Blackhumouristpress's Blog

February 18, 2014

Unwanted Guests

Filed under: humor,obama,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 11:55 am
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“So have you been watching the Olympics?” Asked Tristan.
Tristan studied the couple while his wife Isolde or Izzy was putting an assortment of cheeses and Spanish ham on a plate to go along with some wine from Argentina. The man with the thick glasses and pronounced under bite, had a permanent smile. He was a horse of a man, which will be interesting to note, but as soft as a marshmallow. Izzy thought it would be nice to invite a new friend from work over to their house. Izzy’s thought was to get Tristan’s mind off the fact that their daughter, a one time Olympic prospect for women’s ice hockey who had quit playing division I hockey at Princeton, met and married an orthodox Jewish kid who writes his own Reggae on acoustic guitar. After getting married, they opened a vegan café where people can come and do nothing on computers all day, read their poetry or play music on a small stage. Tristan often wondered where he failed. What did he do to drive his daughter, a young woman who was recruited by every major university in the United States with a women’s ice hockey program, to Judaism, vegetarianism and away from sports. Tom, the man with the folksy southern accent and marvelous under bite, pushed back his glasses, swirled his wine like a massive… mass and this mass’s center was surrounded by electrons which orbit the nucleus like planets revolving around the sun. You get the picture, right? Tristan watched the swirling red wine and was waiting for the moment when it might leave the glass and fling itself against the wall, the white carpeting, his wife’s blouse or his chubby son’s ugly sweater. It never happened.
“The Olympics is a farce and the winter Olympics are even more farcical than the summer. My son Audie here shows champion Arabian horses and has been a world champion three times. Lemme show you this.”
The southern gent showed pictures of his pugs, perfect lawn without a weed, his cats and then dozens of pictures of his son dressed in various costumes on top of horses.
“This horse here… You see this horse here?”
“Yes, I’m seeing it,” answered Tristan.
“This horse here is worth more than your house. This horse had to be put down for a broken foot; I mortgaged my home to buy this horse for my son who was diagnosed with Asperberger’s . This horse saved my son and won more awards than any other show horse that has ever walked this planet. My son is a three-time world champion. Someone advised me once to get my son on a horse to help him build empathy as he matured. It was as if a light switch went on.”
“Oh my god! I loved Homo Americanus. There was no greater horse I’m convinced than Homo Americanus,” said Audie as he stuffed his face with Cheese, ham and crackers.
“Quite a name. Did you name him?” Asked Tristan.
“Oh my god no! The breeders give them their names and it’s customary to not rename the horses,” said Audie.
“Do the horses respond to names?” Asked Tristan.
Nobody answered that question. More wine flowed and Tristan listened to how horses were inseminated by men with long arms and rubber gloves up to their armpits. More pictures were shown and movie clips on a phone. Tristan kept drinking and listening and looking at his wife who forced this gathering upon him on a night when he just wanted to relax. The southerner with the under bite named Tom, his wife Mary Sue and their son Audie never asked any of them one question. They went on and on about horses, breeding horses, horse shows, where you keep horses, finding the right places to house horses. Finally Tristan left the room and re-emerged in his pajamas. Izzy, Tristan’s wife was incensed by the rude act of sending a non-verbal message to houseguests that it is time to go home. Tristan filled his wine glass with some more wine and a hunk of cheese, took a seat and began to speak.
“I raised my daughter Catholic, taught her to play ice hockey, she became an Olympic prospect, received a Division I scholarship, walked away from that and married a Jew, became a Jew herself, makes lesbian safe muffins without gluten and any other substance that could have derived from an animal. It broke my heart… My heart beats at 52 beats a minute while resting. I can bench press more than my weight six times. I can run a mile under nine minutes still for a man of my age. I can still fuck on command. I like historical fiction, Jazz music sometimes and rock sometimes. I didn’t vote for the president and this does not make me a racist. With that said, I think the guy is doing okay considering the idiots he works with and against who refuse to help one another out for the good of the people. My wife posts shit like I’m saying on Facebook constantly so that anonymous friends of friends give her a thumbs up. I hope you all give me a thumbs up tonight for what I’ve told you. You didn’t ask me any of the things that I just told you but then again, I didn’t think you were going to ask us any questions at all. Horses are great and it is most interesting to know that a man impregnates show horses rather than other horses. I tried to be a sport tonight and I’ve had just enough wine to express my thoughts. My wife won’t talk to me now for a week and that might be just the time I need to get through the Olympics and accept that my daughter might move to Israel and collaborate with her husband on a folk album of children songs written in Hebrew, played with a Reggae beat… We all have our crosses to burn or bear, my friends.”
Tristan wolfed down the rest of his wine, held up his glass and smiled.
“L’chaim… Hebrew for to your health. I’m sure somewhere my daughter would appreciate me saying this. Goodnight and may your god keep you.”

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