed the cake and left without saying another word or making eye contact with their father.  Horace sat on the couch regretting all he had said to both of his children.  The game resumed in overtime and concluded with a give and go play between Jerome Iginla and Sydney Crosby.  Crosby scored the winning goal.  Horace cried as he sat on his couch.  The win was an empty win.  Horace had driven away two of the most important people in his life because he was hurt.  He wanted to say something else and it came out the wrong way.  It was during the national anthem that Horace got on his computer and sent an email to both his children in attempt to apologize.

Dear Bill and Alison,

                                   There are few days such as today that will live in the memories of Canadians everywhere and it is not one that I will ever forget.  What will stay with me more is how I sent my children out of my home on my fiftieth birthday.  Few days live in our minds and days get blurred and forgotten with the hectic pace of life.  The days that each of you entered this world are and will always be with me as the happiest days of my life.  There I was a brand new parent with Bill weighing almost nothing in my arms, so helpless and fragile and he grew to be a big strong man who is a good man.  Then a few years later came Alison and I held her wondering what I would ever have in common with such a beautiful little girl.  I shared with you the things in life that I loved most.  I’m sorry if you ever felt that your success in hockey determined your worth with me.  I have and do love you because you are a part of me and your mom and are evidence of a time that I loved your mom and she loved me.  I want you to know that I am sorry for what I said today.  If I don’t hear from you either of you for a while, I understand.  I’m not a perfect man and might never be.  I just want you to know that I tried the best I knew how to and I hope you can appreciate me for that.

Love Dad

            Horace shut down the computer and watched the post game interviews along with clips of a beaming prime minister and Wayne Gretsky until he dozed off on the couch.  When Horace woke, the sun had nearly set and trees outside the window stood out against a bluish black sky.  Horace tried to decide if he was going to go play shinny at nine in the evening with the group he had played with for over twenty years.  Horace was feeling a bit too despondent to want to play but far too lonely to just stay home.  In the locker room, men put on their hockey equipment and discussed various points of the game.  Horace just listened.  One of the men asked Horace why he was so quiet.  Horace attributed it to his birthday.  Everyone laughed.  The men warmed up and began to play.  Horace was at the far end of the ice when the door opened and two skaters skated across the ice to get on the bench.  Horace could tell by the way the two carried their bodies who they were immediately.  Tears welled up in Horace’s eyes and he just stood for a moment as his son and daughter waved to him.  The tears dried as Horace raced to the corner to beat the opponent to the puck.  Players began to change and Horace could hear his daughter bang her stick and call for the puck at the blue line.  More than the cake or the gold medal for the nation, playing pick up hockey on a Sunday night with his children was the greatest thing to Horace.  It was an event that will stay with him as a special moment for the rest of his life.

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