Blackhumouristpress's Blog

May 14, 2019

A Letter to Unwanted House Guests

I would be remiss if I let you walk away and not say something to you. When I was sixteen years old, I ran away from home and went to live with poor people on public aid that were willing to take me in. To show my gratitude, I helped clean the house and do chores like all the other natural children of the house. Even at that age, I thought it was exceptional that people with very little, were willing to include me in their lives. With that said, when your daughter came to me to ask for a $500.00 advance to help pay for the rent at a motel flop house after you were evicted from your apartment, I did for you what someone once did for me. I let you move into my home.

 

Being your daughter’s boss in a small restaurant and bar, I blurred personal and professional. I spoke with her often about social issues based on the news of the day. I was asked more than once if I felt any guilt for slavery or white privilege. It was a bit sassy for a young woman of 19 years of age to so brazenly tell me that white people are the devil but especially white men. I should have never gotten involved in hindsight. For my generosity, I never received even so much as a thank you from you or your daughter. Your daughter telling me that her last day working for me will be tied to her last day living in the apartment above my restaurant- my home. I had no choice upon hearing that except to tell her and you to get out of my place immediately.

 

You both are devoid of empathy but picture this- I did hospice at my parent’s home for my mom for a month. She died on a Monday and on a Thursday, my girlfriend came in unexpectedly and went through my place like the Gestapo and found that Anne Frank and her mother had been hiding in a bedroom together, looking at their phones eating Popeye’s Chicken in bed. I never got a kind word from either of you for sharing my place with you. Now as your daughter may have told you, I am not the most liberal minded person in the world but I did something so blindly liberal that you may have mistook at face value human to human generosity with some sort of white guilt. I have none of that shit. Possibly you never got around to thanking me because you felt you were owed this in some sort of way. Maybe that’s racist of me to come to that conclusion. Maybe you’re just ignorant and ungrateful people who are incapable of understanding that someone did you a big time favor by taking you in. After all, everything today is racist, misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic and if you are white, you have to be willing to go through some sort of truth and reconciliation purging session to cleanse one’s self of privilege. I can tell you that if your daughter thinks she can be surly and judgmental with people that help her, she will get a go fuck yourself response from most people. White or otherwise. My fuck you moment came when I texted both of you to know when she was coming to work on a really busy night. The response- I will be late. The question- how late? The answer- we’re not close. The reply-I didn’t ask you where, I asked you when. Her reply- don’t be rude. Don’t be rude. Don’t be rude is what the 19 year old girl who has been cloistered up in my apartment for free with her mother and says to me when she will be 90 minutes late for work because she was witnessing a friend take prom pictures. That was the limit for me. This was after the death of my mother and the discovery by my girlfriend that you had been shacked up in my apartment. I lost my mom, my girlfriend and then was told by my star employee that when she finds a place to live, she’s quitting.

 

In conclusion, I do not want you to think that this is a racial thing. I was married to a black woman and have a child who is about as black as our ex-president. It might be that black button that every white person presses when pressed about whether they are racially cool. I have a black friend. I married a black woman and so on. I have to sort out in my head if the things that transpired were things that could have happened by any obliviously ungrateful people regardless of the color of their skin or if this goes hand in glove of many with the stereotypes that exist out there. Maybe I will never know. I do know that your daughter is destined to be living with her daughter one day off of the generosity of some fool if she does not wake up and find more ambition than watching mindless shit on her phone all day and learns to work hard. Youth is transitory. I don’t think I need to tell you that.

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March 13, 2019

The New and Improved Mayor

Guido Guiliana was known around his village just west of Chicago as “hizzoner”. Guido had been mayor for over twenty years and for years; he had a lock on things. The village pushed through a video gambling initiative and it just so happened that Guido’s friend Mel or Melsie happened to be a middleman for the leasing and operating of the gambling machines.

Twenty years earlier, the town was very blue collar and sort of old world white. There were union electricians, plumbers, police officers, firemen, builders and so on. Now it was becoming a place that millennials chose to move into to get away from city taxes. The Hispanics and blacks too were creeping in and low and behold, the upstart councilman who questioned the mayor’s collusion and steering on building contracts just happened to be black and an opposition mayoral candidate. This election was no longer a sure thing.

Now Guido was quite worried about losing that side money when a street needed paving or someone needed work done to their house and permits and shoddy work was passed while his shell company made money. The biggest cash cow was the video gambling.

Picture old women with oxygen tanks taking breaks from their addiction to smoke out in front of establishments with neon signs that read “gaming”. Yes, smoking with oxygen being piped into their noses. There were many patrons that fit that profile that were putting money into Guido’s pockets. Guido was making a penny on every dollar that was put into a gambling machine in town. It afforded Guido the money to buy cars and homes he didn’t need and to have side women.

Guido met a beautiful young thing at a nail salon run by a black woman whose clientele was primarily black. The mayor would go in to get his nails polished and glossed. For years, the woman who did his nails was a large and unattractive black woman, who smelled slightly of skunk, had wisps of facial hair and weazed when she exhaled. The new girl was truly smoking hot.

Felicity was young and had a young fit body. She was pretty and laughed at everything the mayor said. Felicity eventually went with Guido to fancy restaurants and clubs where other Italian mayors hung out and drank tropical drinks in a dimly lit lounge that was supposed to be Polynesian but was really Filipino. As time went on, Guido took trips all over the country with Felicity and put her up in an apartment that he could spend the night at periodically. Felicity began too look at the situation and wanted the full benefit of spreading her legs for the mayor. She wanted the house, the cars, the title and so on. What Felicity didn’t know was that the mayor was helped in many ways by his wife’s father who was a mob guy and so he could not dump his wife for a black chick, a young black chick, without drama or death. Felicity allowed herself to get pregnant and have a beautiful baby boy that was sort of a caramel color. Felicity also was smart and thought ahead at all times.

Mrs. Guido Giuliani or Luciana or Lulu as most called her, had a clothes boutique with a café attached that Guido had set up for her so that she would have a little something. She hired a pretty young black woman by the name of Sue. Lulu would come home and talk about Sue and how helpful she was and what a good and tireless worker she had. Guido was not putting two and two together as they say. One day he got the surprise of his life.

“Honey, the girl who works for me is going to stay with us for a little while. She had been living in one of those horrible places you rent by the hour with a small child. I thought we could give her the sub-basement where my mother lived…”

Sue… I mean Felicity walked in the house and extended her hand for the mayor to shake it while holding the toddler in her left arm. The baby pointed at Guido and said “dada”. Guido could feel his heart beat in his eyes and began to sweat. Sue corrected her young son.

“That’s not dada… He looks a little like dada but you know what they say… Y’all look a lot alike.”

The situation was tortuous for Guido. There he was trying to win a close election and keep his companies alive that serviced the village exclusively and now his side bitch had maneuvered her way into the house. There was very little Guido could say or do and Sue was masterful at playing the game. Sunday dinners were special times.

“I’ve always wanted to see the world… You know place like Miami, New Orleans and Hoboken.”

Guido had been at a mayoral convention in Hoboken. Felicity knew this because she was there. It was a game where Guido had to hide Anne Frank but the only problem was that Anne Frank was right out in the open, with a child and another name. Guido upon talking to his drinking buddies and other Italian small village mayors, decided to just roll with it. Frankie, the mayor of one town over, put into terms that made sense to Guido.

“Guido… You fucked up. No other way to put it… Waddya goanna do? Apologize and cry like a little bitch? You wanna stand at a press conference crying, your wife crying, your adult children crying and have the black chick standing with the press holding your baby like it was the fucking Maury Povich Show? Fuck it… She ain’t busted you out yet… Just go wid it. It’s a new era. Anything fucking goes… Just go wid it.”

If you ever go to Chicago and go a few miles west, you’ll find a really racially cool mayor in a village that used to be old school but is becoming cool, hip and cutting edge.   If you see the mayor, say hello. He’s really a good guy and one day, you might need him and he might need you. You never know…

January 23, 2019

Comedy Today- A Faux Pas

Cynthia told the Oak Park Women’s group that she had a cousin who was very good at stand up comedy and performed a lot in Detroit. The women rented out a restaurant bar along Lake Street in a town that proudly claims Ernest Hemingway and the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Two famous men who couldn’t wait to leave Oak Park. The women’s group agonized over the fact that comedy today is very touchy. If things are not directed at the president exclusively, they could be taken as racist, homophobic, xenophobic and so on. Those in attendance were mostly women and a few husbands and or girlfriends of women. The first two comedians ripped on the president, his wife, his youngest son, his daughter who became orthodox Jewish, Mike Pence, Make America Great Again, followers of Trump. Wade, the cousin of Cynthia, made quite a splash.

 

Wade came on stage with a joint in his mouth unlit, wearing a “Make Men Violent Again” t-shirt. He glared at the audience with squinty eyes as if he was looking for someone he knew.

“Aleuts? Aleuts? Anyone what we used to call Eskimos here in attendance? Now don’t try to fake me out if you’re from Samoa… You’re a little darker than your cousins who crossed the land bridge 10,000 before the Protestants and Columbus came and renamed you people… No Aleuts? Okay… Then the rest of you are fair game.”

Wade lit the joint, inhaled and expelled it into the face of chubby looking lesbian with a Dutch boy hair cut with a plethora of political buttons on her Army coat. The woman snapped at Wade.

“No smoking? In Detroit we can still get a drink and smoke in casinos…  I don’t see any video gaming her… Well fuck it… By the way… This is medicinal. Me and my kid are both ADD and when I’m not on Ritalin, I smoke a joint to calm my nerves to keep me from getting my shotgun and taking out those that annoy me…”

-Groaning and whispering-

“Hey… I must have total silence. This is not a democracy it is a constitutional republic and until I can rewrite the constitution I must have silence!”

Wade took a sip of his Scotch on the rocks and took a horse crop and slammed in on the chair next to him as he did his best German accent and hid his upper lip.

“Sank-you… What a diverse group we have here tonight…

Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who like girls like they’re boys… That song reminds me of Rumsfeld at press conferences. Wouldn’t you like to put him in a room with Trump and hear what’s being said? Maybe get Rod Rosenstein to wear a wire and play that shit in real time on CNN…

 

-Groaning and more murmuring

 

“Okay fine… You like Trump jokes… So Trump goes golfing with Mitt Romney and John Mc Cain but Mc Cain has to hire a midget to swing for him because he has that weird one armed shit like Bob Dole had… Mc Cain wouldn’t let the midget putt but otherwise that little fucker had to carry the clubs like a Sherpa and try to beat Trump for him. Well in the end, guess who won? You got it… Trump. The house always wins. But while they’re walking around losing to Trump, Trump asks them how they could possibly lose to Obama. He then tells them that they’re losers and he will show them how to go out and run for president and win… How did he do that shit? I mean all you fucking people hate him, right? How did he win? Russians? Well now Mitt becomes senator in a Mormon state, smiling and looking as real as Max Headroom meets The Mask. His first order of business is to align himself with the people that defeated him… Now that’s a Republican for you…. How bout a hand for those two dolls that went before me tonight. The plump one was hot in a Buddy Hackett sort of way…” Wade pointed to a woman in front of him. “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick, ma’am…”

 

Women and a few men begin to heckle him. Wade smiles, takes a sip of his drink and holds it up to the crowd.

 

“You won’t rattle me. I went to the same school as G.G. Allin. Don’t know him? Take a second and Google him. Now then I wrote a poem in honor of this occasion and it goes like this…

 

These are very troubled times

I’ll stir the pot with my rhymes

Build a wall to keep us in

Nobody likes you where you’ve been

The world hates you for being American

The red white and blue is a sin

You need to sit when you piss

In a bathroom for every gender

We’ll suck the testosterone from your balls

Make you wear a dress in the halls

You racist, misogynistic cunt

You probably like it in the rump

I’m losing you all again… Okay…Donald Trump!

 

You’ve been a great audience. God bless you. God bless America and good night.

January 17, 2019

Absurd

Filed under: america,Ethnicity,fast food,humor,humour,obesity,pope,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:40 pm
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Sitting in a fast food palace, wall to wall plastic

Maury giving a bro hug to a man on the tube that is the father of his daughter’s child… Wild? No. In a word-absurd.

 

A man with a blue tooth devise attached to his ear goes table to table selling Krispy Kreme donuts on the side, on the slide, trading a burger for a box of donuts. Nuts? No. In a word-absurd.

 

The people behind the counter move slow… You know the type- Type 2 diabetes, cherub faced sweeties with no neck, nails like claws, sagging draws and lashes long enough to tickle your face. Bad taste? No. In a word- Absurd

 

The heroin addict with the sad look and a sign by the freeway is doing just fine. He pulls out a fat wad of cash, eyes bloodshot from smoking some hash to clear his mind and face the day. A # 2 with a large Coke… Is this all some sort of joke? No. In a word-Absurd.

June 25, 2018

The Gap Between Us

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Bob, like many Americans, came into a little money after Uncle Sam took his chunk.  Bob bought stock in things that ate up other things and got bigger and before long, he reasoned that his little 1950s starter home with low ceilings and a leaky basement, separated by neighbors on each side by about ten feet, was just too confining, too ordinary, too small.  One day Bob got off of the highway into inner city Detroit and looked at blocks and blocks of land that were gone.  What remained were streets, some sidewalks and foundations to where houses once stood.  Bob began to do some investigating and found that the land could be purchased for very little and so Bob bought up a whole once side of a street.  There were fifteen foundations total.  Over the course of a year or so, he built a tremendous house that would have fit in during the Victorian era.  A foyer with a 20 foot ceiling that looked up to a spiral staircase.  There were ten bedrooms, an indoor pool, several covered porches and gardens of flowers and produce for his wife who loved to garden.

“Susan… We are selling this place and moving to Detroit,” said Bob, off the cuff while reading the newspaper.

Susan pulled the newspaper down so she could see Bob’s face and asked him to repeat what he said.  It sounded to her like he said that he was selling the house and that they would be moving to Detroit.  Bob confirmed what he said.  Later that day, Susan cried all the way to Detroit from the northern suburban abode.  As they passed lot after lot, street after street of missing or abandoned homes, out of nowhere like a palace in the desert or the Motor City Casino which has a fabulous Las Vegas light show at night if you happen to be standing in any vacant lot within an eye shot in Detroit.  Susan sat up and took note of the beautiful home, a deluxe Victorian style home with a front porch and newly sodded lawn, a fountain out in front and gardens the length of a block.  Susan laughed and cried.  Bob held up a set of keys for her to take.  Everything was great.  Just great.

Now in these strange political times, Bob found himself on the other side of the invisible wall that had not been built yet by our president.  Susan found the president to be uncouth, brazen, foul, racist, xenophobic, sexist and emblematic of everything that a male could be that must be changed in our offspring.  Bob on the other hand, found that our current president was a breath of fresh air.  He liked the patriotism, he liked the America first attitude, he liked the there-has-to-be-rules credo that had taken hold.  Susan would watch MSNBC in one end of their large home and Bob would watch FOX.  Their politics began to cause a schism in their marriage and it got so bad that Bob and Susan could not talk to each other very much or very long without fighting.  They would look at each other and think-how could you be so naive, so stupid, such a goddamn door mat or how could you be such a racist, sexist, pig with no heart.

One day, Bob came home to find a family in his living room, eating ham, potatoes and pie at a coffee table while watching television.  They looked up at Bob but said nothing.  Susan came in with a silver platter full of more food.  The house guests seemed indifferent to the free food and not the least bit grateful.  Bob commented angrily.

“Susan!  Who are these people and why are waiting on them hand and foot, delivering them free food on a silver platter?”

Susan ignored her husband and passed out juice and more ham and desserts, one of the men asked for a beer.  Susan jogged to the kitchen.  As Susan began to open the door, Bob slammed it shut.  This angered Susan.

“We are rich and privileged people who have more than we deserve or need and these people just want a better life for themselves.  It is so wrong to share with others?  To let the have-nots have a little something?”

“Wait a minute!  I own this place.  I have legal title to live in this place with you and nobody else.  I pay for this food, I pay the taxes here, I made this place what it is and you just want to let anyone in here!?”

“You are heartless, selfish and a goddamn Nazi…”

“A Nazi!  What the fuck?!”

“Yes… A Nazi.  Rachel Maddow said that any of you people who blindly follow that man who is not my president, are nothing more than brown shirted thugs that are willing to do anything to support him.”

“Get these people out of my fucking house before I have them thrown out by the cops.”

“Oh yeah, that’s great.  Have the people who stomp on their rights come in and kick them out… Such a humanitarian.  Well I have news for you.  I am married to you… For now… And I will let in whomever I want, when I want.”

Susan came back with a beer and there were suddenly more people in the living room who were related to the people that were initially allowed in.  Susan needed to get more food.  Bob called the police.

Now when the police came, they listened to Susan and then Bob and they had to break the news to Bob that his wife had a right to guests as a home owner.  Bob asked the cops what if the people don’t want to leave.  What if they want to stay?  After all his home was much better and safer than where they came from.  The situation could not be easily resolved.  Bob was so angry about more and more people taking over his home and Susan felt it was humane to share what she had with those who had less.  Susan wanted to take care of them all and when Bob wasn’t around, she would tell them that they had a right to be there and that she would see to it that she share her “privilege” and ensure that they could never be sent away.  Bob would take their things and throw it out on the street and demand that they get the fuck out of his house but when he wasn’t looking or around, they came right back.  Bob wanted to build a wall with a moat and have alligators and big dogs to keep the people out and he told the undocumented residence such.  A bunch of them brazenly told him that they had as much of a right to live in the house as him and that a wall wouldn’t do shit to keep them out.  Things had reached a low point.  Bob hated Susan and Susan hated Bob.  Bob wanted to make his house great again and Susan wanted justice and equality for all.  Eventually this had to go in front of a judge.  The judge looked at both of them after hearing both of their sides and talked to them calmly.

“At some point, you will have to be reasonable people and come to a compromise…”

Bob asked the judge a question.

“And if we don’t come to a compromise?”

The judge responded.

“Well, you risk destroying what you have… And that would be ashamed.”

June 22, 2018

Detroit 67- The Love Story

Filed under: america,Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:25 am
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Felicia sat around the table of her parents Southfield home in suburban Detroit with her husband and two daughters. They had just finished celebrating Felicia’s 50th birthday and we’re sitting around the table talking about mundane, day-to-day things that families talk about when Sally the younger of Felicia’s two daughters, looked at her grandparents and asked how they happened. Sally looked at her smiling grandfather with faded freckles on his face, wearing his Detroit Tigers cap, sipping on lemonade with one hand and holding the hand of his wife beside him. The grandmother, a serene black woman with salt and pepper braids smiled at Sally as Sally looked back at her with the palms of her hands supporting her chin while her elbows rested on the table. Sally thought about the fact that she was 25% black and that her mom was 50% black and that her grandparents were both 100% white and 100% black. Sally had heard the story from her mom but wanted to hear the story from the people who lived it. Grandma Emma’s eyes lit up as she relived the days over 50 years ago.
“I opened the front door to my parents home to find this young man in a nice summer suit and a hat to match. It was late afternoon and just the day before there was a riot not too far away and my cousin was arrested with a whole bunch of people. My momma was down in Mississippi with my brothers and my daddy took off with a shotgun with my two uncles to stand guard over his small grocery store not far from 12th street to make sure it wouldn’t be looted once the riots broke out. The day before, I was at the Fox Theater to see a whole lot of local Motown groups when the show suddenly ended. My daddy waited until I was home and then took off for his store. He told me to stay inside the house and not answer the door. So what did I do? I answered the door…”
Elmer laughed, took a sip of his lemonade and began to give his account of that day.
“I grew up in a town called Fairbury in Nebraska…. I woke up one day and decided that my calling was to get people in this country to vote for Richard Nixon. I went to the state Republican office in Lincoln and they thought it would be a funny idea to send me to Detroit. I never was out of the state before. When I got to Detroit, it might as well have been Mars. In fact the man who sent me from the office in Lincoln, looked at me with his gray flattop haircut and horned rimmed glasses and said to me…. There are a ton of coloreds in Dee-troit that need to learn about the benefits of a Richard Nixon presidency. I got to Detroit and began to ask around where the coloreds lived. I think I musta looked like a Martian to them.”
Emma smiled and took over at a place she felt was right to cut in.
“So I look through the front window and see this young man with literature in his hands. I’m thinking he was one of them Jehovah Witness boys from Australia. I was really hoping it was. I liked their accents so much. I was seventeen at the time but I looked older. I believe your granddaddy was almost 21. He asked if the man of the house was there and then he asked if I was the lady of the house. Since my momma was down in Mississippi, I felt I was the lady of the house. I said I was and then invited him in. He took off his hat and began talking about Richard Nixon. I poured him a Coke on ice… It was so hot outside. He stopped to tell me how hot it was in Nebraska this time of year. Then he paused and told me that I was the first colored person he had ever spoken to in person before. I told him that he was the first and only white boy to ever come and knock on our door… A whole buncha firsts at one time. Now keep in mind my daddy was not going to leave his store until order in the streets could be restored. I asked your grandfather if he knew about the riots going on. The farm boy was oblivious to the unrest.”
Elmer shook his head and looked up at the ceiling as his wife spoke. Emma laughed and Elmer cut back in.
“Your grandmother told me she was 22 and that her fiancé picked up and left her and went to New York. She was 17 and there was no fiancé in New York. It made for a riveting story. She made me something to eat and asked if I would like a gin martini with my supper. I said that I would not have one unless she had one with me. I don’t ever think she had a drink before. So we had a few martinis with dinner and then the phone rang… It was your grandmother’s father checking to make sure she was home and okay. He told her that he would not be coming home until he was sure that his shop was going to be intact. I could hear this from where I was sitting. I offered to stay with your grandmother and protect her as long she was alone. She smiled and said she would like that. We finished eating and then your grandmother put so music on the Hi-Fi. It was mostly Motown dance music but then she put on a Smokey Robinson song called More Love. She came up and took my left hand and put her’s in it and then wrapped my right arm around her waist, put her head on my shoulder and told me to listen to the words. The lights were dimmed and it was close to 9:30pm in the Eastern Time Zone. In Nebraska it would have been dark outside but the sun was just setting. There we were…. Drinking your great- granddaddy’s liquor, eating his food, slow dancing in his living room at dusk with the sound of machine guns and tanks in the back ground and your grandmother asked me to listen to the words.”
Emma began to Sing the words to the song for everyone to hear.
“This is no fiction, this is no fact. I’ll always belong only to you each day. I’ll be living to make sure I’m giving you more love and more joy than age or time could ever destroy.”
Sally nudged her mother and sister Jeanette. The story was surreal. A white man and a young black woman fell in love in Detroit during the week that riots raged on the streets. Him a young Republican from nowhere Nebraska and her a teenaged black girl alone for three days playing house. This was the Prince Charming from every story she ever read. He was the knight on dark nights when unrest had reached it’s boiling point. They fell in love within a week while being alone. Emma’s father returned several days later with a shotgun in hand and found the young white man in his living room watching a ballgame on television. He stood dumbfounded at the site of a young white man sitting in his chair in his house. Elmer rose, extended his hand and told him what his purpose was in being there- discussing Richard Nixon with colored people.

“My daddy told your granddaddy to leave before he shot him. I was sure I was never going to see your granddaddy again. There is a special kind of crazy that happens when you are so in love that you can’t think about anything else except for that person. I was love sick and mopey for days and then about a week later, the most unexpected thing happened.”

Elmer returned with flowers and a ring. The tall black man looked at the young thin white man with flowers and invited him in. He reasoned that if he were to shoot him, it would be best to do it behind closed doors. Once the door closed, Elmer began talking rapidly and nervously.
“Sir… This might sound crazy to you but I have fallen deeply in love with your daughter and would like to ask your permission to marry her. In your absence, I was here with her making sure that no harm came to her. I have the means to take care of her and I aim to…”
“My daddy thought about shooting him and then looked at me. I’m sure I had a stupid in love look in my eye and I’m pretty sure he knew that the possibility of a baby within me was not only possible but probable and so it was… Here’s your momma 50 years later… And life is truly a wondrous thing…. Happily ever after? Mostly.”

 

March 25, 2018

Coexist…

It was some time after 9-11 that Lars Bjornson left his home in Stockholm to discover America. He wanted to eat hot dogs, see sporting events of sports he knew nothing about. He wanted to be in the audience of a Jerry Springer show. He wanted to see where Michael Jordan played basketball and where Al Capone once ran around. Lars wanted to see the tall buildings of Chicago and he also wanted to see the ghetto.

Lars rented a car and asked the doorman of the posh hotel he was staying at on Michigan Avenue, where he could go to see the real ghetto. You know… Poor people. The doorman thought Lars was a bit nuts but then again he felt that all of those really white, white people of Northern European countries, were truly different than your run of the mill American whites. In reality, it was not unlike going on a safari in Africa or visiting a zoo. Lars wanted to see blight, hopelessness, drug addicts and the mentally ill hanging around on street corners. The doorman spoke frankly with him.
“Hey man, there’s shit in life you just should not do. You puttin your life in yo own hands…. It ain’t like round here, dude…. Shit…. It’s yo life. Tell you watchu do…. Take any one of these streets named after old dead white dudes that was once president. Madison, Washington, Adams…. Randolph…. I don’t remember no President Randolph in school but it coulda been one them dudes who was president fo like a day and then got shot. You might wind up like them but you welcome to go. Four miles that way. You cain’t git lost.”
Lars was excited in a sick way not unlike when people go online to view people getting beheaded or shot and watching the life drain out of them. Lars wanted to visit the most dangerous city in an area where the most people get killed every year in the richest most prosperous country in the world. Lars was hoping to actually see a shooting happen in the streets. He slowly drove up and down streets that were strewn with debris, high weeds, barber shops with men hanging out in front of them, boarded up storefronts and liquor stores on almost every corner. People looked back at Lars not unlike when animals make eye contact with humans at the zoo.

Lars saw a beautiful young black woman at a bus stop, eating something carefully out of a bag. Her young, perfect body and model like face attracted Lars. He parked the car and strangely pitched the idea of the woman getting into his car to go to dinner, talk to him and then later have sex with him. For $1,000.00. Asha ( pronounced ASIA ) thought about all the things she could do with $1,000.00 and hopped into the car of the tall blond man from Sweden. Asha went to an expensive seafood restaurant and then back to Lars hotel room to do the deed. Asha marveled at her strange day as she put her clothes back on in front of a floor to ceiling window that looked out at Lake Michigan and the high rises that lined the downtown. It was a glimpse into a life she had only seen on television. She concluded that to be white was truly a boost up the tree of life that black people rarely get unless they have some redeeming value to white people. Lars thought to himself while he showered with all his jewelry, cash and credit cards where he could see it in the locked bathroom, that it was a really cool experience and that having sex with someone of a different color was something that everyone should experience once. Sometimes weird moments and actions lead to something surreal. Well… It did.
Two presidents and sixteen years later, Asha’s son Lars was about to play in the state championship basketball game. Picture a tall caucasian looking child with a tint to his skin with sort of yellow hair with large rotini like curls. Around his ankle was a tracking device for those that should probably be in prison but are allowed back out in society. Lars was arrested for carjacking. Several times in the past, Lars had successfully secured a car, drove it around, smashed it up and abandoned it. In Chicago, things such as that are sport for underprivileged inner city kids who see the disparity between those that have and those that have not. The last carjacking backfired when Lars and his buddies tried to carjack the car of an off duty cop who had a vintage 1970 Plymouth Challenger. Upon pulling a gun on the officer and hopping in, they found that the car was manual transmission and none of the trio knew how to drive a car with a stick shift. Lars looked up to find a gun back in his face. Lars’ two friends had no redeeming value to society at this point in their lives- high school drop outs, gangbangers with criminal history but Lars intrigued the judge. The judge listened to the tall boy speak who looked like he could be white but also could be black, looked at his African American mother and asked the boy rhetorical questions. Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to die young? Do you want your life to amount to nothing? Do you want to become something? Asha told the judge that her son was a very good basketball player and that 6’ 7, he had a good chance of getting a college scholarship and possibly professional basketball. Asha handed a handful letters of intent from division one universities from around the country that were interested in having young Lars play basketball. The judge saw a letter from his alma mater and grew excited. The stern looking white judge looked at Lars and said that he wanted to see him, his mother and his attorney in his office. Once in the judge’s quarters, the judge picked up his phone on his desk and made a call to the president of his alma mater who happened to be a friend, a golf buddy, a drinking buddy to let him know that he should send someone from the athletics department to come to the championship game in Quincy, Illinois to sign Lars to their university. Asha and Lars were stunned by how the serious looking judge was talking so casually to them.
“You’re going to love this school. It is one of the greatest schools in the country. You’ll get a great education in a good environment and you could really help the school by being on the team. They came so close this year! Sweet sixteen! Hopefully you can help them win a national championship…. So listen. Lars will have to wear an ankle monitor for a while. You’ll come back in a few weeks and I’ll clear him. No record. You have to stop fooling around, Lars. You have a promising life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up…. Tell you what…. I think I can make that game in Quincy. I have nothing on my calendar. I will be there with your mom.”
Somewhere in Europe, there is a man with an American son that he knows nothing about. Lars Sr. would be so proud to know that he helped create hope for a woman who was destined to live a dismal, mundane life. Stories such as this make white people feel really good when they know their own kind are helping in some small an indirect way to create prosperity and equality. Even if they didn’t mean to.

November 2, 2017

The New Halloween

Terry and Terry met in college.  Terry was from suburban Milwaukee and
Terry was from suburban Chicago.  One was male and the other female.
When they became a couple, everyone thought it was so cute.  The
Terry’s were cheerleaders at Marquette University.  The female Terry
became a dietician and the male Terry became a dentist.

The couple moved to an insulated burg north of Chicago where the
Republican Party is strong despite being mired in a county dominated
by crooked machine politics.  Where as many areas of Chicago and the
suburbs struggled with obesity, cookie cutter strip malls filled with
mattress shops and fast food, the small town they lived in had very
little of that.  Families had large Land Rovers or Suburbans with
magnets or stickers of the hockey, soccer, Lacrosse and baseball teams
that their children belonged to.  Nobody had fewer than three children
and everyone appeared to attend the Episcopal Church in town.  Mothers
were fit and trim and had personal trainers and au pairs that usually
spoke Spanish but occasionally Polish and they drank protein smoothies
out of paper straws at the local café/wine bar and life was very nice.
This kids all looked nice and very fit and the dads looked very Ivy
League like they might be posing for an LL Bean catalog.  You get the
idea.

Now Terry and Terry felt that processed anything was bad for them and
their children, ten-year-old twins- the boy Nixon and the daughter
Reagan.  At Halloween, they would panic about the twins awakening to
sugar.  They had an awakening at the age of nine.  They learned about
sex and that there was no Santa Claus all at the same time.  While
wrapping presents on Christmas Eve, Terry had a tongue in Terry’s ass
while the other continued to wrap presents.  Both had their pants
around their ankles while listening to a Bing Crosby CD.  Imagine how
the children felt to learn that there was no Santa and that
occasionally even Republicans will lick each other’s ass.  Horrid.
Ever year they took their twins to pick apples or do a hayride and
finish by eating kale chips and free range chicken at a very healthy
local restaurant near home.

The twins came to their parents and demanded that they be allowed to
go around the neighborhood with their friends.  The Terry’s tried to
talk the neighborhood into having a block party with a bonfire and
only bring out healthy snacks but the interest was not there.  The
parents nixed the idea of the twins roaming the neighborhood without
explanation and sent their children off to their private school where
candy was not exchanged for fear of allergies.  The Polish au pair
named Agnieska or Agnes as the kids called her could not find the
children after school.  Agnieska didn’t panic at first.  She went to
the school office to see if possibly they were bobbing for organic
apples in a vat of La Croix or something similar but the school was
empty.  At about 4pm, Agnieska had to make the call she hoped she
would never have to make.
“Meesees Terry…  I am having some bad news.  Thee tweens deed not
come out of the school like usuable.  I am not knowing where they are
being right now.”
Within an hour, Terry left his dental office in high pursuit in his
four-door family Porsche and Terry left her Pilates class in her GMC
Suburban and with Agnieska in the minivan. The three of them went up
and down the streets.  They searched until dark and began to truly
worry.  They took their Nextel walkie-talkies out of mothballs during
the hunt.
“Terr?  Do you read me?”
“Yes Terr…  I read you…  What’s your 20?”
“I am at Eisenhower Park right around the corner from Goldwater
School…  What did they dress as today?”
There they were, Nixon dressed as Bernie Sanders and Reagan dressed
as Hilary Clinton.  They sat under a light in the park drinking a cola
each, throwing back Pop rocks and miniature Heath bars.  This was
something they had never tasted before.  It was so good to them that
they could not stop to talk to one another.  They tried something new
and then quietly shared with the other.  Terry and Terry ran across
the ball field and found their twins surrounded by wrappers to candy.
They gasped at what they saw.  Terry began crying and saying over and
over again- why?  Terry rubbed his wife’s shoulders and sternly
demanded that the twins get into their car.  Nixon stood to confront
his father.
“Dad…  I hear you talk about fake news all the time.  How could you
lie to us and tell us that this stuff would kill us.  We have been
eating candy for an hour and we’re still alive…  Is it possible that
you were giving us fake news dad?  Just like Christmas time… Huh?”
Terry grabbed his twins and began leading them back towards the car.
He was very agitated by the events of the day and the prospect that
their bodies would eventually reject the sugar overdose in ways that
they could not imagine.
“Wait to see what happens to you next…  You have no idea what is
coming.  Vomit, diarrhea, stomachaches…  You’ll both regret this
soon.”
Reagan stopped walking and looked at her parents and her brother and
boldly stated something most children would echo.
“There’s a really good chance that maybe I won’t regret this and then
what will you do?”
Good question.

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.”

May 18, 2017

Yelping Mr. Trump

Reince Priebius woke early and got to bathroom and plopped down to
relieve himself before anyone else in his family woke.  While sitting
on the commode, Reince scrolled through dozens and dozens of negative
Yelp reviews attached to President Trump.  It was explained to the
president that the people who run Yelp, had a love affair with the
previous president.  It was no mistake that Obama had 4 ½ stars and
that Trump stood at ½ of one star.  Reince, Ivanka and his son-in-law
Jared Kushner all tried to convince the president to ignore the fact
that all the negative reviews were readily available for the public to
read and that the positive ones were hidden from view.  What was the
reason for so many positive reviews hidden from sight?  The positive
reviewers were new to Yelp and to the political arena and so their
point of views were not taken into serious consideration.  The
president spent all day working, occasionally taking time to eat some
ice cream or play Golf a little, but mostly studying political shows,
reading papers, getting briefs and meetings after meetings.  Most
people’s heads would explode by the fact that at all hours of the day,
there were several things going on at once.  Picture a plumber fixing
a leaking pipe and with each repair, two or three more leaks surface.
A weaker person would rationalize that maybe someone else should do
the plumbing and beat their head against the wall trying to repair
only to be mired in a sloppy mess.  Late night when everyone or at
least most people were sleeping, the president would read up on his
Yelp reviews and would rebut in the wee hours of the morning.

I DIDN’T VOTE FOR THE PRESIDENT AND REALLY ANYONE THAT DID IS A
COMPLETE BACKWARD IDIOT.  IT’S PLAIN TO SEE THAT THIS MAN IS A PUPPET
OF THE RUSSIANS.  OUR ELECTION HAS BEEN HACKED BY THE RUSSIANS AND THE
CABINET HAS BEEN FILLED WITH LAP DOGS FOR PUTIN.  IT’S OBVIOUS TO
EVERYONE THAT THIS IS ANOTHER WATERGATE- RACHEL, WASHINGTON D.C.

IS THIS THE SAME RACHEL FROM MSNBC?  IS IT?  LET’S JUST SAY IT COULD
BE.  HACK?  YOU WANNA USE THE WORD HACK.  THE ENTIRE PRESS OF THE
COUNTRY SAVE VERY FEW OUTLETS IS RUN BY LYING, SLAVENLY HACKS WHO PASS
OF THEIR OWN AGENDA FOR NEWS.  COLLUSION?  ABSOLUTELY.  THE DNC,
CLINTONS, OBAMA, RICE, COMEY, CLAPPER, SLAPPER, BEATER AND WHACKER…
HAVE I LEFT ANYONE OUT IN THIS CIRCLE JERKING GOLDEN SHOWER OF HITS?
YOU GIVE ME ONE STAR?  I GIVE YOU A SINGLE FINGER SALUT.

Reince continued to sit on the toilet, toes tingling and his butt
cheeks nearly asleep as he scrolled over dozens of replies to negative
comments written nearly anonymously to the public.  Reince knew it was
cowardly and hard to combat.  Reince’s opinion was just to ignore it
all and go about the business of trying to fix the immense issues of
this country.

AFTER THERAPY AND LOOKING FOR A JOB AND PLACE TO LIVE IN CANADA, I’VE
DECIDED THAT THIS IS MY COUNTRY AND I NEED TO FIGHT FOR MY COUNTRY AND
STOP ANY AND ALL WHO BELIEVE THAT TRUMP IS THEIR PRESIDENT.  THE
PRESIDENT MUST BE STOPPED EVERYWHERE POSSIBLE AND THERE IS AN ARMY OF
TRUE AMERICANS LIKE ME WHO WILL ENSURE THAT IMMIGRANTS CAN LIVE AMONG
US, LGBT, PROGRESSIVES, PRO-CHOICE AND SO ON.  YOU WILL BE STOPPED,
SIR.  I CAN’T GIVE YOU NO STARS BUT I WOULD LIKE TO. TERRY, SEATTLE,
WASHINGTON.

TERRY.  I’M ENVISIONING A MAN AND A WOMAN ALMOST EQUALLY, HIDDEN
BEHIND A CARNIVAL MASK, PUNCHING VETERANS AT TRUMP RALLIES, STOPPING
CONSERVATIVE SPEAKERS FROM EXPRESSING THEIR CONSTITUIONAL RIGHT TO
FREE SPEECH ON COLLEGE CAMPUSES THAT RECEIVE GOVERNMENT FUNDS. WHEN
I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS WHOLE DOG AND PONY SHOW OVER WHETHER I SHOULD
BE IMPEACHED OR NOT, I’LL GO GET THAT FAT CHILD IN NORTH KOREA, PARADE
HIM AROUND WITH A BALL GAG AND THEN THROW HIM THE IN SAME PRISON
GENERAL NOREIGA LIVED IN SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.  I HAVEN’T EVEN ROLLED
UP MY SLEEVES YET TO UNDO THE MESS DROPPED AT MY FEET.  DON’T GET IN
FRONT OF A TRAIN.  YOU CAN’T STOP IT OR SLOW IT DOWN BUT YOU CAN GET
MOWED OVER.  TRUMP IS  COMMANDER AND THE CHEF AND BELIEVE ME, YOU
WON’T WANT WHAT DADDY’S GOT COOKING.

“Good morning, Mr. President…  Yes, I should be in within the hour.
Tell me, sir…  What time did you go to sleep last night? 2:30 ish
eastern time?  Wow…  I don’t know how you do it, sir.  It’s not even
6am…  Sir, if you could mull this around before I get in and we can
discuss it further…  When you get back from oversees, we should really
plan an American road trip.  Visit the heartland.  Stir the base up.
Nuremburg style rallies with millions of supporters in cities like
Tulsa or Louisville.  Give it some thought, sir.  You’re at your best
when you’re surrounded by those that truly love you… “

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