Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 17, 2017

Domesticis Angustia

WHY DID YOU PUT THE FUCKING DOG IN THE BASEMENT WHEN I ASKED YOU NOT
TO?  I WOKE UP TO A HOWLING PUPPY COMING THROUGH THE VENTS FROM THE
BASEMENT. AND WHY DID YOU CALL THE GIRLS AT 6;30 THIS MORNING WHEN YOU
KNOW THEY WERE OFF OF SCHOOL  THEY GET TO SLEEP IN AND YOU WAKE ALL OF
US UP WITH AN EARLY MORNING PHONE CALL.  INCREDIBLE

I THOUGHT PUTTING THE DOG IN THE BASEMENT MIGHT ALLOW YOU TO ALL GET
MORE SLEEP.  I POCKET DIALED THE GIRLS.  I’M REALLY SORRY AROUT THAT.
I FORGOT TO LOCK THE PHONE BACK UP AND IT CALLED THEM.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU.  REALLY I DON’T.

I KNOW YOU DON’T AND I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU EITHER.  WHY DO WE HAVE A
DOG? A PUPPY? AND UNTRAINED PUPPY?  YOUR EX-HUSBAND CAN’T FIGURE OUT
WHAT TO DO WITH HIS OWN KIDS WHEN HE’S WITH THEM SO HE TAKES THEM TO
IKEA TO LOOK AT SHIT THEY WON’T BUY AND TO ANIMAL RESCUES TO PET DOGS
HE WON’T HAVE.  YOU WORKED OUT BUYING A DOG WITH YOUR EX-HUSBAND BUT
HE’S NOT WALKING THEM OR CLEANING UP THE SHIT AND PISS.  I GUESS I
DON’T UNDERTAND THAT.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU MADE MY SON SKATE A 60 SECOND DRILL IN
FRONT OF THE WHOLE TEAM AND SINGLED HIM OUT WHEN OTHER KIDS WERE
FUCKING OFF.

OTHER KIDS GOT YELLED AT.  YOUR SON WAS SMILING WHILE I WAS YELLING
ABOUT HORSING AROUND DURING A CONTROLLED SCRIMMAGE.  THAT PROMPTED THE
60 SECOND DRILL.  I SHOULD HAVE JUST THROWN HIM OFF THE ICE.  I KNEW
THAT YOU WOULD COME TO HIS RESCUE WHEN HE’S WRONG.

IS THIS THE REASON WHY YOU SEPARATED HIM FROM ALL HIS FRIENDS DURING
THE SCRIMMAGE AND PUT HIM WITH KIDS WHO CAN’T KEEP UP?

A SCRIMMAGE IS A PRACTICE GAME.  A MAKE BELIEVE GAME.  WE DIDN’T KEEP
SCORE.  NOBODY CHEERED WHEN THEY SCORED.  IT WAS ALL FOR THE GREATER
GOOD OF GETTING BETTER FOR THE DAYS WHEN REFS SHOW UP AND WE DO KEEP
SCORE ON THE SCORE BOARD.  ANY OTHER COMPLAINTS ABOUT ME?  HIS DAD WAS
OUT HAVING A COLD ONE WITH FRIENDS WHILE I COACH HIS CHILD JUST SO HE
CAN SHOW UP FOR THE REAL GAMES AND PROUDLY PROCLAIM- THAT’S MY BOY.  I
GET THE GRIEF, HE GETS THE GRAVY.  HE FINDS THE DOG, WE TAKE CARE OF
IT.  I’M ON THE WRONG END OF THIS I SUPPOSE.

YOU KNOW WHAT’S WRONG?  I SPENT MONEY FOR YOUR DAUGHTER TO EAT A
CHEESEBURGER AT MY FATHER’S BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION AND SHE CHANGED HER
ORDER TO MAC AND CHEESE WHICH SHE DIDN’T EVEN FINISH.

UM…  SHE HAD IT FOR DINNER LAST NIGHT AND SHARED IT WITH YOUR KIDS WHO
HAD NOT EATEN YET WHEN WE CAME BACK FROM HOCKEY PRACTICE.  YOUR FRIEND
ARRIVES WITH A BOTTLE OF PROSECCO TO SIT OUT BACK WITH YOU.  MEANWHILE
BACK AT THE RANCH, I’M MAKING SLIDERS AND FRENCH FRIES FOR ALL THE
KIDS, THE HOUSE LOOKS LIKE HELL BECAUSE OF THE BROKEN GARBAGE DISPOSAL
AND A PUPPY.  I REALLY WISH YOU EX COULD BE THE ONE TO CATCH ALL THIS
BULLSHIT.  HE GETS YOU TO BUY THE KIDS A DOG.  YOU PAY FOR IT, YOU
TAKE CARE OF IT AND HE GETS A FULL NIGHT REST.  GREAT FUCKING DEAL.

I ASKED YOU TO LEAVE THE CONE ON THE DOG’S NECK BUT YOU DON’T.  THE
STITCHES WHERE HIS BALLS USED TO BE COULD EASILY COME OUT AND IF THEY
DO, YOU WILL TAKE HIM TO THE VET.  DOG IN THE CAGE, IN THE BASEMENT
WITH NO CONE.  EVERYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

THE FUCKING DOG IS TRYING TO SLEEP WITH ME ON THE COUCH WITH A PLASTIC
CONE AROUND IT’S HEAD.  NOT POSSIBLE TO DO.

YOUR FRIEND THE PAINTER JUST SHOWED UP LATE TO PAINT AGAIN AND IS
TALKING ABOUT THE SIZE OF HIS SON-IN-LAW’S COCK. WTF?! RIGHT IN FRONT
OF THE GIRLS.  WHERE DO YOU FIND FRIENDS LIKE THIS?

I COULD ASK WHY THAT WOULD EVEN COME UP BUT NEVERMIND. I NEVER ASKED
YOU TO HIRE HIM.  WE COACHED AND PLAYED HOCKEY TOGETHER BUT I NEVER
HIRE HIM FOR ANYTHING.  HE IS A SLOB.

YOU’RE OUT PLAYING HOCKEY AND I’M BABYSITTING YOUR TALKATIVE PAINTER
FRIEND.  HOPE YOU’RE HAVING FUN.

I’M SITTING NAKED IN THE FUCKING LOCKER ROOM TEXTING YOU INSTEAD OF
WARMING UP.  GUYS ASKED ME IF I’M WRITING A BOOK.  I TOLD THEM NO
BECAUSE I CAN’T GET ONE PUBLISHED.  THEY LAUGHED.  I’M NOT LAUGHING.
THANKS FOR A GREAT SEND OFF.

FUCK YOU FOR MAKING THE DOG HOWL, WAKING UP THE GIRLS WITH YOUR
BLACKBERRY PHONE THAT NOBODY USES ANYMORE, FOR NOT GETTING GLASSES AND
NOT SEEING DOG SHIT IN THE CARPET FROM THE PUPPY THAT WAS UNCRATED
BEFORE YOU LOCKED HIM IN THE BASEMENT, NO CONE, LICKING HIS MISSING
BALLS.  FUCK YOU FOR SINGLING OUT MY CHILD AT HOCKEY LAST NIGHT AND
MAKING SURE HE WAS ON A SHITTY SIDE THAT COULD NOT SCORE…  DID I LEAVE
ANYTHING OUT?

NOPE.  THAT’S GREAT.  GOING ON THE ICE NOW SO I DON’T STROKE OUT AND
DIE FROM FRUSTRATION AND ANGER.

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October 7, 2017

The stay at Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

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