Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 25, 2019

Make it Easier and Easier

Wilbur sat in living room of his apartment trying to watch METV on an old Zenith television that he had inherited from his mother before she died sometime ago. He also got a few bucks and a nice couch and Lazy Boy recliner too.

 

As a man of fifty years of age, Wilbur was a wreck.  He was morbidly obese; he needed medication for his blood pressure, for diabetes, for his enlarged prostate and his depression. He lived alone with three cats and a lot of mice. His apartment was nothing but tunnels from room to room. Once a year, the poor janitor would have to get a dumpster and clear out all the shit Wilbur collected so that he could pass Section 8, so that the owner of the building living off the board walk north of South Beach in Miami could get his guaranteed money from the government.

 

Wilbur called the Police to report that the new tenants above were constantly playing loud music, drinking and smoking weed. The compassionate dispatcher explained to Wilbur that all were legal now.

“I don’t know if you are aware that playing one’s music loudly is a culturally acceptable way to enjoy music today.  You may not enjoy it so loud but many do. It is no longer illegal to play loud music. Your complaining impedes on their ability to enjoy music in their own home the way they are accustomed to. Marijuana and alcohol is legal too. We will not send officers out for something like this. I suggest you get some ear buds and listen to whatever interests you… Okay? Have a nice day…”

Wilbur began to cry tears of frustration as all the glassware in his place rattled. He could hear all the lyrics to the song. It wasn’t quite Rap and it wasn’t quite singing. It was sort of whiny droning like a Gregorian chant with reverb, heavy bass and a pitch corrector.

“Bitch… How do I wanna kill you and love you jus the same. It a thin line between choking you and loving you, girl. You take my shit and I love you but I cain’t be with you and I need you… Yo pussy, you ass, making love an then sodomy, my homies say I need a lobotomy cause I love you girl, my precious dichotomy… Pain and ecstasy when you laying next to me… I jus might marry you after they arrest me…”

 

There was a knock at the door. It was his food delivery service. Two double Whoppers with Cheese, large fry and a large Diet Coke. The delivery guy was holding his nose while standing in the doorway of the apartment. The place was one big litter box and the pungent smell of cat urine was overwhelming. The cats cried as Wilbur ate his meal, watched Jerry Springer on mute while listening to progressive radio. The topics of the day ranged from three year olds declaring their gender identity as “Gender Fluid”, allowing profanity in public places and in the media for emphasis, the elimination of any presidents on money or the word god on anything in public. Wilbur thought about the time he ordered via Amazon some really large Victoria Secret lingerie and wore it for a while to see if it would make him feel pretty, attractive and possibly more positive about who he was. Wilbur walked around the apartment listening to music in peach colored fuzzy slippers, a peach robe, a peach brazier size 45 DD and matching thong. Wilber wore the outfit for days until he saw a bunch of females model lingerie in high heal shoes on television, hawking sexy lingerie and dongs. The pretty thing parading around in lingerie with her cute dimple holding a 12-inch black dong brought Wilbur to reality. They were so elegant and thin and Wilbur felt bloated. Wilbur reasoned that he might get some homophobic fireman unwilling to give him CPR someday because of how he was dressed and so he went back to wearing his Cleveland Browns jersey and a pair of sweat pants.

 

It was getting late. Wilbur spent a whole day doing not very much and tomorrow there will be about the same for him to do. He eased into his Lazy Boy chair and hooked up the catheter to a bag of peritoneal dialysis solution to cleanse his failing kidneys while he slept. He then hooked up CPAP device that helped with his sleep apnea. Leave it to Beaver was on. Wally and Beaver were called in from the garage where they were working on a soapbox car for a race. They sat down to dinner. Ward with his suit jacket off, slicked back hair with a hint of gray. June with pearls and bright lipstick and a smart dress with an apron on was doling out mashed potatoes. Wally and Beaver told their parents how “swell” the soapbox car was coming along. Wilbur fell asleep thinking that maybe way back then, that’s when things were really, really good. Nah… So many things to make life easier today and it keeps getting easier. After all easier is better, right?

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.

August 17, 2018

Let Them Eat Beets

Wonder drugs are really wonderful except when those darn side affects take affect. You know- hives, bleeding gums, swollen pancreas and feet, insomnia, sensitivity to light, night sweats, day sweats, heart palpitations, loss of libido, a hard on that never subsides that could service a harem… You get the idea.

 

The Millers were some large white people. The father, wheezed when he breathed. His neck was hidden between a half dozen chins. He would roll into the local 7-11 to buy those nasty tacos and wings under the heat lamp, a bag of chips, a double big gulp and that candy bar. I’m sorry, two candy bars.

“Vun for 69 cents, two for a dollar,” the Indian proprietor who announces as Bill the patriarch would get ready to slip his card into the reader.

The children were the American version of Hansel and Gretel. Middle school age cherubs that wore adult clothing. They sweat in cool weather and their eyes disappeared whenever they smiled. Hamburgers, frozen pizzas and ice creams were their staples. Their parents would cruise the aisles of the local grocery store in motorized scooters while their children waddled behind them begging for extra snacks. Very little fruit, very little vegetables and a plethora of artery clogging garbage to stuff their faces in front of their phones and the television. Bill outweighed his wife by fifty pounds and both of them were over 300lbs. When the four of them would get in the elevator on the way to the doctor’s, they would quietly do the math in their heads. The four of them were dangerously close to the maximum weight allowed by the fire marshall. Bill had a terroristic beard with a man bun that went up into a cute fountain like a center punch in the middle of his head. They would pull up at the local buffet on Mondays and smile at the register girl and Bill would always say, “You’re about to lose on this deal.” You get the idea. They were the archetypical fat Americans. They were sloppy, slovenly, sloths completely content with obesity until Bill happened to be reading about a man who looked like him and lost 250 lbs. He thought that he might just be a handsome devil under all that fat. The thought of working out hours a day and yanking fat and sugar from his diet seemed a life not worth living. Bill needed artificial will power or something to overpower his laziness.

 

Bill knew of a woman at work who lost an amazing amount of weight but appeared to have developed Tourette’s. The woman looked amazing but she had no filter. To prevent herself from saying too much, she would cover her own mouth and mumble through her fingers. Bill approached the woman in the parking lot and offered her a large sum of money if she would hook him up with the non-FDA approved drug from Mexico. The colleague agreed to the deal. At first, Bill felt nothing and after about a week he noticed that things began to change. Bill had a taste for salads with lemon instead of dressing, No burgers or pizza. He wanted to walk and lift weights instead of sit in the lazy boy and read his phone. After a month, Bill was running and doing a stationary bike, rowing machine and elliptical at the gym for hours at a time. No junk food at all and he walked around shaking a plastic container filled with a protein shake. It was an amazing transformation. Before long, Bill’s wife and kids were all taking the same drug. They became fitness machines and testimonies to clean living and exercise. Everything was great, right? Oh, yes… The side affects. The family did not lie down at the end of the night and sleep a solid eight hours. They did not sleep even half of that. They would periodically collapse and take a twenty to thirty minute nap here or there. Some times it would hit them at work like narcolepsy and they would involuntarily fall deeply asleep for fifteen minutes and feel refreshed and ready to take on any task at 110% effort or more. None of them realized that their resting heart rate was over 100 and that they were shortening their lives by racing their hearts at all times. The other side affect was brutal honesty and an inability to lie.

Bill weighed in at 185 lbs. at about six feet in height and about 6% body fat. He walked around wide-eyed with tense jaws and said the wildest things out loud. At home, it was astounding the things the family would say to each other. It didn’t matter much until they got together for dinner with their good friends, The Quentin’s. The Quentin’s were nice people. All of them had red hair to the point of orange. The kids had whitest of white skin and freckles on top of freckles. The Quentin’s had a rainbow flag in front of the house with a lawn sign that said, “Black Lives Matter” and “Hate has No Home Here” and “No Human is Illegal”. The Millers kept quiet that they voted for Trump and liked Trump and were really happy about their tax cut, their improving 401K and that Bill’s company kicked back $1,000.00 to him recently. They knew the Quentin’s were really liberal and were frantic about the changes that they could not control. They would always make off the cuff comments about Trump and Trump lovers such as ignorant, backward, fascist, Nazi, xenophobic, homophobic and so on. The Miller’s would politely listen and then try to change the subject to vacations or sports the kids were playing. The Quentin’s made ribs with a bean dip and potato chips, coleslaw and then cookies and chocolate cake. Bill and Tammy showed up with a beet salad and some sort of bland tofu. The Millers ate it like it was the greatest thing and the Quentin’s sort of snarled at it. Julie Quentin jokingly made a comment, which opened the door to brutal honesty.

“That looks like punishment, not a meal.”

Bill wiped beet juice from his chin, smiled and spoke first.

“You’re gonna eat all the calories you need for a week in one sitting? Your temple is a bank and I can tell you that you are putting way too much in the bank if you know what I mean. You have to be fatter than the last time we got together. If you’re not fatter, you certainly look fatter”

“What the hell, Bill!”

“I mean that all that shit you’re eating makes you feel like shit inside and then you think shitty things about the government and the whole world and then you go back and have a piece of cake and think, gee… I wanna kill the president…”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Bill?”

Tammy jumped in to continue where Bill started.

“Julie, Julie… Listen… You’re unhappy because you’re fat and fat because you’re unhappy. It stems from your inability to accept reality. Your resist sticker on the back of your car tells it all. You are resisting reality; you’re resisting happiness and a better life. You think getting a “No Hate” tattoo in Arabic makes you not hate? No, you hate great and I know you hate hearing the truth. We sit here and listen to you both go on and on about everything you hate and you assume we are with you and we’re not.”

Julie stood up and placed her palms on the table and began to yell in the face of her good friend Tammy or former good friend.

“What kind of mind controlling Nazi shit has happened to you? You lose the equivalent of a whole human being and now you get preachy with us? How dare you!”

Julie’s husband took a drink of his beer and said nothing. Bill winked at him and took a sip of his lemon water. The women went back and forth, yelling and pointing until the Miller boy looked up from his phone where he was watching a steroidal man discussing how to make muscle fast. The lean 13-year-old boy, made a statement.

“Adults are always talking about hoping and praying for things… You know what I hope for? Aliens… Not the illegal ones…   I pray they come down and put you all in zoos. Aliens can watch you do all the crazy, sick shit you do sexually on the Internet and maybe they’ll throw a steak in your cage… If not a steak, maybe a beet salad.”

The fighting ended really quickly after that.

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