Blackhumouristpress's Blog

December 28, 2015

Christmas Apocalypse or Merry Christmas, Bitch

 

“So what is it I’m getting for your Aunt Lucy?”

“Candles or doilies or something.  Buy it from Sears so that if she doesn’t like it, she can go to the one by her and return it.”

“Sears?  Is there still a Sears?  I AM TALKING ON THE PHONE RIGHT NOW!  WHEN MOMMY IS ON THE PHONE, YOU DO NOT SCREAM!”

Angela was feeling overwhelmed.  She was last minute shopping for her husband’s Aunt Lucy who she had never met because she is old and lives near Cleveland.  She is going into assisted care near the family and will be at the holiday dinner.  It became Angela’s job to find something for Lucy.  Angela’s two toddlers both woke in the middle of the night hurling chunks of undigested pizza from a holiday party.  Was it the pizza?  Was it germs on their hands?  Nobody knew for sure.  What Angela knew was that at about 3:30 am, her two little ones were covered in vomit.  So was their bedding, the My Little Pony carpet and their pajamas.  It took a solid hour to clean up and get them back to sleep.  Angela’s sleep was done.   Her husband who was still working asked his wife to just pop over to the mall and just get something.  Angela was supposed to make a pie for the family’s get together.  To make a pie now would not be possible.  It would be her husband’s job to get a pie on the way home from work.

I WON’T HAVE TIME TO MAKE A PIE.  PLEASE PICK ONE UP FOR YOUR FAMILY ON THE WAY HOME FROM WORK, PLEASE.

Angela was scoping out bath beads with hand cream and had no idea if Lucy took baths or showers.  She thought about it- do old people lay down in bathtubs filled with water and then they can’t get up or slip around like greased pigs and get hurt?  Maybe just showers with grab bars.  Bath beads may not be good.   Old people could burn down the house with shaky hands and candles.  It will just have to be grumpy cat slippers.  In the check out line, Martha, Angela’s three year old daughter took her stick from the sucker she received at the bank and poked her younger brother Bob in the right eye.  There was that delayed fifteen seconds of silence while the smaller child lost it’s breath momentarily and was building the crying to a pitch that would grab the attention of everyone around.  A text came in from Angela’s husband.

YOU DIDN’T MAKE ONE ALREADY?  I THOUGHT YOU BOUGHT ALL THE SHIT FOR IT YESTERDAY.  NO?

Bob roared and held his eye.  Angela grabbed Martha’s hand and slapped it hard.  The bare skin could be heard by those around them.  Martha cried as hard and as loudly as her younger brother.  Angela’s husband was annoyed by no return text and so he called.  He called three times in a row.  Angela answered firmly.

“BUY A FUCKING PIE!  IS THAT SO FUCKING HARD FOR YOU?  I’M BUY SOME BULLSHIT FOR YOUR FUCKING AUNT THAT I NEVER MET AND I HAVE TWO SICK KIDS CRYING.  DO YOU HEAR THOSE KIDS?  THOSE ARE YOUR KIDS MAKING A SCENE RIGHT NOW AT SEARS.  YES, SEARS…  AFTER THE VOMITING AND NO SLEEP, I NOW AM DOING THINGS FOR YOU.  PIE! BUY IT! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE AND DO ONE SMALL THING FOR ME!”

People were staring at the woman who was unhinged.  Angela pulled her two children up by the arms.  They were crying even harder.  An old woman who was entering the store bent down and yelled into the faces of the two small children.

“Shut up!”

The two tired and sick toddlers stopped crying.  They looked at the stranger and wondered why she yelled in their face.  The whole thing was intriguing to the small children.

“This country is going to hell because people like you cannot control their children.  They grow up to be punks, smoke pot, drink and go to jail and why?  Because mommy and daddy have no control.  Give your damn kids boundries before they grow up to kill you, miss.”

The old woman walked off feeling as though she had righted a wrong.  Angela no sooner got her kids in the car than they both passed out in their car seats.  Meanwhile Angela’s husband sent her a text that said he had picked up a pumpkin pie.  Angela hates pumpkin pie and her husband after seven years should have known that.  If he listened more, paid attention more, he would know after so many years that his wife disliked pumpkin pie at best.

YOU WENT TO HOUSE OF PIES AND COULD HAVE BOUGHT ANY PIE IN THE WORLD AND BOUGHT THE ONE PIE THAT I ABSOLUTELY HATE.  DID YOU DO THIS ON PURPOSE OR DO YOU REALLY HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA AFTER SO MANY YEARS THAT I HATE PUMPKIN PIE.  IT’S CHRISTMAS NOT THANKSGIVING!  WHY PUMPKIN?  I’M SO FUCKING MAD AND DISAPOINTED RIGHT NOW.  I BOUGHT SOMETHING FOR YOUR AUNT AND YOU BUY ME A PUMPKIN PIE.  FUCK YOU!

Angela’s husband called her an ungrateful bitch and told her to get real and other things to further stoke the flames of displeasure on a day made for family and giving.  The texting went back and forth for about fifteen minutes and got to the point where threats were being made to not attend the family meal and possibly taking off for the night with the kids.  Just when Angela was going to send the threat of all threats to her husband, the old woman who yelled at her children and verbally chastised her, came walking towards her in the parking lot.  Angela got out car and ripped the knit hat off of the woman’s head and dropped it in a puddle.  She then grabbed the bags from her hands and whipped them as far as she could.  She then smiled at the woman and calmly spoke to her with her index finger in the old woman’s face.

“You thought you were teaching someone a lesson by putting your nose in their ass.  You better think long and hard before getting involved in someone else’s life.  I’ve been up since long before the sun cleaning up vomit, blankets and pajamas.  I was sent out to buy stuff for people I don’t even know with two sick and tired kids while my husband bought a piece of shit pumpkin pie.  Be lucky I don’t own a fucking gun, you stupid old bitch and remember to never fuck with me again… Got it? …  Merry Christmas, bitch.”

Angela drove home with an eye constantly in the rearview mirror.  She had thoughts of cops putting her in handcuffs while the old woman fingering her from the back of a squad car.  She envisioned a large black woman with all the empathy of a fast food counter worker, taking her children from her and placing them in the care of the state until suitable foster parents could be found.  Angela’s mind raced.  She felt so badly about letting her anger get the worst of her on Christmas Eve day.  Angela made it home to find her husband standing in the driveway nervously with another cake.  It was a tiramisu.  Angela saw the tiramisu and began crying.  She walked up and hugged her husband and thanked him for going back and buying the alternate pastry.  They carried the sleeping children into the house and plopped down on the couch.  Angela’s husband kissed his frazzled wife on top of the head as she sighed and dried tears of frustration away.  Her husband said nothing.  After a minute, Angela took a deep breath and softly made a declaration.

“Sometimes… I think I can really be a bitch.”

And the rest of the day went mostly good.  And maybe that’s just how it goes for most people.

December 16, 2015

And Justice For All

Filed under: america,poem,trump,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:42 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

                Hang the flags perpetually at half-mast- every day a crisis

                NRA Card member or those among us who join Isis

                The reactionary fears arms closed, the liberal embraces eyes blind

                What we find in the quagmire is a desire for someone to come and lead

                Feed the electorate a new poll, detract away from the hole of

                Economics gives way to Islamics, tactics of the feckless and the reckless

                The new red scare finding fanatics everywhere that the radical facts are

                empirical

                Isolation resuscitation cooperation dissemination to save a nation

                Refuge or not to refuge refuse the nuclear centrifuge

                Weather or whether- it’s all huge and looms like a mushroom cloud

December 13, 2015

Chicago’s Finest… At a Bad Time

               

                “Every damn cop that ever fired a shot at something or someone will have a hearing…  Am I fucking clear to you?  All cops who ever pulled their gun out will have their day in court. Dig up everything you can find before others do and we will have a special committee to hear every case…  DON’T STAND HERE LOOKING FUCKING DUMB!  GET TO WORK!”

                And so it was that every cop alive that ever pulled or fired a gun, was put in front of a Chicago tribunal.  Those willing to purge themselves of wrong doing, might be able to keep their jobs if it was found that the lives of the officers were in danger.  It was sort of a truth and reconciliation tribunal like South Africa had after apartheid whereby white officers went before a commission and apologized for wrong doing and then went on with life without penalty.  Why?  So that the mayor could keep his job.

                The city called in the Altgeld 20.  Altgeld Gardens as it was called, was a housing project where poor African-Americans lived.  It was named after a former German born Governor of the State of Illinois.  Nobody in the early 2000s gave a shit about the name of their blighted housing project.  It was bordered by landfills, steel mills and constructed during a time when asbestos was widely used in the construction of the buildings.

 The police got a tip that the Gangster Disciples were gun fighting with the Black Disciples.  Why?  Drugs, territory, territory to sells drugs, retribution and so on.  Ten squad cars raced in a line down 130th Street towards where the gun fighting was taking place.  It was alleged that four innocent men were gunned down by police that night. The four innocent men were gang members who terrorized the residence of Altgeld Gardens.  This fight took place nearly ten years earlier and was captured on a VHS recorder from a window.  On the film, you can see the mostly white cops surrounding and shooting the gang members in a clearing among buildings, like fish in a barrel.  Anyone who did not drop their weapon immediately was shot.  It was the commission’s belief that none of the officer’s lives were in danger and for that reason, at a minimum, all who took place in the murders, should be fired and their pensions taken away.   Residents of Altgeld Gardens took turns reading accounts of the confrontation that day.  The last to speak was a little old woman by the name of Dorothy.  Dorothy had the same hair style that she wore back in the 1950’s.  She was a tiny old woman in a nice dress and a pill box hat held in with hair pins.  She sat on the witness stand with white gloves covering her hands and her purse on her lap.  She smiled a serene smile and waited her turn to speak.  The whole crowd of angry protestors and former neighbors of the since closed housing development laughed at what Ms. Dorothy had to say.

                “Now y’all fixin to crucify all these here officers.  Nevah the mind dat we killin each other an little ones who happen to git in the way.  There one man among all these officers who never pulled his gun and wadn’t even part the whole ordeal…  Officer Miller…  You want to tell them all or should I?”

                Officer Miller looked down and picked at a loose thread on his cuff.  He had a hard time looking at Dorothy or any other of the people in the room.  Officer Miller was horrified by what was about to be said about him.

                “Well then…  He won’t talk, I will.  I was watching ma television bout 9pm.  The lottery numbers was about to come up and I was all ready to look at what I got.  I don’t nevah win but I play.  Some call it gambling but I don’t see no harm in pickin a few numbers and maybe git a few dollars off it.  Ain’t like no casino.  Anyway, I had all ma tickets spread out and I was waiting for that woman to pull the balls that bounce around in the air puffer that make them move round.  I suppose I nevah heard them numbers cause all the sudden the door was knocked down clear off the hinges.  There stood Officer Miller.  He wad out breath an he aksed me where I keep ma crapper.  I toll him dat ain’t no way to enter a person’s home and ain’t no way to aks where the bathroom at.  I looked at him and say- excuse me?  The man was sweating and panting.  He removed his gun and begin to unzip his pants while he walk to the washroom.  He slammed the door began a moaning and crying.  I believe it wad comin from both ends on him.  Now this went on foh a good few minutes maybe five.”

                Officer Miller recalled stopping off for lunch and eating something with sour cream.  The cream was truly sour.  It hit Miller when the call went out that ten squads were needed to quell a gun fight at a housing project.  Miller began to sweat and it felt as though he had rodents running through his intestines.  He felt waves of nausea come and go and had to use all the muscles possible to keep from shitting in his pants.  Miller turned to his partner, Officer Termini and told him to stop the car.  Termini told Miller that it would not be possible.

                “Are you fucking nuts?  You want me to stop now so you can take a shit?!  If I stop, every car behind us is stopping too.  I can’t do it.  You’ll just have to fucking hold it,” said Termini.

                “You have to stop or I’m going to shit my pants.  I’m sick.  Something is wrong and I have to fucking go now,” said Miller.

                Termini drove faster and told Miller he could just shit in the field when the got there and hope that he wouldn’t be shot while relieving himself.  When all twenty cars pulled up, Miller went into the trunk and pulled out the battering ram.  It was a heavy cylinder shaped metal with two handles meant to break doors down with.  Miller found the first door he could reach and broke down the door without knocking.  Once in the bathroom, the shit poured from Miller’s ass while vomit flew from his mouth.  Miller turned his head while sitting on the toilet and filled the sink with vomit.  It felt as though the end of the world had arrived for Officer Miller.  After five minutes of expelling food and fluids from every orifice possible, Miller opened a small window and closed the door behind him.  His shirt was drenched from sweat.  Dorothy looked at the man who looked like he was about to pass out and guided him to the couch and laid him down.  She wet a washcloth and put it across Officer Miller’s forehead and held his hands.

                “You gone be alright, baby.  You jus sick.  You coulda knocked and I woulda opened up but now I understand what you was up against.”

                “Ma’am…  I’m so sorry.  I will have this door fixed immediately and get cleaners in here for your bathroom.  I feel so bad about this, ma’am.”

                While Dorothy and Miller spoke to one another, gun fire popped in the night like popcorn in a popcorn maker.  It was nothing new to either Dorothy or Officer Miller.  Both were used to hearing gun fire.  After all- it was Chicago and a part of Chicago where nobody white ever went unless they had to.  It was poor and gang infested.  Dorothy was just a widowed church going elderly lady who kept to herself.  The gangsters knew it and left her alone.

                “And so…  I don’t know what you all fixin to do to these here gentlemen.  They might be wrong or jus doin they job.  It ain’t foh me t’say.  I can tell you this- Officer Miller was in a bad state that day and he had nothing to do with deaths or gun fire dat day.  I ain’t got no reason to lie nor stretch the truth.  God as my witness- this man look like he wad gone die on ma couch.  Officer Miller was a man of his word.  He got someone to install a new door dat night.  In a day, I got it painted.  I had two Polish women come to ma place and clean the entire bathroom.  Nice ladies but none could speak a lick of English.  I aksed them thangs and they just laughed and kept saying yes.  I say girl, what’s your name an the one laughed an jus say yes.  I jus laughed and said thank you.  So y’all do whatchu want but this man here ain’t like the rest.  Maybe he a shot someone ifin he wadn’t sick but on dat day, this man could barely stand.  He innocent as the day he born…  And dat’s all I got t’say.”

                Officer Miller was found not guilty that day.  And faith in humanity was restored to the jaded if only for a day.

December 5, 2015

And They Broke Bread and Gave Thanks…

Filed under: chicago,elections,Ethnicity,humor,humour,ISIS,Short Story,trump — blackhumouristpress @ 2:23 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

The Flannigan’s got together every Thanksgiving like just about every American with family does on the last Thursday of every November.  Thanksgiving is the first of three mandatory holidays that they all submit to gathering for every year.  Thanksgiving, then Christmas a month later and then it ends with Easter.

The Flannigan’s had a very Irish name but actually they were more Swedish than anything.  They had converted to Protestantism back around 1955 from Catholicism.  They became Evangelical Christians and so it became necessary and a duty to discuss god with anyone with ears.  Some of the Flannigan’s took the oath of accepting Christ as their own personal Jesus and in turn trying their level best to in a sense, sell Amway for god by asking people what their walk with the lord was.  For most people the question was like asking their sexual preference or even seedier personal sexual desires.  The devotion to Evangelical Christianity varied among the Flannigan’s from atheist to front row crusader.  Some among them decided that it was possible that god was not Evangelical Christian and then others concluded that just maybe there was no god.  On this particular day, god was not discussed during their Thanksgiving dinner.  Dinners with the Flannigan’s was always lively.  Someone inevitably throws out the first pitch while turkey gets passed with cranberries, string bean casserole with dried onions, rolls, sweet potatoes and so on.

“Did you guys see that video of the colored kid being shot like 60 times?”

The question was posed by Wade who now after the death of his father, Art, a World War II veteran, was the patriarch.  Wade, a Vietnam Veteran who had longish hair, tattoos, a Harley Davidson and a Corvette with a bronze medal license plate. After the war, Wade decided that there could not possibly be a god that would let such horrible things happen to innocent people.   He purposely called black people colored to get under the skin of his politically correct granddaughter who just happened to have an African-American boyfriend.

“Colored, grandpa?  Are we in the Deep South in the 1960’s?  Are we gonna git in the truck aftah dinnah and lynch us a colored?   That colored child was only shot sixteen times.  The cop ran out of bullets at sixteen.”

Edina, was racially cool.  She started attending an Episcopal Church that had a lesbian minister and all the people were really inclusive and mostly interracial couples.  Edina sort of wished she could be with her boyfriend RJ for Thanksgiving.  Last Thanksgiving was a bit of a cultural shock for Edina. It was as if she had gone to a foreign country.  RJ’s grandmother made a few recognizable things and some things she had never seen on a Thanksgiving table before.  Nobody really sat and had a meal together.  Men sat around the television and watched football.  People young and old came by and picked at stuff that was out and the women gave Edina the stare down- just another skinny white bitch who stole another good looking black man from the small pool of desirable men.  It would be weird among family or weird with her boyfriend’s family.  It was just going to be weird for her either way.

“Did you all know that this is the 50th anniversary of the death of JFK?  My what a good looking man and his wife was just a princess of a woman.  So refined and she could speak French and redecorate…  What a shame.  They say his head went flying all over the motorcade.  Cops had brains and blood splattered all over them…  That must have been something.”

Everyone stopped eating and talking and stared at Lorie, the matriarch who discussed some grizzly details in the middle of a meal.

Lorie, the wife of Art who was had recently died, was ninety years old.  She married after Art returned from World War II.  They had two children and moved to the suburbs.  Her job since 1947 was to be a wife, a mom, a thrifty shopper, a cook and a maid.  Instead of sitting to eat, she was folding the clothes that Wade had brought over to his mom to wash.  Everyone at the table kept telling her to sit.  She was slightly hard of hearing and then selective.

“It’s fifty two years, grandma.  I was born in 1965 and he died in 1963… Every Thanksgiving you bring up JFK.  Did you have a thing for him?”

Mathew was her grandson, father of Edina, son of Wade.   Mathew was indifferent to religion and politics but was very much into sports and music.  He grew up a Punk Rock kid in the 1980’s.

“I remember those horrible shirts you used to wear of one of those crazy bands.  Dead Kennedys…  After everything that family had to go through and to wear a shirt like that.  You had no respect for nothing back then.”

It was a famous photo of a Vietnamese man wincing just before being shot in the temple with a handgun with the words, Holiday in Cambodia.  It stirred Vietnam memories for Wade.

“I could have choked the life out of you when I saw that shirt.  I went over there to make democracy safe for young punks like you just so you could go around looking like an asshole and wearing shirts that piss everyone off.”

“Come on, dad…  That was a long time ago.  I grew up and got jaded just like you.  You don’t think I look at just about everyone under the age of twenty five and shake my head?  Glued to their cell phones, pants hanging off of their asses, stupid tattoos, and piercings.  Guys today want to be Olympic athletes and then turn chick…  I had a Mohawk and wore offensive t-shirts.  Look what’s going on today.  If you really hate the establishment and your government, you become an Islamic terrorist and kill fellow Americans…  You thought the world was coming to an end with Punk Rock.  Look at where we are today?”

Ryan, the ex-hippy turned born again Christian, wore a Ted Cruz button on his suit jacket.  Nobody else wore a suit.  Ryan’s wife was from Brazil.  Her name was Martha and she was black, Chinese and Hispanic that spoke Portuguese.  Everyone sort of forgot what she was exactly.  All they knew was that she was extremely born again, vegan and gluten free.  Martha didn’t quite understand everything being discussed but found it interesting.

“Martha… come on, sweetie.  You gotta have some of that good turkey and ham.  I got it at Honeybaked.  I would think you couldn’t get Honeybaked out there in Portugal,” said Lorie, while folding clothes.

“Ma!  Put the clothes down and come eat…  She speaks Portuguese.  She’s from Brazil.”  Said Ryan.

“Well, I know they don’t have Honeybaked there.  You’d be lucky to get a Mc Donald’s.”

Nobody had a response to that.  The television break from the football game flashed a picture of a young black male being shot in the street of Chicago by a police officer and the protesting going on in front of prestigious stores in Chicago’s downtown.

“If a cop tells you to stop and you don’t, you’re rolling the dice.  Carrying a knife and not listening to a cop is asking to get shot,” said Wade.

“Sixteen or sixty times, right grandpa?  They would have shot a white kid too, right?” Said Edina

“Fucking A right…  Let’s just drop it.  Cops are wrong, criminals are right.  Blacks got the right to thumb their noses at authority.” Said Wade.

“Grandpa, why are talking about this when we have so many terrorists coming here from Syria to infiltrate us and kill us.  Cops are only killing one segment of society but Syrian women and children are coming with bombs strapped to their chests to kill us unless we elect Trump to deport all illegals and refugees and when were done with them, deport all non-born Americans except his beautiful wife and any other super models and once we’ve gotten all of them, we’ll get rid of red haired people, freckled people and create a new master race of people with really bad hair.”

“Well honey, once the moderates have taken over Europe and North America, sharped tongue cuties like you will be stoned in the city center.  Hope you have a good head scarf and can recite the Koran when they come for you.  In the meantime, maybe you can come up with a way to re-educate the police here so that let criminals do whatever the hell they want.  If Hilary becomes president she can take care of all those things for you.  Chicago will look like Benghazi,” said Wade.

Several people groaned at the interchange.  Mathew asked what the score of the football game.  For a full five seconds nobody said anything.  Silverware clicked against plates and the announcers in the back ground commented on the football game.  Martha took break in the conversation as an opportunity to say something.  Nobody interrupted the woman who rarely spoke.  They had heard that she was taking an English as a second language course for four hours a day, every day.  Her English was coming along quite well.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Everyone stopped eating and turned to the exotic looking woman.  This was a watershed moment.  The quiet foreigner who seemed to sit in her husband’s shadow asked everyone present if they wished to know what she thought.  Of course they were all interested.  Everyone looked at the exotic looking woman.

“China makes everything that anyone could ever want to buy and has an army of more people than there are people in the United States and they never have to send any troops to fight.  They don’t have terrorism and people are not shooting each other every day.  Why do you think this is?”

Everyone kept coming up with things on China for about a half hour until dessert was served.  Ryan received a text message from Martha who was sitting next to him.  It read-

SOMEBODY NEEDED TO STOP THESE PEOPLE   : )

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