Blackhumouristpress's Blog

April 21, 2016

Hockey On Monday’s Only

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:19 pm
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“This is a new era…  There are many things you can’t say no more.  I grew up with 30 different names just for black people.  Then you had the Jews, Asians, Hispanics and then the gays.  Gay could have meant actually gay or it could have meant stupid, wimpy or retarded back then.  We can’t use retarded today either.  The day is coming when we won’t be able to call another man a pussy and maybe it’s good and maybe it’s not…  I dunno.  All I do know for sure is that people, some people, want your head on a stick today…  The gays are season ticket holders in this small town.  We could have been stuck in minor league hockey half way up the arctic circle in towns where they only want to see guys get their brains bashed in out in the fucking tundra.  It’s a nice town here.  We’re in Florida for fuck’s sake.  The league wants us to come down hard on you.  Like they want us to get rid of you.  This is the fourth time.  Fines, suspensions and sensitivity training and you’re still calling people names like homos, faggots, queers, gayrods…   What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Byron pulled his long hair back and took a sip of his coffee.  The nerve was still alive in one of his teeth that was cracked in half from a puck to the face from the night before.  He had stitches in his chin and his left eye watered for years involuntarily from a stick to the eye.  Byron was a low-level warrior born in a town near Sudbury, Ontario.  He played two levels below the NHL, earned $32,000.00 a year and lived in a trailer park outside of Fort Myers, Florida.  When Lord Byron as he was known wasn’t playing ice hockey, we was sitting outside his double wide trailer, drinking beer with the neighbors, having lot’s of sex and riding his motorcycle.  Byron didn’t care about being a fourth liner on an NHL team.  In Florida, he was a star in the community.  He did local commercials for Mexican restaurants, car dealerships and bail bonds.  He started a summer camp strictly for obese children that didn’t have the money to go to fat camps.  Byron loved his life.  Slowly, the town to the west, nearest the ocean, became a hot spot for older gay couples from the northern part of the United States as well as Quebec.  There were a lot of French-speaking gay couples too.  Byron grew up thinking that all French speaking Canadians were gay.

So here’s what happened- A team from Macon, Georgia had a player from Byron’s childhood area that was a native Canadian.  Indian, indigenous whatever you prefer.  The player had crossed checked Byron years ago when they were in youth hockey.  The player got Byron in front of the net and crossed checked his kidneys so hard that he wound up pissing blood for a few days.  It was hard for Byron to move but he finished the game and vowed to seek retribution someday.  The day came for Byron.  The player wound up getting picked up in the southern states by an opposing team.  Byron waited until the player made a pass from the boards in front of his own team’s bench.  He hit the guy who had once made his kidneys bleed from the inside and dumped him head first over the boards.  Then he dropped his gloves and waited for the player to get up, get back on the ice and face him.  The guy wouldn’t fight Byron.  It could have been that Byron had blindsided him and he was winded, dazed from landing on his head or knew Byron was a fighter and that he had thirty pounds on him.

“You fucking faggot…  You’d rather have a cock in your mouth or ass than play hockey, wouldn’t you?  Remember giving me a stick to the back in midgets, you fucking asshole.  I almost had to go on dialysis because of you.  Let’s go, you fucking faggot ass pussy motherfucker.  I’m gonna make you piss blood tonight.”

Byron forgot that he was wired for sound.  To try to build interest in ice hockey in a part of the country that only had ice in little glasses pool side,  the team made all players take turns wearing a camera.  It was Byron’s turn to wear the camera.  Families at home on the internet got to hear Byron in real-time.  Byron killed a lot of interest that day.  Local families watched and heard, everything that went on in a local game that day from Byron’s perspective.  Byron had two fights and a hat trick.  One of his goals was the game winner.  Byron forgot about the camera until the press conference when he was asked how he felt about homosexuals.

“How do I feel about what?  Did you say homosexuals?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“What kind of question is that?”

“As you know, you were outfitted with a camera that recorded everything that went on in the game from the top of your helmet.  Fans got to really be a part of your goals and fights.  You used a homophobic slur while challenging an opposing player to a fight for an incident that occurred at a previous game when you were a youth.  The fans of south Florida will want to know your thoughts.  We want to be the first to carry it.”

“Well …  You got to understand that certain things are said sometimes but that they don’t mean anything bad towards anyone other than the person it is directed at, eh?  It’s part of the job to occasionally fight and before the fight…  Occasionally there are negotiations and discussions.”

The response made some laugh because they loved the gladiator nature of the sport and others it did not.  Some season ticket holders threatened to cancel their season tickets if Byron was not released from the team.  On local talk radio, it was a mixed bag.  Some liked the way Byron talked and others thought it was not good for children to hear graphic profanity and slams towards the gay community.  After it looked like Byron might be released over the fourth offense, Byron took to the airwaves again and offered an olive branch.

“I’m very sorry about the language I used that was broadcast locally.  I forgot that I had the camera on and well…  There is no excuse for what I said.  When I was a boy, my mother would have stuffed soap in my mouth for using profanity.  I wasn’t raised to swear.  I was raised in a town where I don’t think we had any gays.  We just got used to using that term but we didn’t mean nothing by it.  I understand that I could use other words and terms and so if I hurt anyone’s feelings by my language, I am truly sorry.  I don’t want anyone to feel badly about being gay.  It’s like being left-handed…  I’m left handed.  I often wondered why god made me a lefty when the whole world is righty.  Being gay has to be a little like that.  I dunno exactly but I’m sorry if I made anyone feel bad.  I don’t ever wish to make people feel bad…  If the community will accept my apology, I would like to start a youth and adult hockey program here in south Florida just for the gays.  If you’re gay and a man or a woman, or your a man but you feel like you might be a woman actually or whatever.  I don’t know how it all works…  What I’m offering is a chance for all of you who are gay, to come and learn the game.  Learn to skate, learn to play and have fun.  No charge…  It’s on me.”

Byron thought to call his clinics/camp, Lord Byron’s Hockey School for the Gays or South Florida’s Gay Hockey instead it was given the name a simple name- Lord Byron Hockey.  Games and clinics were on Monday nights.  A web site for it was set up.  The first four words after the name was- Hockey on Monday’s only.  Byron was not to blame for this one.  People laughed it off.  Byron’s camp was a success.  Everyone in the area wanted to learn to play hockey.  Men, women, children, blacks, Hispanics, Asians and homosexuals.  Hockey is actually for everyone.

 

 

 

 

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April 16, 2016

Nothing To Fear Except a Lack of Fear Itself

                Mr. Illych, showed up as he always did.  That wasn’t really his name but his boss gave him that name because he was a little man who was completely bald up the middle and had sharp marsupial features.  Mr. Illych received that name because he resembled the George Washington of the USSR, Vladimir Lenin.  Illych’s name was something ordinary like Smith or Thomas. 

                                Citizen A, whose name was Alan, was an angry young man who collected baseball cards and listened to right wing radio shows until he wanted to kill people.  How could anyone want to ban people from a country?  How could anyone want to build a Berlin style wall on our southern border?  How could anyone want to punish women for sexual mistakes which took place whilst in the throes of passion?  Alan became militant upon stumbling upon a “progressive” radio program but saw an angle to make money.  Seeing that he was unemployed, living in his mother’s basement watching Mets games and listening to political radio shows, Alan devised a way to make a living. 

                Alan would write one liners on Facebook where he had thousands of followers and he would receive hundreds of thumbs up.  It was addicting to him.  He needed the adulation of his friends.  The silent thumbs up was like a thunderous ovation while giving a speech in the mind of Alan.

                “ANYONE WHO CREDIBLY THINKS TRUMP IS THE ANSWER, SHOULD BE GIVEN A LABOTOMY BY NURSE RACHET AND LEFT IN THE GOP LOONY BIN OF RIGHT WING, REACTIONARY FUCKS THAT WANT US ALL TO BE PROTESTANT AND ANGLO AGAIN.”

                “TED CRUZ IS A TELEVANGELIST IN SHEEPS CLOTHING.  READY FOR SEPARATE BUT EQUAL WATER FOUNTAINS, CLOTHES HANGER ABORTIONS AND SODOMY LAWS?  IT’S NOT JUST FOR THE SOUTH ANYMORE, Y’ALL.”

                “KASICH…  BY THE TIME I GET TO CLEVELAND, THEY’LL LOVE ME… 17 PEOPLE WANTED TO TAKE YOU TO THE PROM.  14 COULDN’T TAKE THE PAIN OF HEARING NO.  YOUR DADDY WON’T LET YOU GO TO THE DANCE WITH THE OTHER TWO…  I’LL BE WAITING IN THE CAR WHEN YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND.  YOU’LL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO DANCE WITH ME…  IN BEAUTIFUL CLEVELAND.”

                Maybe a dozen posts a day with hundreds and sometimes thousands of thumbs up, re-posted sharing of his wit and occasionally personal messages came to him on Facebook.

                “YOU SHOULD BE A COMEDIAN.”

                “YOU SHOULD RUN FOR OFFICE.”

                “YOU SHOULD PLAY A FLUTE.  PEOPLE WOULD FOLLOW YOU LIKE MICE.”

                “PLEASE LIKE MY COLLECTION OF POEMS FROM WHEN I WAS IN PRISON THAT I AM SELLING ON AMAZON.COM.”

                Alan thought that maybe people would follow him.  Maybe he did actually have leadership skills even though his dead father said that he would never be anything but a deadbeat sucking off his mother’s tit for the rest of his days.  One day a light went on in the attic of Alan’s mind- I could be an activist and an entrepreneur.

  Business was not going well for Alan’s enterprise.  It seemed nobody wanted to hire mercenary protesters until Mr.  Illych ran across his ad while looking through Craig’s List.  Mr. Illych met with Alan and things took off from there.

                “Listen…  There is a whole culture of bust outs who hate their parents for giving them a really good place to live, anything they ever asked for, fed them, kept them safe and then cast them into college just to get brainwashed by some fuck with a PHD who never even owned a car in his life, can’t find a wife, can’t accept hygiene and deodorant and only has possibly one friend who is equally marginally functional that feels Karl Marx was completely right and that the whole experiment was just a bit premature for the Victorian times.  These people protested when they were young against the establishment and now they’ve planted the seeds into young blank slates.  Maybe my parents are racist…  After all, we lived in an all-white subdivision except for the one Asian family but they were Baptist in the end.  My parents were relieved that I wasn’t gay…  They must be homophobes.  My parents think those people in the head scarves and beards might have bombs strapped to their person under all those shrouds…  Are you following me, Alan?  I get the feeling you’re of that mindset.  You believe in a liberal agenda, right?  We live in a republic, not a democracy, my young idealist.  Would a democracy have super delegates and unbound delegates pledged to a losing candidate even though the citizens voted for something else?  No, my friend, this happens in republics.  Republic of China, banana republics and these United States.  Think of yourself as the overseer.  Think of yourself as the middle man.  Think of yourself as delegator, puppet master or the pied piper…  Are you with me Alan?  We could wind up in bed together on this one and wind up very happy…  Here is what you have to do.”

                It started with a few dozen and then there were a lot more.  Maybe hundreds and soon to be thousands.  The word was out.  There is a rich dude named Citizen A, who pays people to express their anger at the right wingers.  All you have to do is be angry, unruly, and belligerent, fight the police and anyone who does not agree with the progressive agenda.  You follow your heart and if you find yourself arrested, Citizen A, will come to the rescue to bail you out and you will receive compensation either way for your time but a bonus for being arrested.  Butch looking lesbians, pasty looking white kids with dreadlocks covered in tattoos, angry outspoken young black and Latino people all showed up to Trump rallies around the country to extinguish, bully and belittle anyone thinking of entering a Trump rally or gathering.  Alan became rich as the middle man and what was there in it for Mr.  Ilych?  More money than you could imagine if everything pans out in the end.  Mr. Illych’s boss was a bit skeptical.  It was Mr. Illych’s job to make sure his boss stayed the course.  Hardly did he meet face to face with his boss.  Phone conversations daily were their briefings.

                “Boss…  Listen to me…  Have I been wrong yet?  This might seem like a negative thing and it is but trust me when I say this…  There is a silent majority sitting dormant in their easy chairs, watching this all on television, shaking their heads wondering what the world is coming to.  These people are now wondering if they turned the other cheek too much, have they softened up to the point where anything goes socially and guess what?  They’re about to be handed a bill for all the things they could care less about while the nation gets softer and more oblivious to the threats around the world.  They see these young people protesting and it makes them want to vote even more for you…  Steady as she goes, boss.  We have nothing to fear except a lack of fear itself…  Trust me on this.”

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