Blackhumouristpress's Blog

April 14, 2014

Democracy 6.0

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 7:17 am
Tags: , , ,

What’s the problem? A solution of verbal pollution – a mixture of something animal and mineral. Antibodies fighting hopelessly something viral, the next big thing to know is when we go while viewing it like a DNA spiral. We descend; let’s not pretend the word progress is bogus. Amelioration of contention? Suppression of aggression? The sun is shining as we bask in perpetual recession.

Oh Crimea river … Yellow liver caused by empty threats and hysteria. A verbal malady, we’re all a bit melancholy for the days of hammers and sickles, Ronnie and Contras, selling arms to enemies who housed hostages in our embassy.

The devil you know is better than the known unknowns that is to say we know what we know but can’t ever seem to say no. The sun never sets on American assets using the ruse of freedom and democracy 6.0- for those living in caves and living in holes.

Lead us not into the temptation to deliver us to another war to fight another evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and glory for oil. Amen.

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April 1, 2014

Concealed Anger at the Buffet or Jean Paul Sartre and Ringo

I was not the one to invent lies: they were created in a society divided by class and each of us inherited lies when we were born. It is not by refusing to lie that we will abolish lies: it is by eradicating class by any means necessary.
Travis read this passage in French of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Les Mains Sales or Dirty Hands while sipping coffee at an Old Country Buffet. Travis didn’t like the French as people or French culture. He liked that French was not English and that it was something different. Travis was different. He worked nights at a Kinko’s/Fed-Ex making copies, during the day he followed the Da Vinci sleep schedule of not sleeping more than two hours a day, listened to the Beatles and idolized Ringo Starr. He was an unmarried survivalist who had a bomb bunker in his mother’s home on the north side of Chicago. Travis felt that the poor economy and high number of random homicides in the city of Chicago, was a sign that something big was coming and so he applied to carry a concealed weapon.
On this particular day, Travis didn’t get his full two hours of sleep. He drank coffee and went for a ten-mile run and then walked to the Old Country Buffet, ready to eat his one large meal of the day at 11am when it opened. Travis took his usual booth seat closest to the action so that he could make his salad with spinach, carrots, peas, broccoli, corn, three-bean salad, raisins and a splash of French dressing. But of course.
Travis heard the Hispanic woman explaining to two patrons that when they receive a water glass, they can only have water. The two men were giving the woman a hard time. Travis’s arms began to tingle. He went back up to the buffet table. Broiled chicken was just put out. Travis studied a pathetic creature in a motorized scooter who sidled up to the table to load two plates full of drumsticks. Travis listened to the man gasp and breathe all over the food underneath the sneeze guard. The grotesquely obese human in a scooter who was either unwilling or incapable of standing as he fought to get food on his two plates. The scooter bound man cleaned the tray of chicken except for the wing that he attempted to plate that slipped from the tongs and plopped into the gravy belonging to meatloaf that caused a minor seismic wave that sent gravy flying up against the splash guard. The chicken was gone. Travis approached the smallish white kid with a neck tattoo and a straight brimmed baseball cap with the initials OCB on the brim, to ask for more chicken. The hip-hop employee laughed and explained how long it would be until more chicken would be available.
“Dat motherfukah always be taken moh than he kin eat. We be taken his motherfuckin plate and he eat the skin and leave all the meat. It bullshit. They should charge a motherfucker like dat by the motherfuckin pound. OCB be losing they ass on fat ass motherfuckers taken moh than they kin eat. It gone be bout thirty minutes befoh the next batch up.”
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe the lack of water and too much caffeine, maybe the disrespect for rules like water only in water glasses unless you pay for a soft drink, maybe it was the scooter or the heavy breathing on the food at eye level. It was most definitely was the act of taking all the chicken, the neck tattoo, crooked hat and inability to use the English language without the use of word motherfucker. People snap everyday and we read about it everyday and then we wonder what lined up to cause a perfect storm in one’s head for them to rationalize that pulling a gun was the proper recourse to resolve an annoying situation.
Travis applied for and was issued a permit to carry a concealed weapon. The rule was that concealed handguns were prohibited in a long list of buildings, parking lots and properties, including schools, child care facilities, courthouses, government buildings, hospitals, nursing homes and public transportation facilities, buses but all you can eat buffets were not on the list. Travis pulled a gun, walked up to the table of two men that were having soft drinks and pointed his gun at them.
“Red glasses are for water. You were issued red glasses for water exclusively. You broke the rules. You stole. Now go dump the Cokes and put fucking water in your glasses… NOW!”
Travis walked up to the young man who was holding a tray of macaroni and cheese. He took the hat off of the man, folded the brim until it formed an arc rather than a straight brim and then pushed it back on his head with the brim centered to his face.
“Have some respect for your job and the English language. Pull your pants up and wear your hat straight or cut your hair off so you don’t need to wear a ball cap like a clown. Fucking, motherfucking, fuckheaded, fuckstick… I know you understand me. You motherfucking comprehend. Learn the language and you’ll be able to converse with people without offending anyone.”
Travis walked over to the man with a Cubs shirt who was wheezing and eating two dozen drumsticks and put the barrel of the gun to his head.
“Take out your phone and Google gluttony…”
The man looked at Travis as if he didn’t understand. Travis lowered his face to the face of the drumstick bandit and raised his voice.
“TAKE OUT YOUR FUCKING PHONE RIGHT NOW AND LOOK UP GLUTTONY AND READ IT LOUD ENOUGH FOR ALL OF US TO HEAR. YOU WILL ALSO EAT EVER PIECE OF MEAT ON YOUR PLATE… DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?”
The heavyset man trembled and began to read. Travis ordered him to eat at the same time that he was reading.
“Gluttony, derived from the Latin gluttire meaning to gulp down or swallow, means over-indulgence and over-consumption of food, drink, or wealth items to the point of extravagance or waste. In some Christian denominations, it is considered one of the sins.”
Travis yelled into the face of the man.
“You saw me waiting for chicken and took every piece and put it on two plates. I would say that qualifies as extravagance and over fucking indulgence. Now we will sit here until you are done eating everything down to the bone… You two! The red cup thieves… Go get him a diet Coke. Here is proper cup designated for soft drinks which he purchased.”
The Chicago Police took close to a half hour to show up and when they did, they found Travis seated across from a man with a motorized scooter that was crying and stuffing his mouth with chicken with a gun pointed at his face. Chicago’s finest were accustomed to bizarre events but this was the strangest one in a while. Travis had a bad day. We all have bad days. Right?

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