Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 4, 2016

240 and Counting

Independence- 240 years and the descendants celebrate with wings, malt liquor and parades.  Bill of Rights and the rights of the dead, a bullet piercing the side of the head somewhere on the west side, south side, Chicago’s apartheid red line zone where the tourists never go.  But I digress- this is a process of processed food, entertainment and education.  Back when we were all English and white, on paper the ideas seemed right- Liberty and justice for all… or maybe some or none.  Manifest destiny, all for you and me from sea to shining sea.  You’re free above this line and slave below this one.  A war between brothers and in the end freedom with an asterisk- there was a fix.  You give us the presidency and we’ll look the other way for nearly a 100 years til someone refuses to give up a seat, sit where they want when they choose to eat, vote, protest and integrate, separate but equal became the Civil War sequel.  Well I’ve jumped ahead again.  The Kaiser, Sarajevo, trench warfare, mustard gas the rise of the working class.  Comrades in a sea of red, the Czar was dead.  The treaty left them angry and needy after reparations of Versailles a charismatic character, a director, a rector sold the scape goat- many die and why?  A bomb to stop a war and within a few years a little more and a truce that lasts til this day.

Unbridled growth and prosperity, suburbs and the interstate, sock hops and roller skates.  We liked Ike and then came JFK, Bay of Pigs, assassins and then LBJ and the KKK.  Just advisors to advise those who love and cherish democracy, imperial imposition of freedom for Vietnam.  Baby killers, draft dodgers, free love, and women’s lib.  Drugs and Nixon, the fix was in.  Watergate, oil crisis, a cancer on the presidency, end the war with dignity.  Ford, Carter Reagan- morning again in America.  This aggression will not stand- draw a line in the sand, new world order, Perot, Clinton, stained dress, Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill congressional hearings on the hill.  W, 9-11, weapons of mass destruction, mission accomplished, quagmire, Afghanistan/Taliban=Vietnam, Obama, Osama, Arab spring, ISIS, crisis of confidence, we’ll build a wall for our defense, terrorists, xenophobia, first woman presidential candidate, with shadows of doubt…  Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot… Wait!  This just in…  Citizen Trump

July 21, 2014

Operation Crowbar or I Gotta Guy

At city hall in the city of Chicago, early on a Monday morning after reading about a dozen murders and over thirty shootings between Friday and Sunday, the mayor threw a fit.
“How is it that we have more fucking murders in this goddamn city than Baghdad or Kabul? I’m tired of press conferences where I hear that the murder rate is actually down but shootings are out of control. It’s a tribute to medicine that thirty people get shot and only a dozen die… THIS BULLSHIT HAS TO END NOW! I’M READY TO HEAR SOME IDEAS OUT OF YOU ALL INSTEAD OF DUMB FUCKING LOOKS… ANYONE?”
The common reply among men in Chicago when someone needs something fixed; I gotta guy. One of the mayor’s guys had a guy.
Now the mayor of Chicago knew about apartheid South Africa about as much as most Americans. It was a terrible thing that a white minority instituted separation of races. A guy named Mandela went from being a Communist perpetrator and an enemy of the state to president and so on and so forth. One of the mayor’s aides knew a guy, who knew a guy who knew the guy necessary to straighten things out in a way that could be understood in the hood. When a large smiling man with a sizable space between his two upper front teeth arrived at a meeting at city hall, it was clear he had the strongest personality in the room. With a strong Afrikaner accent, Jan used an analogy to explain the task ahead of him.
“Thees prrroblem you arrrre having ees nothing. Whaat you arrrre asking of me ees like asking a chef to make you a hard-boiled egg… Now you have to ask yourselves eef the peace you will get ees worth the price you are going to pay. Peace costs money, my friends.”
The large man was once responsible for keeping order in South African townships where angry black people were unhappy about the oppressive laws forced upon them. Jan also overthrew dictators in Africa and lead South African troops to a war in Angola. Dissuading random gangbangers from randomly murdering innocents and others deemed deserving did not seem like a difficult task to Jan. A huge price tag would be accompanied by a huge presence not seen since the riots after Martin Luther King Jr.
Jan stopped talking for a moment. He took out a marker and began writing on a blank sheet of paper. The squeak of the marker was the only sound in the room. Jan stood up and walked over to the mayor’s desk and ripped off a piece of tape and taped the paper to the wall. One word was written on it that nobody understood since it was a Dutch/Afrikaans word.

KOEVOET

“You all know the word Apartheid… Learn thees Dutch word, my new frrrriends… Like a fucking hard boiled egg.”

Nothing was announced and nothing was said beyond the walls of city hall. The following Monday, it was front page news that nobody died or was shot within the city limits of Chicago other than one domestic dispute gone wrong. The papers tried to analyze why. The mayor came out with the chief of police to announce that the authorities were turning the corner and getting a handle of the situation and other canned catch phrases used by politicians and athletes alike. So what really happened?
Dozens of enormous trucks with steering wheels on the right side of the vehicles pulled up in every neighborhood with high incidents of murder. These trucks were like Hummers on steroids. They were like angry Land Rover limousines capable of withstanding landmines. For those who liked jacked up vehicles with large rims, these high riding trucks were an item to inspire true awe. Close to thirty former South African Police trucks called Casspirs rolled into rough streets where tourists never tarry. People who stood on corners and front porches began to notice soldiers of fortune filing out of the Casspirs with automatic weapons and scopes. These weren’t fat, old, white men in cop cars. These were white and black men equally in full soldier uniform that were soldiers of fortune from South Africa. Chicago residents in the shit neighborhoods who followed the law and rules and never sold a drug or carried a weapon, smiled and waved at the stoic soldiers that walked around with their fingers on triggers. Something serious and different was afoot. At the press conference with the mayor and chief of police, the mayor responded to the questioned that was posed repeatedly; what did you do to stop the violence?
“We used a crowbar… Sometimes you need to pry back to get at things… Next question… Nobody was murdered this weekend in the city of Chicago. Let’s talk about other things that need fixing… Let’s talk about the Cubs.”

September 7, 2011

The Road From Iraq to Detroit

Bill had finished two years in Iraq before being shipped out for four more in Afghanistan.  After six years of driving around in a light armored vehicle, he was fortunate to be alive and whole.  Bill had served one more year than his grandfather had in World War II and nearly five more than his father had inVietnam.  At the age of twenty five, Bill was hoping to become a police officer somewhere in the state of Michigan.  On Labor Day, Bertram volunteered to drive the school bus route that had been his since 1973, one more time to ensure Bill would be ready to go come Tuesday.

            Bertram had a late model Cadillac STS that he had saved up to buy for a number of years when his 1990 Pontiac had too many problems to throw money at.  Bertram sadly knew that the new Cadillac was probably going to be the last car he would ever purchase in his life.  At the age of sixty six, it just didn’t make too much sense to make a lot of long term plans like a thirty year mortgage on a house.  To buy a car out right in cash made more sense than to make payments into his seventies.

 On a bright, sunny and cool Labor Day Monday, Bertram met Bill at aConey Island off of Grand River in Detroit.  Bertram was finishing some eggs while reading about the Detroit Tigers huge win over the Chicago White Sox the night before.  Bertram, a tall and thin black man, clean shaven, wore a thin black tie on top of a long sleeved with shirt and dark tan slacks with shiny black shoes.  On the table next to the coffee and paper was a black pork pie hat. 

            Bill, a muscular young white man with four day old stubble on his head and face, walked in with a faded black sleeveless Detroit Red Wings T shirt from his high school days that proudly displayed a tattoo of a gothic D on his right shoulder.  He had a stud earring in his left ear, a furrowed brow and torn blue jeans as we walked into theConey Islandto meet Bertram.  Bill plopped himself down across from Bill as the waitress poured a cup of coffee for Bill.  Bill was tired and a bit hung over from being at the Tiger’s game the night before.  After the game, Bill and his friends hung out in the patio area of The Elwood, a bar down the street from Comerica Park.

 Bill thought it was a bit overkill to go through the bus route one more time but didn’t want to insult an old guy that gave a low level job, more respect than it deserved.  As they walked out to the parking lot, there was a huge boat of a car with the top down.  It was a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado painted light blue.

            “You evah driven one these old cars, young man?”

            “Can’t say I have…”

            Bertram tossed the keys across the car to Bill and got in on the passenger side of his own car.  The white seats were like new and the dashboard did not have a speck of dust.  Bill turned the car on.  Immediately the 8 track player began to play Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers.  Bill still thought that the trip was pointless but looked forward to cruising around with the top down in a beautiful old car.  Bertram did most the talking.

            “So you gonna pick up the bus off Seven Mile…  My advice is to get there early so you ain’t lined up to get out there by the last minute.  You got you some fellas there with a chip on they shoulder, they gone try to cut and squeeze you outta place.  You gone want to bust them in the jaw.  My feeling is why go through that hassle the first day.  Get up early and take yo time and avoid all that mess…”

            Bertram spoke slow and in a deep rich voice.  Bill felt like he was driving in a time warp as he looked over at Bertram who was wearing a Pork Pie Hat and squared off Ray-Ban sunglasses.  Bill followed where Bertram directed him to go.

            “Make a right here onGrand River…  This is where you gone begin.  Now you gone find and make yer own way and I ain’t about to start telling you how you gone get things done.  That would be wrong of me.  I am gone to tell you how Bertram done things and you listen and decide whatchu want to do…  I started this here bus route afta losing my job at the Fisher Body 21 plant.  That’s that skeleton looking building you see off of 75 when you trying to git ovah to the 94.  I lost that job onna count I couldn’t keep mah self from drinking afta work.  You see…  I waddn’t married and I was young and had a few bones and so I would go out and have one and then one lead to anothah one and then a few moh and then before you knew what was going on, the sun be coming up.  So afta I missed work a few dozen times, they decided to drop me and they wasn’t nothing I could do even though I was in the union.  They only so much the union can do to help you when you off drunk every othah day…  Okay, here is where you gone make the first stop.  Lemme jus say this; the kids gone test you and the mo you try to act as bad as them, they gone try to git to you mo.  When I first started, there was a young guy with a large Afro and a pick stuck all up in his hair.  He came on the bus with a box blarin music loud.  I toll him to turn off the music and he toll me to do something to m’self.  My first thought was that not more than a year earlier, I was trying hard to stay alive in Nam and here some young punk who ain’t even got his feet wet yet in life gone step up to me?  I took his box and threw it out the bus and him with it.  The othah kids wasn’t scared.  They didn’t respect me no mo foh dat.  I didn’t git fired but I had to go and buy the punk a new box and aftah he looked like he did nothing wrong.  I ain’t gone throw religion in yo face cause we all got to find our way.  I started getting my life right and all the othah things in life fell in.  I began to think how I was gone to git the kids on my side and still git them to be respectful.  They gone swear and let they pants hang off they ass.  They gone git worked up ovah a pretty girl and act a fool.  How to let em know to act like young men and ladies and have respect foh each othah and they selves?  It wasn’t easy but I managed it, young man.”

            Bill had applied and accepted the job of being a school bus driver in inner city Detroit where most students were poor and all were black.  Bill looked to be a formidable looking young white guy with anger issues.  As they drove slowly downGrand River, the boarded up buildings and weeds growing in cracks in the side walk reminded him of driving in parts of Baghdad and Afghanistan.  Bill believed there were predators hiding behind windows of abandon buildings, ready to kill him and Bertram for the classic car not unlike what he had lived through in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Bill’s head was on a swivel.  He surveyed things from left to right and constantly used his peripheral vision as he drove an even thirty miles and hour.  Bertram wasn’t as cautious.

            “Yeah, I get what you’re saying.  The obvious difference between you and I is the color of our skin.  Them kids are gonna see me tomorrow and automatically are gonna hate me for what they think I am,” said Bill.

            “And you already decided that they gone look at you a certain way.  Imma tell you right now…  Some dem girls gone be workin you like a stick shift.  You a good lookin young man with a good smile and strong build.  Them girls look like women an probably they lookin as good as they evah gone look in they lives but you got to remember that they children trapped in an adult body.  Anyway…  All yo preconceived ideas and thoughts about young, poor black children gone ooze from yo eyes when they step on dat bus.  They already gone think that you some rich kid from Southfield or Royal Oak.  They ain’t gone think you jus some regular working class kid who jus live above 8 Mile all up in Warren.  They ain’t gone know you served.  They gone to think all the things they learned bout white people they whole lives.  How you gone to show dem they wrong?  I tell you what…  If enough white people and black people would put aside what they think and what they learned, we could bring this city back to what it was.  Black people blame whites and whites blame blacks.  How bout people who are black and white get together and say we Detroiters and we gone bring back this town.  I need you and you need me to do it.  I look at Nelson Mandela and the whole dang country of South Africa.  Them black people went from being nothing to running the country and they did not go aftah white people to punish them foh the past.  Why?  Cause a smart man like Mandela understood dat you need the whites to keep the country going. Detroitneed the whites to be in Detroit and if dat evah happens, things gone change.  Prejudice keep things where they at.  You ain’t gotta go to Mississippi, boy.  You got more racism in this state and city than you gone find in the south.  You and I both know cause we served in active combat that when you think might die, it don’t matter much the color of the skin of the dude next to you.  Somebody you know jus die and you not sure if you the next to git picked off and you lookin at the dude next to you and he from Hicksville, Alabama where they hated people from the north and they didn’t much like niggahs but he crying and just wants to be held like a baby and be told dat he gone make it, dat he ain’t gone die but if he does, he want you there wid him so that he don’t die alone…  Make a right up here.”

            Bill thought back to a day in Baghdad when a young boy had tripped a mine on the side of the road.  Bill had gotten out of his tank and tried to comfort a young boy that was missing a leg.  The boy, who was not more than ten years of age, died from a loss of blood.  Bill held the boy until fellow soldiers pried the boy away from him.  Despite all the gore and death Bill had witnessed, seeing a young boy die in a matter of minutes, hit Bill the hardest and had the greatest impact on him.  Tears began to stream down Bill’s cheeks.  Bertram asked no questions.  He just put his hand on Bill’s shoulder and rubbed it.

            “If I can give you one mo piece of advice, young man, I would like you to know dat you got you a finite number of days and yes when you young like you is, you can throw way years and still come out okay.  But them years gone roll like a Sherman Tank and take down evrah thang in it way.  Thirty, forty, fifty and then you git to sixty or mo like me and you wonder whatchu did with your life.  You ask yo-self if you lived or you jus existed?  What is the purpose of all this really?  I could have kept working foh a few more years but then it hit me in the spring when I had mah sixty sixth birthday; I ain’t gone be round much longer.  My wife dead, my son dead, two mah brothers dead and mah parents dead so long ago I sometimes think I jus made them up in mah mind.  If it weren’t foh pictures, Idda believe they was nevah here.  So I got to thinking bout what might make me happy and I decided that I will take this here car all the way toLos Angeles.  Imma go to California aftah living mah whole life in Dee-troit.  If you don’t count the two years I lived inVietnam, I ain’t nevah been nowhere else.  I got me an apartment picked out on computer where I can see the sun set ovah the Pacific Ocean.  Imma stay there all winter.  And so I tell you, young man, find now what gone make you happy.  Don’t keep saying someday cause that someday gone end up at the end of a road that you cain’t turn round on…  Speak of which, this here yo last stop.  Aftah here, you take dem right to school or you finished foh the day…  You gone be fine.”

            Bill drove back to the Coney Island and shook hands with an old man who had done more for him in an hour than most people had done for him in years.  After shaking hands with Bertram, Bill leaned forward and hugged Bertram.  Bill quietly spoke near Bertram’s ear before ending the embrace.

            “Not many people can begin to understand where I came from and where I’m going.  What I went through and where I could wind up…  I hope the west coast is exactly what you want and need.  Thank you for your time, sir.”

            At the second stop of the first day, a young black man with sleep still in his eyes stepped onto the bus with a straight brim Detroit Tigers hat and a white Tiger’s Jersey.  In the rear view mirror, Bill could see that the name on the back of the jersey was Verlander.  The young man sleepily stared out of the window while checking for messages on his cell phone that weren’t there.  His eyes met Bill’s several times in the mirror.  They both looked away.  Finally Bill engaged the young man in conversation.

           “Everyone thinks it’s going to be Boston, The Yankees or Phily.  We got Verlander, Valverde, Cabrera and Jackson.  Verlander might win the Cy Young but it takes a whole team and the Tigers are tough as hell this year,” said Bill.

            “If I could pitch like Verlander, I’d quit school today,” said the young man.

            “Most of us will never be a Verlander.  If we all just try to be as good as we can be everything will be alright.”  Said Bill.

            The young man nodded as he thought about what Bill said.

            “True dat…”

October 19, 2009

Look Away, Part 2

Filed under: Apartheid,Ethnicity,Mixed Race,On Sale Now — blackhumouristpress @ 12:29 am

No doubt you are reading part 2 of this post first. I forgot to include the very fine cover art. I hope it compels you to take a look inside my new book.
Dixie Cover
Make the intellectual investment.

August 27, 2009

Truth and Reconciliation

In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.

The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.

The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.

Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.

On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.

“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.

“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”

Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.

A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.

“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”

The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.

“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.

“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.

“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.

“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”

“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the other claims?”

“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”

“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”

“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”

“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”

“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”

“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”

“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”

People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.

“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”

“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”

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