Blackhumouristpress's Blog

May 30, 2011

Money from Nigeria

Dear Friend,
 
Please accept my apology for not contacting you earlier before now due to
my tight schedules. I am very happy to inform you about my success in
getting that money under the cooperation of a new partner from Paraguay;
Presently I'm in London with the partners for some new projects with the
money.
 
Contact my Priest in Lagos state, federal Republic of Nigeria, because I
have left the instruction with him on your behalf and instructed him where
to send the $5,000,000.00. without any further delay for your
compensation.
 
Remember that the $5,000,000.00. Is in draft, not cash, so you need to
send to him you’re full Information where the draft/check will be
posted/delivered. I appreciated your efforts at that time very much so
feel free to get in touched with him.
 
As at the time I was leaving Nigeria he was the only one I could trust
with that kind of money, he is a very simple and understanding person. His
name is Rev. Father. Tom Chukwu of ,Email( revfathertom@rocketmail.com )
NOTE: BELLOW IS THE REQUIRED INFORMATIONS YOU WILL SEND TO MY PRIEST:-
 
(1) YOUR FULL NAMES:
(2) YOUR HOUSE ADDRESS:
(3) YOUR DIRECT CELL PHONE NUMBER AND HOUSE PHONE WITH FAX IF ANY.
 
So feel free to get in touch with him and discuss with him how the amount
will reach you. Please do let me know immediately you contact him to
receive it, so that we can share the joy after all the suffering at that
time.
 
As at the moment, I am very busy here because of the projects which I and
the new partner have at hand. Finally, remember that I had forwarded
instruction to the priest on your behalf to receive that money, so you get
in touch with him and he will send the amount to you without any delay.
 
Here is his email address again ( revfathertom@rocketmail.com )
 
Regards
 
MR.KENNETH HOWARD
 

Dear Kenneth,

                         I’m not sure how you found me other than I had given money to the Slayten boy who had gone to Africa to be a missionary.  From what I understand, he is working with Africans who only speak Portuguese.  The country escapes me at this point and since my wife has passed, I don’t save Christmas cards like she did.  I gave the Slayten boy a few hundred a year for years and that helps to keep Uncle Sam off my back if you know what I mean.

I had a chance to actually speak with Father Tom and I told him it was against my nature to get involved with Catholic Charities since I am a Baptist.  When I found out that he is Anglican, I Googled that and found that you’re all basically Episcopal and that isn’t so bad.  Many of our presidents until this current Muslim one, have mostly been Episcopal.  Nixon was a Quaker gone wrong.  It is hard to say what happened to the man but he did seem to have fallen from the grace of god.

Well without rambling too much, I discussed giving a fair chunk to Father Tom to help start a library right there in Nigeria for some lads he’s looking after in Lagos.  I agreed to skim $10,000.00 off the top and although I will get no credit for this from the American government, I think it’s a worthy cause.  I am getting my passport in order to actually collect the check in person from father Tom.  He has promised to show me around while I’m there.  I jokingly said that I didn’t want to end up in a hot pot and have to scream for help from Tarzan.  He assured me that I would not leave disappointed.  I was quite impressed with his command of the English language and then came to find out that that you were all once colonized by the British.  The British certainly did a good job taking your people from the bush and educating them.  Father Tom sounded just like a Brit. I told him not to feel badly since America was once colonized by the British too.  My people came from Belgium and spoke Flemish and a touch of French.  I can’t speak a lick of either and probably owe that to the British.  Seems like the whole world speaks English these days.

In any event, Father Tom said that you might be available when I arrive in Nigeria and that we should all share a Belgian beer and celebrate in the joy of sharing money bestowed upon us all by the lord.  I say amen to that and I’ll have two beers.  Thanks again and I look forward to meeting you after your trip toParaguay.

Sincerely

Jim DeJonge

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May 15, 2011

Imported to Detroit

Johannes would run right down the center of 8 Mile Road with two Doberman Pinchers in any weather.  It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, snow or rain and in Detroit, you could get some of the coldest weather in the world and the most hot and humid.

The Warren Police on the north side of Eight Mile referred to the strong looking man as, “The Bad Santa”.  The Detroit Police on the south side of the dividing line referred to him as, “Zeus”.  The Blacks thought the man could very well be the devil himself and the trailer park whites just thought he was a bad assed old man who was fed up. Whatever one might call Johannes, he was unique, intense, driven and racist.

Johannes would often walk into a Detroit mini market where unemployed young black men would go to buy cheap flavored cigars so that they could house their marijuana and taunt them and the Indian clerks.

“Say boys, do you know vat zee lesbians und dee black mans have een common?”

“Fuck you, old white bitch..”

“Ah you give up so easily.  Zee lesser minds.  Trained monkeys who drink malt liquor and smoke zee weed all day…  And you got zee pusher behind zee bullet proof glass.  He ees safe een zee cage while zee animals crave zee fix.”

One of the young men pulled out a nine millimeter while he popped open a bag of salt and sour potato chips by squeezing the air out with his free hand.  The thin, young black man with a blue faux diamond studded Detroit Tigers hat with a straight brim and a long white t shirt pointed the handgun sideways at the large, muscular white man who was wearing a t shirt that read, “whiter than white”, a pair of black shorts and long white hair and a long white beard.  Picture Sean Connery on steroids, with long hair and a beard and a whole lot of hate that would be Johannes.

“Vi ees eet that zee black men point zee gun sidevays und zee white men holds eet straight?  You small minds cannot answer zat.  You got zee balls to pull the trigger, do eet.”

The young man did pull the trigger and just like trying to kill wild game, if you miss the kill shot, you most likely will be killed.  Johannes grabbed the hand gun that was crafted in Austria, released the clip and sodomized the young man with his own weapon while his shoulder oozed blood onto his whiter than white shirt.  This was all captured on closed caption film which eventually circulated on Youtube and then was used by the American Nazi Party that had set up camp in suburban Detroit to try and entice disgruntled metropolitan Detroit whites into joining their hate group.  The ANP felt Detroit was ripe for growing the membership.

Johannes was a German born neo-Nazi that was barred from his own country for hate crimes once he left Germany to help prop up the white government in South Africa in the early 1990’s.  From South Africa, Johannes moved to theUnited States and lived in Idaho for a number of years before the ANP sent him to set up camp in Detroit.  Johannes job was to spew racist propaganda on the internet and troll hard core Punk Rock gigs to engage angry young white men into taking pride in the fact that they were white.

When Johannes wasn’t working, he was lifting weights, riding a stationary bicycle and jogging close to ten miles a day.  Johannes stood a hair short of 6’4 and 260 lbs with less than ten percent body fat.  Johannes had a string of young chubby tattooed girls he met at Skinhead gigs with bad straight bang hair cuts and nose rings that would shack up with him in hisDetroit home that had razor wire; a fifteen foot iron fence around his home with dozens of German Shepard’s roaming free.  The front gate had a saying in German, “Arbeit Macht Frei” or work makes you free.  Johannes drove around in a bulletproof 1988 Ram Charger truck provided for by the ANP.

Travis and Lemont were twin brothers who were born and raised in the city of Detroit and by the age of nineteen, they had spent their entire adulthood in the Wayne County Prison.  They had been arrested for armed robbery, home invasion, car jacking, illegal weapons and open liquor in a car that wasn’t even theirs.  The twins couldn’t be blamed really for the path they took in life.  Their mother who was a prostitute, died and the boys were raised by their grandmother who was thirty years of age when they were born.  Some fifteen children and grandchildren existed and managed to grow up in the home despite the neglect.

Travis and Lemont after spending close to eighteen hard months in prison among some of the worst people in the country, they decided that they would give conventional work a chance.  A fat white man with a pencil thin mustache, gave them both jobs holding signs in front of large retail shops that were about to go out of business.

EVERYTHING MUST GO.  70% OFF OF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE

In good weather and bad, the twins held signs while they listened to music on street corners throughout the Detroit area.  The mustachioed white man had an old Oldsmobile Delta 88 circa 1980’s in light blue.  The car had been hot three times over and was given to Salvio in exchange for a debt.  The car sat in under a tarp in storage for years.  Salvio brought the twins over to see the car.  They were immediately in love.

“You willing to sell this car to us foh $500.00?”

“Whaddamygonna do with a car like this?  It’s a fucking car for kids.  It’s a kids car for chrissakes.  What’s an old fuck like me gonna do in a car like this?  You boys are good boys and I wanna get this outta my space anyway.  I gotta guy who can get you all the legal stuff for this.  You get pulled over by pigs and everythings gonna check out.  You want it?”

The twins shared the car, detailed it, raised it, put on large wheels and rims with a stereo system that could be heard blocks away like distant mortar fire on a battle field.  The twins were living a civilized, dignified life where they made honest to goodness money under the radar in cash.  They helped their grandmother pay for the dish they had installed so that they could watch anything they wanted at anytime.  Life was good.

The twins found girlfriends who happened to be sisters but not twins themselves and would drive south to hang out with them at a community center off of Mc Nichols inDetroit.  One day the two sisters stopped by to see their boyfriends play basketball at the park and then the four of them went downtown to the Lafayette Coney Island and then to hang out by the river, kiss, sweet talk around Hart Plaza and then drive to a remote spot to consummate their deep undying affection, while a Snoop Dogg tuned quietly played in the classic car with steamed up windows.

“I wanna..” bust a bitch upside her motherfuckin head
for talkin shit to a pimp
Limp on ’em, flip on ’em, dip on ’em
Crip on ’em, and put this motherfuckin dick on ’em
This sorta fish called a bitch oughta hush up
Rolled a fat blunt and smoked this motherfuckin dope up
Cause you know what? (Whattup?)
Shit a nigga know you’re so tough, but bitch I wanna go fuck
“I wanna..” take you upstairs, and do dat dere
Hell motherfuckin yeah
See I’m a real player and I won’t waste your time
I’ve been a starter, I ain’t never sat the fuckin pine
Stay on the frontline, it’s all by de-sign
Nigga done the crizzime, ain’t never dropped a dizzime
Everything is fizzine, rollin up a dizzime
D-O-double-G I got bitches waitin in lizzine

Across town Johannes was speaking on stage at a VFW hall.  Six Skinhead bands were playing.  The crowd was full of mostly sweaty young, white bald boys and men scattered with dumpy girls with razor cuts and bangs.  Johannes was a celebrity among the young skins.  Nobody yelled out stupid things or taunted him.  They were in awe of his physique and ability to say all the right things to make them proud to be white.  All in a German accent no less.

“You government and zee media calls us all sorts of zings but who runs zee government?  Who runs zee media?  A black president and Jew media tells you that you should be ashamed of youselves for being proud to be white.  Der ees no shame een being white.”

Cheers rang out in the crowded hall.  Johannes smiled and took it all in.  After thirty seconds of chants of “White Power”, he posed a few questions before getting off of the stage for the next band.

“Who ees proud to be white?  Who feels eet ees an honor to be white?  Who here has zee courage to stand up and tell the world dat you are white and white is right.  White ees right!”

The twins drove slowly towards home feeling good about the night as they drove down 8 Mile Road on a beautiful summer evening.  They played basketball, ate, laughed, drank, made love and it was all mostly legal.  Life was good.  Travis boosted the volume to a Jadakiss song at a red light, unaware that two cars had pulled up next to them on their left and right.

            Hustle after hustle - tryin to be a rich nigga
If I get caught up, I'll never be a snitch nigga
We pimpin hard charge it all to a bitch nigga
Under my denim is a big fo'-fifth nigga
fuckin with me is like, jumpin off a cliff nigga
And I don't practice I was born with this gift nigga

Johannes was pumped up from the show and couldn’t unwind even though he had made rough love to a girl named Gina from Taylor who moved out of her parent’s house and had been living with her boyfriend who had beaten her up.  Gina was moved by Johannes’s speech and so she left the VFW hall to spend a night in a bed and have sex.  Johannes left Gina in his bed, got dress in his running clothes and decided to go for a jog with his two prized Dobermans; shotzie and Frtitz.  Johannes hit the button on his ancient walkman that played a cassette of a Skinhead band called, Sick of it All.  The song was called, Breeders of Hate.

My mouth spouts
these words of anger and fight towards the other man
I’m bent out of shape
I’m feeling irate
feel that blood flow
the relic of sin I’ve always confused with black and white
Guns on the street, a message complete
Breed self hatred tonight
Save your insanity
you die for my needs
fuck them up now
take my advice and
breed your hate at home
the world wont be at peace
until my brothers are alone
my mouth spouts
these words of anger and fight towards the other man
Guns on the street, a message complete
Breed self hatred tonight

A shot rang out and missed the heads of both Travis and Lemont.  Travis hit the accelerator and a chase was on between the twins and the two cars that had pulled along side them at the red light.  Johannes new goal was trying to get his heart rate to forty five beats per minute, bench 300 lbs twice and run a mile under eight minutes.  All of which are high goals for a man close to sixty years of age.  Travis watched the needle on his antique automobile reach 100 mph.

The 1980’s model Oldsmobile was found in the middle of a vacant lot about a half mile south of 8 mile. A day later, on page three of the Detroit News was a brief detail of what the Detroit Police found.

Detroit-The dismembered body of Johannes Schwig was found in the back seat of a 1987 Oldsmobile registered to a deceased man in Flint,Michigan.  Cameras along 8 Mile Road captured a high speed collision near Van Dyke between the automobile and the pedestrian.  No further information has been gathered at this time.

May 10, 2011

Covalent bondage or Schopenhauer’s girlfriend

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:09 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

Covalent chemical bonds involve the sharing of a pair of valence electrons by two atoms, in contrast to the transfer of electrons in ionic bonds. Such bonds lead to stable molecules if they share electrons in such a way as to create a noble gas configuration for each atom.

Hydrogen gas forms the simplest covalent bond in the diatomic hydrogen molecule. The halogens such as chlorine also exist as diatomic gases by forming covalent bonds. The nitrogen and oxygen which makes up the bulk of the atmosphere also exhibits covalent bonding in forming diatomic molecules.

   

 

 

            Phoebe woke up early to go over her chart about Covalent Chemical bonds for her first lesson plan as a student teacher at theJohnElroySanfordHigh Schoolon the north side ofChicago.  John Elroy Sanford, better known as Redd Foxx or Fred Sanford, had donated a large sum of money to the Chicago Public Schools. 

            Phoebe showed up early to class before the students showed.  She wore a sleeveless dress and wore her black horned rimmed glasses which she felt made her look more adult than without them.  Phoebe at best looked to be twenty years of age although she was closer to thirty.  Hall monitors asked her for hall passes and male students tried to talk to her on more than one occasion. 

The Chemistry teacher was a man by the name of Bill who mistook Phoebe’s smile and approachable demeanor to be interest.  Bill showered that morning and doused himself in Chocolate Axe.  He had heard some teenage boys talking in the hallway about how the cologne was loaded with pheromones and how females could not resist a man wearing the said cologne.  Bill died the gray from his hair, flossed his teeth and bleached his breath with mouthwash and gum.  He wore a spandex shirt under his collared shirt that kept his slight gut looking flatter and his man tits from looking too missile like.  Phoebe proudly showed Bill her chart about Covalent bonds.  Bill stood beside Phoebe, careful not to rub up against her even though he was itching to touch her caramel colored skin.  Bill had heard that Filipino girls were wild for white men and so he was oozing confidence. 

            “That is a wonderful chart, Feebs…”

            Phoebe was completely disgusted that a man old enough to be her father, had breached the space between two human beings in western cultures, lowered his voices and whispered near her ear.  Fortunately for Phoebe, the first two students entered the class.  They were loud and obnoxious for8:00amin the morning.  Several more students filed in until all the seats were filled.  Phoebe nervously began to speak to the students that looked to be her age.  The boys were sizing her up; they looked at her arms and legs and studied her pleasant face as she spoke about things that they did not care anything about.  The girls in the class criticized her appearance to make themselves feel better.  Phoebe felt like she was under a microscope.  Her mentor whose eyes never left her form, the boys in the class that thought about sex every four seconds on average and the young women that looked like they wanted to work her over after class.  Phoebe did all she could to conduct the class with clammy, shaking hands and a voice that cracked several times.  All Phoebe wanted to do was go home.

           Phoebe got home to find her roommates boyfriend loading up furniture into a moving van with three other young men.  Three young white men with hair that stuck straight up in the air, all three with tight shirts and white shoes, it almost appeared to be a uniform.   Clinton, the Doberman Pincher that Flavius, had bought for his fiancée, Monica was barking in the back of a racing Honda with fins on the back, lowered and outfitted with neon blue lights around the bottom of the car.

            “Yo man, that fucking dog fucks my fucking shit up, Imma shoot it in the fucking head.  I take pride in my shit, yo.  You should just leave that fucking dog here.  You gave her the fucking dog, let her ass take it.  I would take the fucking X-Box and leave the bitch ass dog.”
            Flavius yelled into the open window at the dog that gnawed on the slightly open glass in an effort to bite Flavius.  Flavius then turned to his friend who was worried about his car and threatened to kick his ass.  The third guy was rapping along with a song as he blasted the music to the point of rattling windows in the apartment complex.

            “Motherfucker…  Turn down the music.  One of these old ass bitches gonna call the po-lice.  Help me get the couch out this place and we gone… Clinton!  Shut the fuck up!”

            Phoebe and Monica arrived at work which was called Ye Olde Skokie Ale House.  Monica’s eyes were bloodshot and mascara had dripped down to her pink tank top.  Rubin, the bar manager who wore a Hawaiian shirt and shorts with calf high white socks and sandals, was visibly upset that Monica looked unfit to work the floor.  The Chicago Bulls were in the playoffs and the entire bar would be filled with overweight patrons looking to eat chicken wings and drink too much beer.

            “I don’t like to ask you girls too much bout your private lives but what the hell happened?  I can’t have you working here tonight looking like a bloodhound.  Go to the washroom, wash your face and put some eye drops in your eyes…  Tonight is gonna be the biggest night since the Superbowl,” said Rubin.

            Phoebe explained that Monica and her fiancé called off the wedding and so all the furniture they bought together was collected and taken to garage belonging to the boyfriend’s parents. Clintonthe Doberman was on a leash barking in the backyard of the former beau’s parent’s house.  Rubin called his friend Calabrese whose six foot Chinese wife was the bartender at The Ale House.  Fu came fromBeijingand was a mail order bride belonging to a 5 ‘5 Italian cop with a thick black moustache and hair all over his body.  Calabrese chewed his gum obnoxiously; thumbs in his belt line while he listened to Monica tell her story.  Calabrese winked at his tall wife who could only really serve beer since she didn’t understand English very well.  Fu was tall and pretty.  Calabrese wrote down a number of things on a pad of paper, took the palm of his hand and rubbed his face before asking Monica if she wanted to press charges.  Monica didn’t understand, Calabrese became impatient.

            “If he stole your stuff, it’s theft.  If it’s theft he goes to jail and his momma posts bond…”

            “Well, all I want isClintonback.  He will be so nervous.  He one time ate all the stuffing to a comforter and I had to take him to the vet to get it removed.  He did this because I left him alone for a day.  I just know he’s freaking right now.”

            Monica and Phoebe pulled it together and served close to a hundred people over the course of eight hours.  People ordered pizza, fries, wings, shots, beer as they watched very large men lope up and down on a basketball court for forty eight minutes.  The poker king came in took his seat at his table and challenged anyone to beat him.  He wore a cowboy hat and aviator glasses.  The poker king had just lost on television at4aminLas Vegastwo weeks earlier.  He was a transitory celebrity for those that deemed card playing a sport.  Joe, the cook from a neighboring bar, ordered a sixteen ounce steak with seasoned fries and fell asleep at the table as his food was served.  Marjorie, who lost her job, was playing pool with a guy named Ted who was married but said he was single.  The more they drank, the more Ted was going to take Marjorie toEuropeandAustralia.  He ordered Marjorie Fosters and spoke in a really bad Australian accent. 

            Phoebe’s final customer every night was a professor of philosophy from Northwestern.  Phil drove a twenty year old Honda Civic with a bumper sticker that said Nixon-Agnew 1972,  which illustrated his dry sense of humor.

            “The usual, Phil?”

            “If I were to change one thing in my daily routine, I may ruin the balance we have on this planet.  This world that spins at 1,450 kilometers an hour might wobble just enough to cause all sorts of issues of gravity.  We naively believe our problems have been solved by the killing of one man who is responsible for us having to face the indignity of being groped and frisked at airports all across this land and yet it isn’t clear who has won Dancing with the Stars, just as it isn’t clear who the stars actually are.  Change at this point in time might be detrimental, dear Phoebe.  Here you are scurrying about like an ant on an ant hill, serving those seeking a momentary diversion from their mundane existence by numbing themselves through legal means so that they can face their drab home life and their unfulfilling occupations and nary a man would guess that the optically pleasing Phoebe tried to teach those that we will one day entrust to carry on our human legacy.  Might I ask how you fared today?”

            Phoebe thought about lying to Phil who looked down at everyone and everything, who hated life and had nothing but disdain for anything seeking order.  Phil was a nihilist, atheist, anarchist and misogynist who constantly over analyzed the simplest things and then ridiculed them.

            “I think I reached them, Phil…  I think the kids have a basic understanding of what a covalent bond might be now and in some small way, I feel as though I may have taught somebody something.  Hopefully one day when the students are old enough to drink at a bar, they can dazzle someone they hope to sleep with, with the knowledge that they learned today from me,” said Phoebe.

            “You can only hope that the electricity leads to a stable bond,” joked Phil, as he swirled his ice cubes in his empty glass.

            “One more Scotch, Phil?”

            “One more Scotch, dear Phoebe, and then I shall sleep like an infant.”

            Phil jotted down some words on a napkin as a heavy set young lady with pig tails sang an ABBA tune in front of the Juke Box while her boyfriend in a Cubs jersey hugged her from behind.  Phil smiled and shook his head.  Phoebe was pettingClintonwith Monica and the Mexican chefs in the kitchen.  Calabrese had proudly delivered the dog to the bar before closing.  Phil left a 100% tip for Phoebe and a message on paper napkin before climbing into his ancient Honda.  This is what it said:

“The very first
Of human life must spring from woman’s breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench’d by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman’s hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.”

May 2, 2011

Boris the Greatest or The Ice Cream Socialist

            Boris’s father played ice hockey in the oldSoviet Unionfor ЦСКА Москва otherwise known as Красная Армия.  For those of you who don’t read in Cyrillic, it was the infamous Red Army team.  Boris’s father had told him many times about the exhibition games he had played against NHL teams back in 1976 and how his team had dominated theUSSRleague right up until the end.  It had always been Boris’s dream to play for the same team as his father.

            At the age of nineteen, Boris had entered the KHL and ripped up.  He led the league in penalty minutes, goals and assists.  Boris could stick handle in a phone booth, skate like the wind and fight with the toughest of the toughest.  It had not gone unnoticed by the NHL.

            The Detroit Red Wings grew tired of being a contender but not a team that could any longer win the Stanley Cup.  The Swedes were excellent but they just weren’t winning the way the Red Wings were when they had the Russians.  The Red Wings found success with Kozlov, Larionov, Federov, Konstantinov and Fetisov.  When all five were on the ice for a power play, it was quite and exercise for the announcers.

            Of course the Red Wings had the great Pavel Datsyuk but they wanted a similar player like Pavel who could be rough.  Big Boris was drafted by the Red Wings and started his rookie year at the age of twenty four.

            Boris made a good living inRussiain the KHL but the money the Detroit Red Wings were offering him was absurd.  The brash young Russian put on a red Detroit Red Wing jersey at a press conference with the number 0 on the back and only his first name.  The Red Wings had to get permission to use a first name only and the number 0.  The league granted both.  The first press conference went something like this:

Press- Boris, what is your last name?

Boris- Eet tiz Boris only.  Jus like Bono andCher.

Press- It was Sonny Bono…

Boris- Wat!  Stupid, man… Next question

Press- How do you think you will do in the NHL?

Boris- Cis league ees you know gut but Boris ees the greatest.  I’m like Mohammad Ali of hockey,      

          Man.  I’m gonna make hockey a sport in cis country like it ees eenCanada…  You see.

            Boris first year, he scored the most goals, assists and had more fights by himself than the rest of the team had in total.  Boris had a beautiful wife and a giant compound of a home within the city ofDetroit.  Boris bought up a whole city block and turned it into a villa.  He grew grapes on his villa and sold his fortified sweet red called, Five Buck Boris.  It was twenty percent alcohol and had a hammer and sickle under his smiling face with a missing tooth.  Boris could be found at casinos inDetroitmost nights and there were pictures of him in the papers with various black women.  Several black women claimed that Boris was the father of their children.  When questioned about siring so many out of wedlock children with black women, he innocently answered.

            “Zee womens love Boris and I loves zee womens.  All womens not jus black ones.”

            And that statement was untrue.  Boris’s beautiful blond wife returned toRussiato make films again and divorced Boris.  When that happened, Boris was like a child without parents. Boris gambled and had wild parties.  The Red Wings hired a Russian driver to be Boris’s personal nanny.

            Vlad was paid handsomely by the Red Wings to drive Boris to and from Joe Louis Arena to his villa just north and west of downtown.  Vlad’s mother came to Boris’s fifteen bedroom house and cooked her famous Baklazhanovaya Irka recipe and borscht.  Boris loved Vlad’s mother’s cooking and loved Boris like a brother.  It wasn’t long before Boris had corrupted Vlad.  Vlad’s job was to troll the casinos and dance clubs and invite beautiful black women back to his compound.  Boris would invite rappers and basketball players to party at his nightclub within the compound that was within his villa.  Boris had a ten thousand foot nightclub with lights, smoke machines and a fantastic sound system.  Boris reasoned that if he could not hang out at the clubs, he would create his own.  Black basketball players would show up to his parties with white women while their black wives were at home and Boris did the opposite. Boris was an underground hit with Hip-Hop culture inDetroit.  Before long, Boris made his own video called, Boris in the D.  The video was a Youtube sensation and aired occasionally on BET.  Snoop Dog did a cameo as did Kid Rock on the video.  The hook of the song went as follows:

            Boris in the D playing hockey…  Joe Louis Arena and the bitches love me.  Bullet proof Mercedes, lots of ladies, riches, bitches, 100 proof…  Boris in the D, gonna put you through the roof.  The roof, the roof, put you through the roof.  The roof, the roof, put you through the roof.

            Images of Boris scoring, stick handling and fighting flashed along with images of him lifting weights, running, swimming and then driving in a convertible Mercedes stuffed with young smiling black women in sunglasses and bikinis.  It wasn’t long before the highlife caught up with Boris and Vlad.

            Vlad was fired by the Detroit Red Wings and hired by Boris as well as a dozen other young men that were part of the entourage of body guards.  An average night for Boris was to play hockey, dress, visit the casinos, send Vlad out to invite women over to the compound.

            “Excuse me, missus…  Dat ees Boris dee Greatest over there.  He is not at leisure to speak to you at thees time because he ees with the daughter of the owner of the Detroit Red Wings but would like to know eef you vood be interested to join heem at he’s home not far from here to have a drink and get to know you gut…  You can bring you friend too.”

            Most women understood that it was just a romp for the night, a chance to ooh and ahh over a palace within the city limits ofDetroit, drink, have some sex and disappear again.  One particular woman decided that she was not going to be just like the other women in his life.

            Felicia was a tall black woman with high cheekbones and a dimple on her left cheek.  She wanted to be a singer and a movie star and did not want to be just another conquest for a celebrity.  Felicia was content being who she was for the most part. Felicia went to Boris’s compound and refused to get drunk and have sex with Boris.  Boris was stunned.  An unbelievably beautiful black woman with a voluptuous frame and pretty face had turned down Boris.  Boris took it as a challenge.  It was like finding a goalie that he could not score against.  He had to find a way to put the puck in the net to add to his statistics.  Boris had to find away to convince a beautiful woman with standards and morals to give in to his flashy temptations.

            “You know dare ees a lot of vimans thaat vood like to be where you are tonights…”

            “Boris, you are a handsome man with a lot of money and I have to say it was poor judgment on my part to come and have dinner with you tonight.  If you thinking you bout to get you a piece of ass, Imma tell you, you wrong.  I ain’t a bitch or a ho.  Imma beautiful Christian woman that got to go to bed with myself at the end the night and atone for my actions.  So I don’t know whatchu thought inviting me all up in yo Dee-troit Kremlin west.  You thank you the tsar and Jesus Christ all rolled up into one sharp suit.  I’m looking for a gentleman who appreciate me for who I am and willing to do some work to see the fruit of thy labor…”

            “Vat?  I don’t know vat you are sayink…  Eet ess a lot of sound but don’t having meaning for Boris.  You saying you vant to be the one woman een my life?  Come on…  There ees a lot of Boris the world ees needing.”

            Boris went on drinking and partying and fornicating as well as fighting, stick handling and scoring goals.  Things were going well for the Detroit Red Wings.  It looked as though they were going to cake walk into the finals and manhandle their opponent in the Eastern Conference for the Stanley Cup.  Boris seemed unhappy and bored with life.  Vlad asked him what it was that he could do to make Boris happy again: more cars, more women, more parties, a trip toMiami.  Boris responded by pursing his lips and banging his fist on the table.

            “Nobody weens over Boris.  Boris ees thee wiener at all times.  How can Boris be the greatest and still hear no?  I vill vin thees thing…  You vill see Vladi.”

            Felicia had received flowers to make a florist jealous, calls to have dinner and drinks but Felicia would not respond to Boris.  After dozens of phone calls, Felicia answered the phone to send Boris off once and for all.

            “Look you Russian Valentino…”

            “Who?  Thees ees Boris.  Who ees thees Valentino.  I vill beating heem like dog.”

            “No means no, Boris.  I want more than you can or want to offer.  I want a man who wants me and ain’t running around all over, planting seeds wherever he be allowed to.”

            “Seeds?  Vat ees seeds?”

            “You cain stop calling me now.  I ain’t going wid you now or never.  You got a whole lot of women takin in by your world.  Go send yo boy to find them.”

            After the Red Wings had won the Stanley Cup, Boris did not return toRussiaor take off for tropical places.  He hired a woman to teach Boris about the bible and Jesus and Christianity in general for about a month before he decided to show up at the Motor City Missionary-Baptist Church within the city limits of Detroit.  Boris walked into the church and took a seat in the back, wearing an off white suit with a pair of sunglasses.  His three Russian body guards stood in the back of the church with black suits and sunglasses on.  Many in the church had ideas on who the FBI agents were there to nab.  Even the minister of the church had some thoughts that the white men were there for them.  Nobody recognized Boris the Greatest, the best hockey player in the NHL and savior of white hockey loving people in theDetroitmetropolis. 

            The minister sweated as he began to give his sermon.  He decided to inquire as to who the visitors were to their black only church.

            “It appears as though we have some new folks that have joined us today… Brother, what’s your name and where are you from?”

            “My name ees Boris and I am fromMoscowbut leave right here eenDetroitnow.  I verk here een the city ofDetroitfor a team you are having called the Red Wings…  Maybe you are knowing them?”

           A laugh went up in the church as people suddenly recognized the face and accent.  They were stymied as to why a white, Russian, partying, hockey playing, brash young man, would enter a poorly air conditioned black church at8:30amon a Sunday.

            “Romans 2:1 says and I quotes, “You therefore, have no excusing, you who pass judgments on someone else…  Uh… You condemning youself because you passing judgments. John 8:7  as you are knowing says, “if any one of you ees without sinning let her picks up a rock now and throw eet at me.”

            Boris boldly walked up and took the hand of the ravishing woman who was singing in the choir and kissed   her hand as he kneeled before her.  It was a penalty shot, one on one with the goalie who had stoned him so many times earlier.  Boris pulled out everything he had for the shot.  The puck went in the net.

            Vlad goes to bars and drinks alone or with other friends and tells people in his heavy Russian accent how for a few years, he was the body guard and personal bitch fetcher for Boris.  Vlad told stories of driving drunk, bagging women and the number of celebrities that hung out at the compound.  The question at the end of the story was always the same and Vlad always had the answer.

            “Every man needs to learn that he can lose…  And sometimes ven you lose, you winning.  The von who made Boris losing von.  Dat ees the one he needed.  Dat ees the one he gots now…  So sad for me.  No more parties, just backyard barbeques and church.  My man sings in the choir… and is an ice cream socialist…”

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