Blackhumouristpress's Blog

April 27, 2011

Condo Meeting 7PM or Fuck the Tiger Lilies

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:06 am
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The spring meeting of the Stony Meadows Condominium Association was supposed to be held on the first Tuesday at7pmin the fitness center which is next to the meter room and where bicycles are stored.  The same six people who always came to the association meeting showed.  There was the president of the association, the treasurer, the secretary and then the same three concerned, displeased, disgruntled, disenchanted and wholly disgusted property owners who missed the days when they were renters.

Robert- Okay, I would like now like to call this meeting to order for the first quarter association meeting of the Stony Meadows Condominium Association.  Abby, is your recorder working?

Abby- Um no.  My son got hold of it last week while playing in the Lu.  It wasn’t until I was about to use the toilet that I noticed it floating about… Georgia, do you mind taking notes and I will print them up and post them on the association portal?

Georgia- I can do that.

            Robert, during the day trained unmotivated and semi-motivated people to get back into shape.  He owns a small gym where serious body builders spend eight hours a day or more, working out.  Robert has been taking steroids for a number of years and had arms that looked like most people’s thighs.  His body fat was 5.2% and he is striving for 4%.  When he sits on the toilet to relieve himself, he notices that his stomach makes a roll.  Robert believes it is fat and doesn’t reason that it is skin that is bunched up together in one spot due to the fact that his body is at a 90 degree angle while he defecates.  He has been eating a dozen eggs, sixteen ounces of lean ground beef and chicken breast with a vegetables and fruit for years.  Robert knows he looks good but wants to look better than anyone and everyone on the planet.  Robert spends most of his time admiring himself naked in front of his mirror at home.

            Abby moved fromEnglandsome years back. Abby is English and not Scottish, Welsh or Northern Irish.  She married an American and decided to follow him wherever he may go.  He opted to move back fromLondonto the Midwestern part of theUnited States.  Abby is short and squatty and has close to thirty percent body fat.  She is a stay at home mother who is trying to get a book published about her experiences as an English mother in the colonies.  Abby calls theUnited Statesthe colonies throughout her manuscript.  She thought it was a bit cheeky and agents for the most part thought she was speaking aboutBermudaor some other remote outpost that had not been cast aside byGreat Britain.

           Georgiais an educated African-American woman who works in an all white law firm.  She was being lined up to be a partner in the firm when her superior and ally decided that her calling was to represent those detain inGuantanamoBay. Georgiajust received an email from her mentor who was interviewing her potential client who vowed to behead all Americans and Israelis if ever set free but would consider living in harmony with them if theUnited Statesgovernment would be willing to move his family toNew YorkfromSaudi Arabia. Oh and give him five million dollars for informing on the movers and shakers within his terrorist organization. Georgia’s mentor was negotiating the deal with the government. Georgiain the meantime dreaded working for a mealy mouthed, beady eyed Harvard graduate that constantly let everyone know that he had graduated with Obama and finished second in his class. Georgia’s boss was fearful of the fact thatGeorgiawas more competent than him and quicker in evaluating a case and making sound determinations. Georgia’s boss found her to be “forbidding, hostile and distant”. Georgiatold her boss that her name was actually Sapphire and wanted to be called Sapphire from then on out. Georgia’s name wasn’t such but wanted to get the message out to other blacks in the law firm that she was being viewed as a defiant Negro a la Sapphire from the old Amos and Andy show.

            Timothy- Okay, I really don’t have time to be here with you people and go through this whole charade like you have some business that you’re attending to and then we get to voice a few things and after an hour, you then give lip service to our concerns and nothing gets done for three more months.  What I have seen thus far this spring is Tiger lilies.  What about the yellow spots of female dog urine, the Irish lads who are occupying units by our former developer fromIrelandwho has turned over this association to you fine people and pulled the wool over all our eyes.  What about our unfinished porches, leaking roof and plumbing system that backs up constantly.  I want this addressed.  my feeling?  Fuck the Tiger Lilies…  Pardon my language.

            Martha- That’s a good start…  I want to discuss the guy on the third floor in my tier who beats the shit out of his girlfriend constantly and flicks his cigarette butts out of the window onto the grass outside my window.  Now I’m a smoker but not one who pollutes the common area that is here for us all to enjoy.  I have to listen to him yell in Greek or Italian.  He isn’t the owner but a renter of Andy who has moved toWest Germanyto finish his doctorate in something or other.  I don’t understand how people just come and go and we don’t got any say in who rents here.  How do we know if we’re living with criminals?  I know we’re living with rude, women beating slobs.

Johasophat- Is there still aWest Germany?  I thought that died with the tsar.  In any event, Prudence and I are devout Buddhists and we try to meditate at an hour that is convenient for us. The people upstairs have dogs and children that run all night.  I have tried to discuss them being aware of others and respectful.  I know they are trying to do a short sale.  I propose that the association buy their unit and turn it into a facility such as a library or a meeting room, possibly a place where we could meet periodically and really try to cultivate a sense of community.  We all live here.  We are in a sense a family of sorts. 

            Timothy sneered.

 Timothy rides his bicycle to a nearby grocery store that he has worked at since his junior year of high school.  When his grandmother passed, he was left her condominium.  Timothy constantly tells people that he is a land owner and has certain rights under the law that those who just rent, do not have.  Since becoming a land owner, Timothy has become interested in the Tea Party and truly believes President Obama is a foreign born citizen.  He spends his time watching Fox News and looking at his neighbors in his dark living room through a high powered telescope.  Timothy has seen everyone present at the meeting doing things within their apartments that nobody should really know about nor see.  Timothy likes to know a lot about a lot of things.  He has an inquiring mind.

            Martha is a chain smoking woman in her fifties that appears to be in her sixties.  She has three Pug dogs and visits the tavern on the corner occasionally for a beer and to watch baseball games.  Now and then a male patron will engage her in conversation and wind up in her bed for a few hours.  When that doesn’t happen, Martha usually goes home and watches taped episodes of Dancing with the Stars and uses a wide variety of sex toys on herself that she bought on what she calls, “The Dildo Channel”.

.

            Johasaphat is actually Joe.  Joe gave himself that exotic name upon moving toKoreafor a year.  While inKorea, he met a woman named Jun that took his English class.  Joe gave his wife the name Prudence.  Joe became a Buddhist, a vegan and opened a bookstore devoted to Buddhism.  Joe used to be in a Skinhead band back when he was younger called Vehrmacht.  Joe is still bald but is quite peaceful and loving of all things and all colors now.  He no longer listens to loud and aggressive music anymore.

            Now Timothy interrupted everyone who spoke and muttered little things under his breath until Robert who was always sort of edgy, threatened to beat his ass if he said another word while someone was speaking.  Timothy said he would go to the state board and police if he were attacked physically.

  Johasphat tried to reason with the two men while Martha discussed Dancing with the Stars with Abby who talked about her children.  Georgia took notes and noticed an email on her Blackberry. It was a message she from a man she met through a dating site.  They had several dates and something was growing between them.  The man from the dating site told her that all he could think about was her since the last time they saw one another.  He wanted to know if she was available for dinner on Friday night.  Georgia reread the message three times while the rest of the board discussed and argued about painting, porches, leaking roofs, Irish renters, cigarettes butts and Tiger Lilies.  Georgia responded with the word yes in block letters to the invitation for dinner.  Georgia was a million miles away and in a happier place than her neighbors.  Georgia sat smiling as people complained around her.  She was no longer taking notes.   She was in that place that we all find ourselves when we feel truly drawn to someone and can think of little else except being with that person who has captivated us.  Georgia was in love and nothing else mattered.  And that is really one of the few things that matter in life

April 7, 2011

Baseball is not a Sport or Vishnu at the Plate

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:20 am
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            Vishnu Patel was able to anonymously come to the United States without having to wear a scarlet letter or fear for his life so much.  In India, Vishnu Patel was simply known as Vishnu since Patel is about as common a name as Jones is in the ghetto.

            Vishnu was a Cricket playing prodigy who was a fast bowler.  Bowling is much akin to pitching a baseball and has nothing to do with the sport of bowling even though Vishnu came to love that over time upon moving to the United States.

            Vishnu was a rich young man in India.  He could bowl fast and spin the ball so that when it hit the ground, it would bounce like a superball.  Vishnu was sponsored by all sorts of companies that wanted his name on cricket bats.  He was in songs and in movies and drove sports cars and had a big home.  At bat, Vishnu easily scored and had several centuries meaning that while at bat, he scored over 100 points all by himself.  Vishnu was the Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretsky, Brett Favre and Babe Ruth rolled into one.  Like the Hindu god of the same name, Vishnu seemed to walk on water but like all mortals he had something about him that tarnished him in the eyes of Indians; homosexuality.

            Vishnu had kept his secret under close wraps in India.  He was always seen in public with a pretty girl.  It was during a test match in Australia that he was photographed dancing and kissing another man in a gay night club.  Vishnu had crushed his supporters upon the revelation that he was in fact homosexual.  There were death threats and Vishnu’s kept man and he fled the country in 2008.

            Endorsements dried up and Vishnu fled for the United States for fear that he would be killed or jailed.  There was a fear among Indian parents that perhaps their sons might deem homosexuality as something that would be, “not so bad” because the great Vishnu fancied lads. 

            Vishnu took whatever money he had left and bought a Tim Horton’s franchise right outside of Cleveland, Ohio.  Tim Horton’s was quickly becoming the biggest Canadian export after beer.  Vishnu was satisfied being just another Indian in America.  People mistook him for a cab driver and a computer technician but nobody recognized him as a former great cricket player except one sports columnist who wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

 Tim Jones, who never lived in the ghetto by the way, relished being a thorn in the side of the Cleveland Indians.  It was Tim Jones who recognized the former star who single handedly decimated the West Indies Cricket Club in Barbados.  Jones was on had to witness Vishnu’s feat.  Vishnu had five wickets as a bowler and batted over a century to defeat the West Indies more or less, by himself.  Tim Jones went after the Cleveland Indian’s front office in his column.  Here is what he had to say:

“Chief Wahoo should have a tear in his eye just like the crying Indian from the early 1970’s commercial who was saddened and dismayed by what had become of his land.  What has become of Chief Wahoo’s Indians?  If the Cavs and Browns don’t make you cry, maybe this year’s Indians will.  A mere 9,000 fans managed to make it out to see their team win 7-1 against the Chicago White Sox.  David Hasslehoff might draw more than that if he were to perform at Progressive Field.  If you didn’t hear it already, the Indians turned their first triple play since 2008 on Sunday.  It is nothing like the front office’s triple play of getting rid of their three best players and expecting a dwindling population to step up and pay to see a shell of what once was a proud franchise.  Proud like an Indian.  Speaking of Indians, most of you would never know this but one of the best players to have ever played the sport of cricket owns Tim Horton franchises right here in the state of Ohio, right in the city of Cleveland.  I’d be willing to bet my wigwam and teepee that The Great Vishnu could save the franchise single handedly.  Picture any of our current has-beens or never-will-bees pitching like Cliff Lee and batting like a healthy Grady Sizemore.  I throw out the challenge to Mr. Patel and Mr. Acta.  Do something different.  Bring back the crowds. Let an Indian, a real Indian save the Indians from oblivion.  Wipe that tear from Chief Wahoo’s cheek and restore that stupid smile once again.”

Everyone who read Mr. Jones’ column knew that he was brutal on sports teams in Cleveland and knew that the Cleveland Indians held the most promise of success in the city of Cleveland before losing several players who may one day end up in the baseball hall of fame.  Tim Jones caught up with Vishnu and was surprised what he had to say about the sport of baseball.  Vishnu had laid down the gauntlet.

“Meester Tim…  I dawn vant to put dawn dee national pastime of a nation but ven I pass by parks and I see over-vait, middle aged men hitting a beach ball, under hand at a speed dat ees barely able to support it in dee air, I liken eet to a hunter tracking a cow.  How caan you meese shooting a grazing cow who looks at you stupidly vile lining up her head weeth a scope?  Now hitting a baseball might be a tad more difficult but eet ees naught cricket.  Cricket ees a sport.  Baseball ees a hobby.”

Native Clevelanders or rather white people and blacks who were once owned by whites, who have resided on indigenous people’s land that were mistaken by Christopher Columbus for Indians, were indignant by the brazen comments of Vishnu.  It was one thing for Americans residing in Cleveland to attack their own team and their own beloved sport; it was another thing to have a gay foreigner verbally bitch slap baseball.  Vishnu had no choice but to face those who loved baseball and the Indians.

Vishnu studied tapes of baseball for a few days and even watched some games on ESPN before contacting Tim Jones to set up a meeting between him and the Cleveland Indians.  If you can imagine this, Progressive Field sold out every seat in the stadium to watch the exhibition between a former cricket great and professional baseball players.  The Cleveland Indian front office loved the publicity.

Vishnu emerged from a tunnel wearing a collared shirt that had the letters, INDIA across the front with his name on the back with the number 13.  Vishnu swung his arm in a circle a few times before facing the first batter.  Manny Acta sent up a pitcher to face Vishnu.  Vishnu came running up from second base, hit the mound and threw the ball in a windmill fashion, delivering a pitch that did not bounce. A 160 km/h fastball or damn near 100 miles an hour pitch for a strike.  The speed gun registered 101 mph.  The pitch twisted in the air and dropped like it fell off a cliff.  Vishnu struck out two pitchers, then two batters that would be lucky to pinch run and then some real big fish.  The guys that might make more than entire population of the average worker in the city of Cleveland combined.  One of the bonus babies got a few foul tips before being felled.  It was then Vishnu’s turn to come to the plate.  Vishnu stood on the plate as though he was protecting a wicket.  He wore what looked like a jockey’s helmet with a protective grill with gloves and leg guards that one might find on a goalie in ice hockey.  Vishnu whacked everything that came his way whether it was a strike or a ball.  The last pitch was an 85 mile an hour fastball.  Vishnu took two steps towards the pitch and knocked it into the right field stands where a group of Indian expatriates were banging drums, waving an Indian flag with painted faces.  Vishnu carried his bat with him as he would have in cricket as he rounded the bases.  Backwards.

It would be fair to surmise that baseball fans, The Cleveland Indians and Americans in general felt badly about the publicity stunt and that would be correct.  Upon signing Vishnu to a multi-year contract as a relief pitcher and designated hitter, the Indians suddenly began to win and fans returned to Progressive Field.  After a while nobody seemed to notice or care that their star player was not only not American or a baseball player, that he was gay too.  As Americans often like to say to one another: Only in America.

April 1, 2011

Cool Hand Ray

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 12:17 am
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                Maeve was one of those really lucky people who were born unto money.  Her father made money on simple things like parking garages, laundry mats and gumball machines.  He made Maeve a partner in a Jazz club he owned and purchased her house for her as well as paid her taxes.  To make her feel as though she was doing something more than just spending money, Maeve’s father purchased a club and made her “The Boss”.  There were accountants and general mangers and everything worked just fine without Maeve.  Maeve’s main job was to travel the world to find good wine.  They stopped serving food for a while and people stopped coming to the club for the most part.  They once served juicy steaks that commanded $45.00 a plate.  Free range, grass fed Bison was their specialty.  These bison roamed not far from where Custer met his match and then they wound up on plates in downtown Detroit.  This all came to an end when Maeve took over.

                Maeve physically accosted the chef and sous chef and then invited food shelters and the homeless to take all the meat in the restaurant and so they did.  For a good week or so, the most fabulous smells emanated from vacant lots not far from downtown Detroit.  Salads with nuts and alfalfa were served and not too many people cared for that.  Maeve’s father convinced Maeve that she had to at least serve exotic cheese from Spain, France and Germany.  Maeve picked the cheeses herself from farms that she visited while in Europe.  She wanted to be sure that none of the animals were being abused or exploited in the giving of milk.  The club began to rebound a bit.

                The next order of business was to make the Jazz super club a Jazz club once again.  Maeve’s unwashed, unshaven, slovenly bust out of a husband was only allowed to play his homemade Blues on Sunday nights after 9pm until everyone left which was usually around 11pm.  George spent the rest of his week watching their toddler son who spent his time watching Elmo and throwing handmade German blocks with numbers and letters on them at their cat.  George was very nervous about their son Nathan being abusive towards the house cat since his wife was a member of PETA.  George hated the indifferent feline for pissing on his 1959 Guild Guitar that was once played by Dwayne Eddy.  George tried to get the pungent smell of cat piss off of his guitar but it was to no avail.  The cat urine had saturated the wood.  And so George played his $20,000.00 collector‘s item and had to put up with the smell of piss.  For that he hated the cat.  Their son just loved making the cat run and hiss by throwing finely crafted blocks from Germany.  He was after all a boy.

                Now when Maeve was not finding exotic wine and cheese for her Jazz bistro in Detroit, she was flitting around the world in a quest to find stuff that was good but that nobody had ever heard of.  Maeve came back from Bilbao, Spain and featured a Basque guitarist that she met and managed to have relations with while visiting a small farm.  Dunixi played at a small café near the ocean and was handsome with long hair and a rugged four day growth on his face at all times.  He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top four buttons unbuttoned and clam digger pants rolled up.  He wore a tortured face and banged Gypsy like music on the guitar and sang in Basque.  He spoke no English and nobody spoke a lick of Basque and so for a week the Jazz bistro featured the great Dunixi.  Some people swore they had heard of him and really they hadn’t.  After Dunixi, there were Mexican guitarists and Brazilian guitarists and even a large Samoan looking man from New Zealand who played the Didgeridoo while another man played dissonant Jazz on a tenor saxophone and read poetry.  Maeve made it with all these men.  It was like big game hunting for her.  She loved her husband and her son dearly but at the same time the domesticity bored her and besides, saving animals was really her passion.

                Wherever Maeve went, she donated money to people that were fighting zoos or stores that sold leather goods or even grocery stores.  She didn’t have the time and energy to be a foot soldier and so she showed up at rallies to speak and throw money at those that had given up their lives to more or less walk in the path towards a non-carnivore existence for humanity.

                Maeve came home in her H3 Hummer that was gift from her father late one evening to their Farmington Hills mansion that had a large circular drive, two water fountains in the front and a pool sized Jacuzzi in the back.  Maeve decided after closing the club for the night to come home and go directly to the back yard and hop into the Jacuzzi.  The light sensor light in back that detected motion was out and the night was as dark as pitch.  There was no moon and not enough starlight to see one’s hand in front of their face.  Maeve crept down the wooden staircase to where the dial was to start the jets.  Maeve stumbled and fell buck naked over a bag of garbage that was left on the bottom step.  As she was falling she kneed the head of a large raccoon that was feasting on the garbage left in the bag.  George didn’t make time to change the light earlier in the day and was afraid for himself that he would cross the path of a coyote and so he made the decision to leave the plastic bag full of garbage on the steps until morning.  Maeve had interrupted a large male raccoon’s feast.

                Maeve screamed George’s name as if she was being killed.  She stood on the dewy, wet grass.  The raccoon was not moving aside for Maeve to climb the stairs and get into the house.  George was paralyzed with terror himself.  He was too afraid to go outside and risk being killed by robbers or rapists and thought did come to him that if they offed his lovely wife, he stood to make a lot of money.  George stood in the shadows of the kitchen and let the chips fall where they may.  He was rooting for a violent finish.

                Ray, an architect from next door, was single and liked it that way.  He built his home and modeled it after a Frank Lloyd Wright home he had seen in Wisconsin.  Ray was in bed watching a movie when he heard the blood curdling scream.  He grabbed his Maglight and the only weapon he had which was a great household appliance called a Swiffer.

                Ray jogged over in his University of Michigan shirt that had a huge yellow M on a blue shirt and a pair of shorts.  Ray was shocked to see his neighbor who was tall and shapely with breasts that were not too droopy for a woman of forty and not a strand of hair that could be detected around her vagina.  Maeve actually had five out six visits necessary to complete the laser surgery and the last one was sort of like taking out the weed whacker after cutting the grass: just to get those hard to reach areas that the mower and edger cannot reach.  To the untrained eye, Maeve was as bald as the day she was born. 

                After a good three seconds of the Maglight which was directly on Maeve, was then focused on the raccoon that was showing his teeth and growling.  The raccoon was not going to leave the buffet he created without a fight.  Ray poked at the animal that swiped at the Swiffer.

                “Get him!  Oh my god!  Please get him!” Exclaimed Maeve, as she did her best to cover herself with her hands.

                Ray jousted with the raccoon that hissed and edged closer to him in an attempt to climb the fence and take off.  Suddenly Maeve didn’t seem to care if the animal was in danger of dying.  She came to understand what animals know all too well; it is either the raccoon or them that were going to lose.  Ray swung the Swiffer like a Louisville Slugger and smacked the raccoon in the ass, sending it tumbling over the fence.  Maeve cried tears of relief and hugged Ray as she sobbed.  Ray wanted to put his hands on her firm ass but instead patted her on the back the way a parent consoles a child who skinned knee.  Ray had from a distance admired the woman’s free spirit and take charge attitude as well as her body.  Ray gambled that to be forthright would be welcomed and so he rolled the dice.  He spoke in a fake drawl.  Ray was after all watching Cool Hand Luke on DVD when all hell broke loose.

                “Anytime you need a real man…  I mean a man you can depend on; you know where to find me.  Whether you scream into the night or ring my bell.  I am here for you Ms. Maeve Magorn.”

                Ray grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and planted his warm tongue in her mouth.  Maeve did not mind since she was already numb.  George stood at the kitchen window and watched his wife kissing the neighbor who was still holding his wife with one hand and the Swiffer in the other.

                Maeve slipped on her polka dot underwear with little  ties on the side and walked in through the back door to find her husband standing in his white briefs with a bit of rust stain in the front holding the telephone.  George’s hairy man boobs sagged as did his second trimester gut.   His helpless expression only angered Maeve more. George couldn’t speak or blink as he stared at his angry wife.  Maeve’s nostrils flared and her lips disappeared.  George knew he had to speak and said the only thing most humans say when they cannot fix a situation properly.

                “I’m so sorry…”

                Like most other situations, it did nothing but further angered Maeve.  Things were thrown and there was screaming and the sounds of an infant crying.  Ray thought to himself as he settle back into bed in his quiet room and resumed the movie that maybe having nothing, like Luke said, was a cool hand.

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