Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 1, 2013

Voices Carry

Filed under: Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:58 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Charles sometimes Chuck, Chucky or even Chas, made it through the 1980s level headed and drug-free. Nancy Reagan told him to say no and Chas listened. Except for a year or two when he took steroids to bulk up so as to not get messed with as young Marine recruit near San Diego, Chuck was not into drugs. Other than steroids, Chuck was drug free. Charles drug was his perfect body.
It was sometime in the 1980’s, the late 80’s that Charles was jogging in a pair of silky shorts with his shirt off and no socks in Minot, North Dakota. All he wore was a knit hat that had a smiling priest/friar swinging a baseball bat- San Diego Padres. Emily watched in awe as the young military man jogged almost naked on a night when the air temperature was about 5 degrees Fahrenheit. She stepped outside her parent’s home where her future was becoming a wife to some local slob who might drive a truck or a miner who was into wrestling and monster truck rallies. An Adonis jogged by in frigid temps and suddenly stopped to marvel at what he thought was the Northern Lights. The strange colors in the sky was a Chinook taking place. The frigid air gave way to a sudden rise in temperatures and hurricane force winds. Chas stood looking at the strange sky and inhaled the crisp air that was becoming warmer by the minute. Emily opened the door to her house and walked up to Chas without saying a word and took his hand. Charles took it to be a gift from god and an answer to prayer. You decide.
Charlie and Emily had been placed in places all over the world and all over the United States. The Marines had sent one of their top recruiters to live in Los Angeles. Charlie hated LA. To Chas, it was New York with palm trees. It was nothing more than an over-populated metropolis and what god had in mind when he was getting ready to destroy Gomorra. Or was it Sodom?
Emily and Charlie only had one child, a boy that they named Cliff. Cliff grew up in the San Fernando Valley. He played ice hockey and liked to sing. Cliff through inheritance had a very nice body for a young man. Cliff dyed his hair blond and cut it into a tall flattop. Cliff listened to early eighties New Wave music and watched every John Hughes movie that was ever made, tried to look like Billy Idol and was part of the Til Tuesday fan club, a band that was known in the eighties for a song entitled, Voices Carry. Cliff liked musicals and dancing and really wanted to be an entertainer, not a military man.
“Well sir, we stopped your son for crossing lanes twice on the 405 near Sherman Way before Roscoe without a signal. We have it on film if you care to see. We found eight individuals crammed into a vehicle that could fit four comfortably and then we discovered contraband, which brings a class two felony. Bond is set at $10,000.00. You can post bond or let your son face the judge on Monday.”
Charlie’s sharp jaw line grew tight as he spread out a stack of hundred dollar bills collected from an ATM. Cliff emerged from the holding pen in Van Nuys with his collared shirt unbuttoned and his lip slightly curled just like Billy Idol and Elvis Presley before him. Charles said nothing to Cliff on the ride home. Once inside their yellow stucco home in Granada Hills, Chas quietly began to ransack Cliff’s bedroom in search of drugs. Cliff asked his father rhetorical questions.
“What the fuck are you doing? What right do you have to go through my shit?”
“This is my home and I have a right to do what ever I wish. You have drugs in my house and I am going to find them. When the fucking ruby heads hid guns in their goddamn homes, I found them. That was my job to find hidden shit. I will find what you have hidden tonight without a doubt.”
It took a solid five minutes before Charlie overturned his son’s bed to find that he had cut a hole in the hardwood floor and had a stash of weed, cocaine and dildos in a box. There was a ten inch black cock with veins sticking out, an off-white one about six inches long and then a double dong. Charlie was paralyzed by his findings. Cliff spoke first.
“I confiscated things I found in this house so that when the day came when you would intrude on my privacy, I could then ask you what the fuck this shit is for. Is this going up your ass, some other dude or mom? You tell me. You tell me what this shit is used for and I will tell you what you want to know. The wholesome Marine loving god and country and rubber cocks… I’m ready when you are, dad.”
“Keep your fucking voice down. I don’t need the neighbors to hear what we’re discussing.”
Emily was reading Oprah’s O magazine about how Oprah trained for marathons. Emily was thinking about running a marathon too. Emily heard things falling earlier but never got out of bed to find out what the noise was about. Chas came into their bedroom with furrowed brow, looking distracted and disturbed. Emily put her hand on her husband’s and kissed his naked shoulder. Charles said nothing. Emily turned off the light on her side of the bed on a nightstand and settled in to fall asleep. She could sense that her husband was unsettled. Charles was famous for never showing emotion or discussing things. Charles nervously asked two questions at once just before Emily had drifted off to sleep.
“I have two things I have to ask you and I want the truth. Have you ever been with a black man?”
“Okay… What’s the second question?”
“Is a two headed dildo used for your ass and vagina or would you use something like that with an other woman?”
Emily chose to not answer. Charles acted as if the question was never posed. Other things came up again with their son and they lived mostly happily ever after. Or as good as could be given all the things that could happen in life in America.

I’m in the dark, I’d like to read his mind
But I’m frightened of the things I might find
Oh, there must be something he’s thinking of
To tear him away-a-ay
When I tell him that I’m falling in love
Why does he say

Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry

April 18, 2013

The Dark of Heartness

Imagine an actor as handsome as James Dean, as respected among his peers as Orson Wells who had previously won Oscars and had them sitting on the mantle of his fireplace in his mansion, on his island that was purchased from the CEO of Blockbuster Video. Picture throngs of adolescent girls, teens, twenty something’s, cougars and senior citizens secretly and not so secretly hoping that they could be with a man who encompassed everything a man should be if a woman could construct such a man.
Many men had decided that Prescott Hall had to be gay. No man can have a perfect face, a perfect voice, a perfect body; say the most perfect things to the feminine ear during interviews with Oprah. No man cared to be held up against the benchmark of masculine perfection.
As is often the case with humans who get everything and anything they could have ever dreamed of, Prescott turned to recreational drugs to escape the reality of perfection. Something had caused the man to snap. Prescott’s agent, two large body guards and a psychiatrist found Prescott in a secluded retreat run by born again Buddhist’s in the mountains of Los Angeles, overlooking the ocean. Prescott was surrounded by unclothed morbidly obese women in a large suite that was large enough to house a small wedding party. The grotesquely large women talked, laughed, swam and ate while Prescott washed his face in bowl underneath a mosquito net. Prescott was given an injection, put in a straight-jacket and held in a Beverly Hills hotel until the day of the Oscars. Prescott won his third Oscar and gave a speech after accepting the award that would have made Charlie Sheen cheer. The Oscar was for Prescott’s portrayal of an ordinary man whose mundane existence as an office worker, misunderstood husband that is coming to grips with aging and inevitable death. The role in itself altered the disposition and mind of the most sought after actor. When Prescott took the stage, he held up the trophy and looked down for a moment. His reflective aviator sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing Prescott’s blue eyes that were bleary and swollen from lack of sleep and over indulgence. His white linen suit looked as if he had slept in it and his dishwater blond hair looked oily which all went well with his ten day old scruffy beard. Prescott said nothing for a moment and then began speaking slowly and quietly.
“I was born in Toledo, Ohio … About two hundred miles from the Ohio River… I went down it once as a kid. When you take into account the numbers of people in the world, how is it that I am the most fortunate? Was it predestine, a predetermination by my father’s Methodist god of the Missouri Synod? Or was it just the luck of the draw? To study for this role, I had to wake up in a house in a subdivision that looked like all the other homes in the subdivision. I had toast and coffee with a make believe wife and make believe children. I was on the other side looking in. So many of you are watching me tonight when ice is melting and water is rising, you’re losing your job, you’re losing your home while gaining weight, getting diabetes and high blood pressure eating shit food. We were meant to hunt and gather… How many of you are hunting at Taco Bell for late night, fourth meal bullshit? You can’t perform sexually cause you might stroke out on a little blue pill… Fuck it; let’s go see a movie… Maybe you’re that one kid who joined the Army from down the street who is now watching my movie in a tent in Afghanistan and one of those people that you’re trying to win the hearts and minds of, has decided to strap a bomb on to his chest to kill you for trying to win over his heart and mind and provide a soccer team for girls and the right for women to walk side by side with men in a market place, right? Meanwhile the United States of Benetton pretend to sort out racial tension despite the fact that they voted for a man who is kind of white and kind of black. I am now enlightened defend your son’s right to marry another man. Wait a minute! My son is the fag? Hmmm, let me think about this some more… What’s that smell? Do you smell that? Smells like freedom, it must be killed. Why does nobody give a shit that a gallon of gas cost more than the tube of asslube it would take to make shoving so much shit up our asses, more easier? You have two choices in which to vote- and that is one more than the Communists had… Republicans are the answer… No wait Democrats are the answer… Now Republicans again. So you get fat, tired and bored and go watch a movie. You wanna know who I’m sleeping with? Want to know what I eat? Do I fart and does my shit stink? With so much starvation, war, greed and depletion of resources, with crazy fucks pointing nuclear weapons at innocent people in Samoa and children dying on the streets of cities like Chicago with guns and people want to know what I’m doing. I’m playing the ordinary man.
… Yes the ordinary man. I went back to Ohio to be the regular guy, the faceless man. I looked for that Gardenia plantation or whatever I thought it was when I was a boy and it was gone. I couldn’t remember exactly where it was and so I followed the river and never found it. It was a little piece of heaven from when I was a boy and it is now gone… From what I read, I hear that my methods are unsound and that I’ve gone insane. Who among you claims to be soldiers or assassins? You’re nothing but desk jockeys on computers at the café running errands like trained ponies. Popcorn value packs at the theater and you are watching me, watching you, watching me portraying you. Ordinary man indeed. A man who is used to acting in one way never changes; he must come to ruin when the times, in changing, no longer are in harmony with his ways… Of course I’m paraphrasing. Somebody else wrote that, somebody else wrote everything I ever said. The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar… In any event, I’d like to thank you all for making me what you have wanted me to be… I mean this sincerely with true heart felt passion when I say what I am about to say to you all next…”
Millions of people who tuned in waited for something profound and way-out to end a ranting speech . Prescott scanned the room of quiet, pretty people who smiled nervously wondering what Prescott would say next.
“Have a nice day…”

November 6, 2012

We Have Black Friends or For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,obama,Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 11:00 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

The Thames, pronounced “temz” just like the famous river in England, was lying in bed in their bedroom, each watching their own television.  It was like watching television at an appliance store.  One would have to filter out the other sounds in order to focus on their own program.  A marriage counselor recommended that in order to preserve their marriage and spend more time together, that they purchase two televisions and watch television separate but equal…  I heard that term somewhere else.

Tim Thames was watching Monday Night Football while Tammy Thames was watching Dancing With The Stars.  Tim thought the show was stupid and he concluded that if he were coached eight hours a day, he too could prance about like Gene Kelly.  Dancing was for weddings.  Watching men in tight pants writhe around on freezing tundra, was much more to his liking.  Tammy didn’t hate football, in fact she would occasionally peek at this guy or that guy and marvel at how tight and round their asses were.  Some men looked as though they had canned hams strapped to their buttocks, under Lycra.  It never mattered to Tammy who won or who was playing.

Tammy received a text message while lying in bed next to Tim.  It was a commercial break and she had been admiring football player ass when the message came in from their friends The Whites.

William and Hilary White, were black and as much as people wanted to call them Bill and Hilary, William corrected people.  His name was William and not Will, Willy, Bill or Billy.  William was his grandfather’s name who came from Kingston, Jamaica.  William thought of himself as an English gent of the Caribbean, a modern day Sidney Poitier.  Hilary was an attractive black woman with a pretty smile and a fantastic ass.  How they became friends oddly enough was through the sport of ice hockey.  Their two sons who are now in college, played youth hockey together for many years.  For over ten years, they woke up early and drove their boys to practices and games and then drank in hotel hallways and lounges together.  The White’s son was always the one black player on the hockey team.  It made the other whites, not to be confused with The Whites, feel as though they were tolerant and accepting of other races and cultures by the mere fact that they had black friends; The Whites.  Tim and Tammy often threw that out among other whites.

“Our good friends, The Whites…  Who are really black…  I mean African-American, will be at the party too.”

And so on…

Hilary had sent a text inviting Tim and Tammy to their house to watch the election results and sip some red wine that they picked up at a winery in Germany.  The Whites took a vacation and toured wineries near the French border in Germany.  William had whispered to his wife while taste testing Riesling in Germany, “Hitler must be rolling over in his grave.  Two American blacks drinking prized German wine and being served like servants by members of the master race…  It doesn’t get any better than this…”

William and Tim were both very outspoken no-it-alls and alcohol and vast knowledge often led to fights.  William was a supporter of the president and Tim was a supporter of Romney.  Wine with opposing political views pointed towards an interesting evening.

“I see you’ve texted Hilary back.  Have you already committed us to going to their place again?  In 2008, you didn’t tell me that their extended family was going to be sitting around the living room, crying and hugging each other after Obama won.  I had to pretend like I was happy too and I wasn’t,” said Tim.

“Why?  Because it was the symbolic decline of the American white male?  An attractive black man becomes president and white men are threatened,” said Tammy.

“Denzel Washington is an attractive black man.  The president is not.  The president looks like…  A monkey.”  Said Tim.

“Now that is perfect.  Our president is a simian.  How very Klanish of you,” said Tammy.

“If he looked like a fucking aardvark, I would tell you that.  To me, he resembles a monkey.  I’ll agree that he is smooth and self confident but I don’t agree that he is attractive,” said Tim.

Strangely enough, once while having sex with each other for possibly the 10,000 times since the first time in the back seat of a car during college, Tim fantasized about being behind Michelle Obama and Tammy fantasized that the man behind her was the commander-in-chief.  Tim and Tammy were prone to a lot of talking during sex.  It was also the counselor’s opinion that they connect more with each other while having sex in the form of verbally relaying their pleasure with one another.  There would be rhetorical questions such as, “Who owns this pussy? Or who wants this pussy?”.  On a night when neither of them was saying much, they both had thoughts about fucking the first lady and the president while fucking each other.  Both Tim and Tammy had given thought to fucking William and Hilary but never discussed it with each other.  Both had accused the other of being a little too inviting in their body language, tone of voice and smiles with the Whites.

“George Bush was an unattractive man and you never said a word about how he looks.  Why is it that you have yet to come to grips with the fact that our president is black?”  Asked Tammy.

“I don’t care about how white he really is while appearing to be black.  Our president was raised by his grandparents just like most black kids are today.  The difference is that he was raised by white people in Hawaii and he went to Harvard.  He comes off as some native of Chicago and he is about as much a Chicagoan as he is truly black…  Be all that as it is, I don’t want to be around a bunch of gloating black people if Obama wins re-election.  I don’t want to pretend I voted for Obama too just so that I don’t appear racist.  Whites and I don’t mean William and Hilary; still make up 65% of this country.  If whites don’t vote for the president, he isn’t going to be president.  I’m tired of hearing how racist whites still are.  Nobody tried to kill the president and whites overwhelmingly voted for a blackish man,” said Tim.

“Blackish?  Like brackish?  You really are racist and have not come to grips with it.  We live in an all white neighborhood with a smattering of Indians and Koreans and you work with white people in another all white area and people of color make you uncomfortable.  Face it so you can begin to accept it,” said Tammy.

“That sounds like some kind of Oprah-esque brainwashing.  Unless you go out and hold hands with queers and people of all other colors other than your own, you’re racist and homophobic.  I have voted Republican since Reagan when I was a senior in high school.  I voted once for Perot and felt like an asshole after doing it so I will most likely vote Republican until I die.  Not because they are the white party as much as they are not the party to worry and cater to those who don’t wish to do for themselves, don’t care if queers want to fuck up their lives with marriage and hand out money for abortions.  Today if fags want to get abortions, nobody really cares.  People are worried about losing their jobs and homes.  Everything else is not important.  With unemployment still up and the housing market still flat, I don’t see what has happened in the last four years that would make me want to vote for Obama.  Call me racist or call me a realist.  I hope you’re not voting for him because Oprah told you to or because you think he is more attractive than Romney.  I hope you are not fearful of Mormons and for that reason voting for a man who might be a closet Muslim,” said Tim.

“If you don’t want to go, I will simply tell them we are staying home,” said Tammy with folded arms.

“No, we’re going.  They will totally think I made you not go.  I have a gun to my head on this one.  I will go and I will not boast and beat my chest if Romney wins but don’t expect me to cry and bring up Rosa Parks with their relatives if Obama wins.  I don’t want to argue with William either.  I cannot believe he would argue with me over the word fuck.  It most definitely means, for unlawful carnal knowledge and not fornication under consent of the king.  He still believes he is a subject of the queen because he was born in Kingston.  The queen doesn’t give a shit about Jamaica unless she’s looking for a bottle of rum,” said Tim.

Tammy flicked off the light and turned off both televisions.  She turned on her side away from Tim and did not say goodnight.  Tim felt bad and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.  He kissed her softly on the neck and told her that none of that stuff really mattered to him and that finding the person best suited for his life was what really mattered most to him.  Tammy turned towards Tim.  The nice, unsolicited words just put her in the mood.  Tim wrapped his arms around his wife and he began to massage her cold and pimply butt cheeks while kissing her.  They made love as they had many, many times in the past.  Tim then rolled over and immediately began to fall asleep.  A good fucking for Tim was like giving a baby a bottle of milk.  Tim was ready to sleep.  Tammy on the other hand was wide-awake.  She could feel Tim’s hand getting heavy around her waist.  She thought that she should probably say something before Tim truly fell asleep.



“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me, okay?”


“Would you say my ass is as nice as Hilary’s or Michelle Obama’s?”

Tim didn’t want to come off as a liar or have his wife think that he was lying even though he was about to lie.  Michelle Obama and Hilary both looked like they had canned hams for buttocks.  Asses that could support drinks and so on.  Tim wanted to sleep and he wanted Tammy to sleep too.  He had to think quickly.  He leaned in and kissed his wife under her ear.

“In this age when men need Viagra.  I never need a boost when it comes to you.  You still give me a full metal jacket after all these years.  I still feel like an admiral of a beautiful ship when I get behind you…  I’d rather have your ass than any others.”

Tammy bought the nice words and Tim fell fast asleep.  They will be watching the election results with the Whites tonight.   How about you?

October 16, 2012

Between Auckland and Oakland or Why Get Married?

Filed under: Detroit,humor,obama,Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:33 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Uncle Boog sat at the bar waiting for his nephew, the youngest son of his older sister.  Boog was a drill sergeant in the Army who after five tours of duty, was sent to North Carolina to whip future recruits into soldiers.  Boog sat watching the debate between Mitt Romney and President Obama with aviator shades on, uniform and drill sergeant hat.  People in the establishment looked at the bizarre character and wondered who he was and why he was there.  Boog was waiting for his nephew.  The youngest son of his older sister.  I think I mentioned that already.

Boogard went by the name Boog because Clarence was just not tough enough and so, since the age of six, Clarence was called Boog.  If you want a fight with a tough man, call Boog by his birth given name.

Joe walked in to see his uncle starring intently at the television.  Joe patted Boog on the back.  Boog turned quickly and grabbed the wrist of his nephew and twisted it.  Upon recognizing his nephew, he released his hand and pulled a stool out for him to sit.  Boog slid an envelope with $1,000.00 in it to Joe and explained that he could not bring himself to attend his wedding but wanted to give him a boost in the form of money instead of a gift.

“Your mom mentioned a registry…  I had never heard of a registry.  I came to find out you picked all your stuff at Crate and Barrel.  I stood in line with a list of stuff that your girl picked out behind two queers that wanted to return a Dutch oven.  I suddenly looked around and noticed all the people in the place were queer.  Messy fucking hair like rodents ran around on top of their heads, horn-rimmed glasses and tight pants.  A man should sound like a man even if he fancies another man.  You were born a man, act like a man.”

The bartender brought an orange colored beer to Joe as Boog drank a glass of red wine.  Joe laughed at the hard man drinking red wine.  For as macho as Boog was, holding a glass daintily, swirling the glass and sniffing it seemed almost surreal to Joe.

“Wine?  I got hooked on it in Germany.  I was seeing a fraulein who got me on the stuff.  She wanted to marry and have me take over her father’s farm near Bavaria.  I’m no marriage material.  I look at people and they think they’re going to be happy legally chaining themselves together until they realize that guys are lazy and chicks are borderline nuts at any given time.  You got a guy getting fat and soft, watching athletes in their prime going at it like gladiators for their enjoyment which detracts from their boring lives.  Getting fat and soft in a lazy-boy and the old lady is disenchanted with the fact that he doesn’t want to do nothing or go anywhere.  She gets upset and eats, he gets tired and eats.  They have less sex and then it becomes nearly impossible for him to have sex so he gets Viagra so that he can have sex again after getting a membership to a gym.  He’ll put his fat ass on a treadmill and walk for a few weeks and get despondent over the fact that he still looks like a sack of shit.  So he says fuck it…  I’m going to have wings and beer and watch sports and she can just go fuck herself.  Well she’s not fucking herself.  She goes out and gets in shape.  She sees that Oprah ran a marathon and so she does a 5k then a 10k and has confidence to go out and have a chocolate-tini with her less than satisfied suburban soccer mom friends who are also angry about their less than favorable marriages that has come way under there vision and expectations that go back to the days when Ken and Barbie met and married in their bedrooms on rainy days…  I’m not trying to dissuade you.  You might be just fine.”

Boog ordered another Carmenere that cost $12.00 a glass.  He studied the bottle and decided that if he got the chance, he would have to visit Chile.  He had admired Pinochet and the days when the CIA could depose a head of state and prop up a puppet for national interest.  Boog hated the way the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were handled.  Boog was part of the group that had to replace the crew at Abu Graib.  One of the female American soldiers was caught trying to sexually service the inmates that were trying to kill her.  Boog hated people.  Discovering something so perverse just solidified his ill view of humanity.

“So he’s getting out of shape and she’s running races and before you know it, some dude at a bar from New Zealand is buying her drinks and talking about how wholesome his life was raising fucking sheep in a town near Auckland.  She loves his accent and doesn’t care that his wife misunderstands him and that he lives in Oakland.  She doesn’t know the difference between Oakland and Auckland and that New Zealand is not Australia and that the suave motherfucker with the Geico accent is hoping to land her like an aircraft on autopilot.  Her old man is watching Rutgers playing some fucking school you never heard of or ever considered going to at home in a chair and the Kiwi is trying to sell her cock and his cleaning products that he peddles for a living all at the same time.  She never questions why he is living in Detroit if New Zealand is paradise and why he walked away from a million acres of land looking over the Pacific Ocean.  He came to America to sell industrial cleaning supplies while looking at the Detroit River?  My advice to you, son is to stay off the lazy boy.  You may have to go to Ikea and take Salsa Dancing lessons.  You have to try to follow the vision she has in her head of what marriage is supposed to be.  After you spawn a few kids, her attention will turn to the kids.  You then dedicate your lives to raising a spoiled little fuck that will sass you and claim you ruined their lives one day while sitting at a bar talking to someone.  Who do you know that doesn’t hate their parents or feel their parents came up woefully short?  We all have expectations of things and how they should be.  We feel short changed and then go and watch sports or drink in lounges like this one.  I married and I shouldn’t have.  I took this bad job and really I have always wanted to be a nude scientist or what have you.  We work until we aren’t functional and then we get senior discounts for shit just for living long enough to not be worth anything to people younger than us.  We then gloss over days gone by and how things were so much better and how the youth are going to kill this country…  You look at these two assholes wanting to be president of this country and for what?  So they can be on a coin or dollar bill some day?  So fat children can have the day off from school to sit cooped up in an apartment and watch television and eat partially hydrogenated shit causes it’s too dangerous to go outside and celebrate that old dead president’s life…  So where you going for your honeymoon?”

August 2, 2011

Obama’s Text Messages


His name was John Holmes but everyone referred to him as The Wad.  The Wad was a smallish British Man with bushy blond hair, horned rimmed glasses and a smirk on his face at all times.  The Wad expertise was getting information that seemed impossible to get.

            The Wad had the occasion to meet with members of the Republican National Committee.  While swirling a Scotch in his glass at a Washington DC gathering of top GOP, The Wad posed a question.

            “Wouldn’t the public really like to know what it is your president says and thinks?  None of the farce you see behind the podium, Hail to the Chief and all that rubbish.  What I’m talking about is lifting the rocks and watching the bugs scurry about.  You people here in the states stay glued to television watching grotesquely obese individuals lose weight, has-beens and almost-were individuals dance and so forth.  Don’t think for a moment that transcripts of your president’s text messages wouldn’t be for every inquiring mind… Because it would.”

            Several older men with furrowed brows listened with interest to the jovial Brit.  Nothing was decided that night but soon after, The Wad received a text message from a Republican mover and shaker.  This is what the Cryptic message said:




            Keep in mind that the American people voted for change in 2008.  This change most likely meant an end to war, lower inflation, lower taxes for working people who make a modest living and possibly more jobs.  By election year four years later, taxes were higher, there was still a war in a part of the world that 99% of Americans would never visit and jobs were difficult to find.  Very little had changed.  The one thing that the president had over the stable of GOP hacks was his personality.  Being able to expose the president as a fraud and fake might be the only thing that could put a Republican back in the White House. 

 Two million in United States currency was wired to The Wad in London.  The GOP officials read in giddy glee at the intimate text messages between the president, his vice president, secretary of state, his wife and the singer R. Kelly.  It was a perfect deterrent from real issues like two unfunded wars, the economic mess of Wall Street, lost jobs and vanishing job opportunities.  Reading text messages from the president and his inner circle would be perfect to get people’s minds of the fact that to pay off the national debt, each person living legally and illegally, would have to pony up close to $40,000.  For all the talk of deficit reduction, there really wasn’t going to be a reduction.  Text messages are more interesting and easier to understand than finance.  Here is how it went:


President- We yanked Osama too early.  I’m going to need to pull another rabbit from a

                  hat before the election.  Any ideas?


Secretary of state- I say you put the bloodhounds on John Boehner.  Expose him like

                              Jimmy Swaggart.  Leave him crying like Eliot.  The public wants

                              blood. I say shove it up his ass.


Vice president- I’m ready to do what is necessary.


President- Lol…  I like the picture of Swaggart.  The holier than thou crowd caving like a

                           A house of cards.  Do we have someone digging up the dirt on the

                           Republican front runners?  Get word to Anderson Cooper.  We  

                           need this exposed.  I know he’s sore about the gay marriage thing.  That’s his

                           thing.  I just don’t believe it is the next civil rights issue.  Too many people

                           still don’t give a fuck about gays.  I got enough fish frying to worry about

                           all that.  If we need to, get Sulu from Star Trek to do some leg work for us.


Secretary of State- Do you really think we have much to worry about?  Mormons?  Get

                               real.  Stay the course like Bush Sr. used to say.  We got this one 

                               in the bag.  The GOP is looking for the great white hope and it isn’t

                               there.  McCain came off looking like a crippled Beetlejuice and now

                               what?  Mormons?  Airheads from Alaska?


President’s wife- The girls want to know if there is still a chance we might visit Haiti. 

                            They really are not fond of their French tutor and would rather quit if

                             We are not going to France or Haiti.


President- With all I have going on at this moment.  Look, you tell them we all have jobs

                   to do.  They’ll learn French.  I don’t want to hear again that Americans cannot speak anything but

                   English and certainly not our girls. I would like nothing more than for the press to catch wind of our

                    girls parlaying Francais.


Vice President- I’m ready to do what’s necessary.


President- Cool, Joe.  I’ll let you know what’s up.


R. Kelly- Wad up, dog.  Got a gig in Baltimore.  Was wondering if you wanted to get a

                A game going.  Two on two.  Me and Shaq, you and Prince.Lol.  Lemme know.


Secretary of State-  This may sound a bit Nixon like but I think we set up surveillance of

                               What is going on at the republican headquarters.  We get pros for this

                                and then turn it over to CNN as if they had been on the trail all along.

                                This will detract from anything that has flatlined and stagnated.


R. Kelly- Yo I hope your old lady is cool with me stopping by.  Don’t want to start no

                stuff, dog.  Two Chicago boys thrown a little rock.  That’s all.


Vice President- Just say the word.  I’m ready to do what is necessary.


President’s wife- I just spoke to Oprah.  She said she can arrange for Justin Bieber to

                            show up and do a few songs for the girl’s party.  What do you think?


President- I am copying you all on this same text.  I am overwhelmed with text messages

                 right now and need to put some fingers on some dykes.  French- yes.  Justin   

                 Beaver okay but what will it cost?  Tell Oprah I said hello and thank you. 

               R.K- B-ball yes if you can get Prince and Shaq, I’m down with that fo sho.  Hill- have

                your people look into what can be found on people of interest and so on.  Joe-

                I need you to visit a VFW hall in Fergus Falls, Minnesota next Friday for their

                 fish fry if you can attend.  Gotta go.  Playing golf with Boehner.


            The GOP was ready to make the call to Fox News when the bomb dropped in Great Britain.  Rupert Murdoch’s stock dropped in British Sky and really that was the only thing that really scared people who were stock holders.  Somebody, some employees, had decided to hack into phone messages.  Hacking of the royal family, victims of the London bombing and dead British soldiers.  The GOP feared that handing over transcripts of text messages of the president, might back fire and might be illegal too.  One older gentleman twisted the scan that he printed off of his computer message from The Wad and lit the paper and then lit his cigar.  Several men watched the flames burn the transcripts.  The flames glowed in all of their despondent eyes.  One man among them spoke a few words.

            “Well, boys…  Let’s pray that a calamity arrives in time to save us.  We have to HOPE for a CHANGE at this point…  That’s all we have left.”

July 19, 2011

Ali/Babar and the Wife Thief

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Oprah,Short Story,walmart — blackhumouristpress @ 5:15 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Ali was born a full six minutes ahead of his twin brother Babar.  Mother decided that her boys would be A and B and so it was.  A and B’s father decided when they were young that there was a land of great opportunity and diversity where immigrants were accepted and could find work, this land was Canada of course.

            Ali and Babar were as identical as identical could be.  Their parents could only tell them apart as infants and toddlers by a small birthmark on Ali’s left butt cheek.  As time went on, Ali was the quiet, thoughtful and a methodical young boy that would construct buildings with Lego’s and Babar was the loud, busy child that would deconstruct things his brother created.  As time went on, Babar suspected that his parents favored his twin brother at every turn in the road.  When it came to time to find them each a wife, Babar was convinced his parents held Ali in higher esteem.  Babar was matched up with a woman nearly the same height as him who carried more than a few extra pounds who had to shave the hair on her rotund stomach.  She wheezed, chortled and drooled in her sleep and always smelled like salami.  His wife’s mother had accompanied her only child to Canada fromPakistan and so Babar had a package deal that he did not care for on top of all the quirks.

            Ali went to Queen’s University in Kingston,Ontario and landed a job with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  Babar often joked with his brother that he wanted to come toOttawato see his brother on a strong black horse, dressed in a red suit.  Ali was not offended.  Ali’s wife had been a runner-up in the Miss Pakistani World contest in Mississauga,Ontario and was beautiful among beautiful women.  Babar was upset that his brother had a good government job and a hot wife who maintained her shapely physique despite having two children, while his wife appeared to have swallowed furniture after having just one child.

            Babar actually loved the freedom of being a cab driver.  Like most Canadian boys, Babar was hockey crazy.  Babar loved watching the sport and playing it.  Babar kept his goalie equipment in the trunk of his cab and would not take customers who needed the trunk for suitcases.  Babar played shinny and league games all overTorontoand in nice weather, he could be found playing cricket at a park here or there.  Having a smaller home and less prestigious job was the trade off for Babar who loved the freedom to do what he wanted at anytime.  Babar could live with all that.  Having a less desirable wife than his brother was something that was hard to absorb and after close to seven years of marriage, the reality that his wife was plain and heavy and his brother’s wife was stunningly pretty and fit, still was something that overtly bothered Babar.

            Babar was more Canadian than he was Muslim or Pakistani and so it came as a surprise to Babar’s extended family when he had made the announcement that he was going back toPakistanto become a better Muslim than he had been up to that point.  Babar made friends inPakistanand grew to hate the Americans like the rest of the world.  A persuasive older man had convinced Babar that he was the best candidate to go to Afghanistan to train to be a terrorist.  It sounded like a good idea at the time.  Train to do god’s work of stopping infidels who occupy the land of Allah and his messenger Mohammed. 

            Babar got into the best shape of his life running around in a part of the world that looked more like the moon.  Babar was sent back toPakistan and ordered to wait in a hotel room.  Three men picked up Babar and covered his head, whisked him away in a hot van to a room without windows where an intense older man with a beard, instructed Babar in English what it was that he had to do.

            “Have you been to Chicago in the United States, my brother?”

            “No sir, but it has an attractive lake front with a food festival in the summer that would be worth checking out if I had a week or so to spend away from home…”

            “Yes…  Well that can be arranged.  You will be picking up a Ford Flex at Pearson Airport that will be registered to you with Ontario plates.  We will need you to drive to Chicago and put the vehicle through the basement of what they now call the Willis Tower.  Most still refer to it as theSearsTower.  Same difference. It is on a South Wacker Drive.  You have to navigate your way to the lower Wacker in order to get to the parking structure that supports the entire building”

            “Am I to leave this car in the parking lot of the building?”

            “You are to drive this automobile at top speed into one of the supports of the building…”

            “And when do I bail out of the automobile?”

            “There is no bailing.  Thus shall it be.  You shall be paired with companions pure, most beautiful of eye.  In the gardens will be mates of the modest gaze that have never been touched…In other words, you get the virgins when you’ve completed the mission.”

            It was sort of a tough sell for Babar.  He undoubtedly felt that the talent in the afterlife had to be better than what he had at home.  One in seventy two had to be hot or at least beautiful to the eye.  Babar convincingly accepted the task of picking up a new Ford Flex stuffed with explosives and caesium-137 that had been purchased by a Russian cab driver who was actually Ukrainian but spoke only Russian because back in the old days, that is what everyone spoke.  This Russian cab driver used to be a scientist in the formerSoviet Unionand was able to steal enough of the radioactive material stored in lead cases to sell to crackpots for a good price.

            While Babar was on a long flight from Pakistan to Toronto, he thought about how he could get out of committing suicide.  After all, Babar didn’t hate Americans anymore than other Canadian citizens.  Americans were loud and fat and felt that they were the standard bearers of freedom and had won the Cold War through their brand of democracy and capitalism tinged with strategic economic imperialism.  Babar really wasn’t passionate about felling the largest building in the world that represented American greatness and strength.  Babar was just not that passionate about donating his life to the cause.  The wheels began to turn in Babar’s head and before long, Babar had devised a way to complete his mission and get his brother’s beautiful wife all at the same time.  All he would have to do is convince his twin to drive the Ford toChicago.  And rig the automobile to detonate from Toronto with his brother in the vehicle in Chicago.  Technology is wonderful.

            “I have never asked anything of you in my whole life.  All I am asking is that you drive this automobile for me toChicago.  Someone will meet you in downtown Chicago who is interested in buying this vehicle that I won in a hockey raffle.  I don’t need the car, I need the money. I cannot afford to make this trip right now.  You have the vacation time to do this for me. You park it in a parking structure and wait for my instructions.”

            Ali opted to do this for his brother.  Besides, he really wanted to visit Chicago to hear some Blues and eat some really good pizza.

  Ali had crossed the border at Windsor without much questioning just as the skies grew dark and angry.  Before Ali could change his Canadian currency into American greenbacks, it had begun to storm.  The wind was hurricane force and the sky was as dark as night.  Ali pulled off the highway in Detroit as the windshield wipers could not keep pace with the rain that came down as if he were in a car wash.  The streets in Detroit resembled rivers.  Ali had decided to pull off the highway until the rain let up when he hit a hole in the road that was caused by a Detroiter who had stolen the sewer cap to sell as scrap metal.  The scrap yard accepted the sewer cap even though it had stamped on it in clear letters, CITY OF DETROIT.  The new vehicle had extensive damage and made a wheezing sound like Babar’s wife as it chugged along at about 10 miles an hour or 6.2 kilometers per hour.

            Ali drove past many abandon homes and streets that had no homes as the sky began to clear up.  Off in the distance was a Walmart unlike any he had ever read about in the middle of nowhere Detroit.  This Walmart was the Disneyland of Walmarts.  There was daycare, eye care, auto care and a petting zoo within the building that stretched over a length of a city block.  Ali passed thousands of parked cars as the Ford Flex limped up to the auto center.  Upon lifting the auto up in the air, it was discovered that the shocks were shot and the frame was twisted. 

            Ali walked to a motel that rented by the hour or night.  The beds took quarters and the ceilings had mirrors.  Ali watched the BBC news on public television and drifted asleep.  It was early in the morning when he returned to the Walmart. Ali drank coffee in the waiting room of the Walmart auto service center watching re-runs of the Oprah Show when the explosion occurred.

             One of the mechanics took a torch to the shock and a frame support that had gotten crushed when the front wheel on the driver side fell inside a large hole.  Ali had been speaking on the phone when he hit hole at thirty miles an hour.   Ali nearly bit off his own tongue as his head hit the roof of the vehicle.

            The explosion was the loudest thing that anyone had ever heard before except for those that had served for their nation in places like Afghanistan or Iraq.  The sound was familiar to them and they knew that it wasn’t a gun shot or a back firing truck.  It was a homemade bomb.

            Babar took a train up to Ottawa and hung around a coffee shop until the news broke that there was terrorist act against the world’s largest Walmart.  The CBC showed pictures of stunned people crying and consoling each other while fire fighters tried to extinguish the smoldering mess that was once the grandest department store ever erected.  Babar wondered what had happened and what had gone wrong.  It made no difference to Babar either way.  A few Detroiters were interviewed near the scene.  One was a man who went by the name of Yates.

            “Itta damn shame actually…  You know how hard it was in the first place to get any kinda grocery stoh, dee-partment stoh and automotive stoh and what have you right here in inna city Dee-troit?  Shhh damn…  Come on, now.  Who gonna wanna come back now aftah this?  Terrorist don’t like no success.  Dee-troit was coming back.  People was working again and buying cars and now this.  We all gone hafta go north of 8 Mile again or buy all important stuff at liquor stores…  Ain’t right.  It like roaches, you think you got them all an then some somehow git into yo box of cereal. Bin Laden waddent the end.  He die and someone else grab the wheel and drive. I’m saddened by this today.  Damn shame….  Ain’t nothin else but a damn shame.”

            Now Babar had gotten a tattoo of a mole on his left ass cheek and purchased clothes that he knew his brother would wear.  He walked into his brother’s house with out Ali’s wife or kids batting an eye.  The dog knew his master by scent and snarled at the imposter.  Babar had to give the dog some treats just to calm him.  The wife clung to who she thought was her husband and tried to console him over the possible loss of his brother.

            “It is a shame really.  To think your brother, playing hockey, drinking and watching porn and he turns around in a short period of time to become a fundamentalist.   They say he is in intensive care and has no hearing and cannot remember who he is…  So sad.”

            Babar was hopeful that his brother might die or remain incapable of knowing who he was.  Babar rolled with it.  He made love to his sister-in-law five times the first day and four the next.  She had to leave home to shop just to keep who she thought was her husband off of her.  Everything was working out as planned until Monday morning came around and Babar arrived at work and showed his name tag and had to hold his hand over a scanner.

            “This crazy thing has been acting up lately, Ali…  Just go ahead, we’ll have this checked, eh?”  Said the guard.

            Ali worked in forensics for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  In fact Ali or Babar was studying finger prints and did not have a clue what he was supposed to be looking for or what he had was supposed to have been working on the Friday prior.  Ali’s co-workers thought he was a bit out of it but understood since his brother had been part of a terrorist plot to destroy an American institution like Walmart.

            When Babar returned home that Monday evening, the land line rang.  His wife or sister-in-law answered the phone and had a look of relief and happiness as she listened to a doctor report’s that Babar or Ali actually, would live.  They suggested his twin come to Detroit to spend time with him in hopes of getting his memory back.  Ali’s heart sank but really it was Babar’s heart.  He wondered if he would wind up in a Canadian prison or an American prison or if the terror cell that paid him and trained him, would catch up with him and kill him.  Ali/Babar looked at his beautiful wife/sister-in-law and told her what he thought would be best given the situation; more sex.

            “I will go to Detroit to help my brother…  It is the best thing I could do now.  I think before I go though that we should probably…  Well you know…  One last, I mean more time before I go.”

            The beautiful woman became suspicious.  The unquenchable appetite for sex, the politeness, the indifferent attitude towards their children and the dog who constantly growled and snarled at Ali/Babar all indicated that Ali was not Ali actually.  An idea came to the beautiful woman.

            “It has been quite a long time since I’ve allowed you to have anal sex with me… I think since we may be apart for some time, anal sex would be best for both of us.  Would you enjoy that, my love?”

            The real Ali had confided in his wife about his brother Babar’s fascination with having anal sex.  Ali on the other hand was never interested in engaging in that sort thing.  Ali/Babar’s eagerness revealed who he really was.

            “Okay my love…  I’m going to freshen up.  Why don’t you hop into bed and I will be there momentarily…”

            Within minutes, the RCMP had surrounded the house and came through the bedroom door and windows where Babar anxiously waited with an erect penis that pitched a tent under the sheet while he clasped his hands behind his head.  It became a very interesting story to all that heard, watched or read the details.  A man trained to be a terrorist sends his twin brother to bomb the largest building inNorth Americawith a vehicle packed with explosives and nuclear material, while moving in and assuming his brother’s life. 

The two Mounties and FBI agents burst out in laughter when Babar told the story of laying in bed waiting to have anal sex with his wife or the woman who was supposed to be his wife.  One of the FBI agents, a large African-American man, shook his head and put his hand on Babar’s shoulder.

            “You should have gotten up and ran at that invitation…”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “What beautiful woman asks her husband to perform anal on her…?  Shh damn… Come on, now.”

October 3, 2009

And the Nobel Peace Prize Goes to … Oprah

Filed under: Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:51 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Oprah flew in late in the day from Copenhagen to Chicago and was taken by her driver to her condominium in Water Tower Place on Michigan Avenue in the heart of downtown Chicago’s retail Mecca.

“I told you Chicago, Chicago… Do you understand that? Its 2000 miles away from California… Just stay there with the damn dogs… Yes, yes… I got another call coming in. Stay there with the dogs, I’ll be home on Saturday,” said Oprah while holding her temples with her left thumb and middle finger while speaking to one of many assistants at the White House.

“Look, when he gets back I need to talk to him about all this Olympic garbage. It’s been a colossal waste of my time and has done nothing but hurt my stature. The god damn mayor drags me to Europe to help land this thing and we’re bumped in the first damn round? How does this happen? How is it we don’t get Jordan in on this whole thing?”

Oprah’s shoes clop and click and keep time with her nylon stockings that rub against one another as she angrily walks to the private elevator that leads to an entire floor which is her home while in Chicago, working on her show.

“What the hell is the name of that damn fool in Iran? Amad, Amoo… How do you say it? Okay then… Amadinejhad and Netanyahu… You let him know that I want to be the one to broker a peace deal between them. It’s pretty clear if something isn’t done soon, they’re going to have functional nukes and the Jews will wind up doing something. This way we make a pre-emptive move … Exactly, exactly… Yup and then I at least am in the running for a Nobel Prize and everyone forgets about this and the damn Michigan Avenue extravaganza we had back in September… James Taylor? It’s a long story. I owed a favor to Carly Simon… So did they say when they were getting back? Okay… Well no I don’t hold the president responsible for this and I’m not blaming him or Michelle. It’s just when you get involved in these things and you attach your name to them and they flop… Exactly, exactly… It’s symbolic. That’s exactly it… I don’t need this looming over me now. A big loss today and I need a big win tomorrow. You have him get this going. We’ll meet in Iceland where Reagan met with Gorbachev way back when… Right, right. I think if we can get this solved between those two countries, it might be possible to get some of the moderate elements in the Taliban to maybe do a Skype from Afghanistan where we look at the war from their prospective… I know, it’s just really upsetting and frankly very embarrassing. I usually try to stay out of these things but they asked me and now I’m asking them to help me save face and I think this could really help them, the nation and the world. If Frost could talk to Nixon then I think I could work out this nuclear issue between Amah, Amoo… How do you say that name again? Okay, in any event, I need a call tomorrow once they’ve had a chance to unwind. This has to happen quickly. Fox news is having a field day with this whole thing… Okay then, you take care… Buh bye,” said Oprah while hanging up.

Oprah stood at the window looking north along the shore of Lake Michigan as the sun began to rise. She took a sip of water and swirled the ice cubes in the glass.

“Amah-dinah-jad, Amah-dinah-jad… I better write that down. I’ll forget how to say that by the morning.”

July 30, 2009

Waiting for Oprah

Filed under: Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 2:28 am
Tags: , ,

Waiting for Oprah
Bobby and Agnes were treated for their injuries and sent home. They really needed the beds at Cook County Hospital for people with more serious injuries such as knife wounds or gun shots. More people died of knife and gun shot wounds at Cook County Hospital in one year than the number of American soldiers in Afghanistan. That could change next year.

Bobby and Agnes had badly bruised faces, missing teeth and serious whiplash. Anytime one who is hit from behind in an automobile at seventy miles an hour, would find their head would flip back and forth like a rag doll.
Bobby and Agnes lived in Agnes’ sister’s apartment off of Archer Avenue on the south side of Chicago. Beatrice was Agnes’ older sister. She had two children that she raised herself from the age of eighteen. Her children had children young too and are struggling not far from where they once struggled with their mother, their entire youth.
Beatrice was a beauty when she was a younger woman but at 43 years of age, she appeared to be clos er to 53 years of age. Years of smoking left her walls yellow and her voice husky. Whenever she laughed hard enough, Beatrice coughed up phlegm. Beatrice has worked at the same diner on 95th Street across from Little Family of Mary Hospital since she was a teenager. What she doesn’t know yet is that she will eventually die at the hospital across the street from the diner. That won’t come for a while yet, but it’s coming.
Beatrice was not a fan of Bobby. Bobby was in his mid thirties and had been in and out of jail. Bobby did eight years for attempted murder of his ex-wife’s lover. It was Bobby’s cousin Bill who had mistakenly fired the gun that grazed the arm of the man who had been seeing Bobby’s wife for years. Bobby took the rap for his younger cousin who had no previous record. Bobby reasoned that he probably would wind up in jail again at some point and Bill may never have to. Bill had at least a high school degree.
Bobby and Agnes laid on the pull out bed in the living room the next morning. It was a one bedroom apartment that Beatrice rented. Bobby and Agnes both laid propped up in bed, smoking cigarettes and watched the Oprah Show. Oprah had just changed the lives of some poor people with three children. They no longer had to live in public housing not far from where Bobby and Agnes lived. Agnes loved watching the Oprah Show. 0Bobby hated Oprah. He felt Oprah had too much power over American women. He felt that if Oprah ordered all men killed, that those just in the book club alone might take up the task.
“Why doesn’t that bitch come here and move us out of this palace? Why don’t you write her and tell her you ready for a make over and a new house? Shit she could fix our teeth and hair and my god damn car that’s now killed… Call her now. She right there in the studio,” said Bobby.
“The show is previously taped… Hush up now so I kin see this,” said Agnes.
Bobby watched and shook his head as his cigarette ashes fell to their yellowing sheets that had not been washed in months. Bobby rubbed his temples and tried to massage his own neck. It hurt too much to touch. Bobby’s head hurt to move it up or down and from left to right. They were both issued braces to keep their heads still but neither intended on wearing them.
Bobby was urinating with the bathroom door open when he heard knocking on the door. He yelled for Agnes to get it. Agnes yelled back that she couldn’t get up. Beatrice heard the commotion and went to the door. A man in a suit with a brief case in hand, stood smiling at the door. The man stood there and observed the squalor and wondered how people so genetically close to himself could live like animals. It smelled of cigarettes, stale liquor and unwashed clothes. All the drapes were drawn. One would not be able to tell that is was day or night between the shades and drapes. The man in the suit never stopped smiling. He asked to talk to both Bobby and Agnes. Bobby walked towards the man with his shirt off and zipper unzipped on his dirty jeans that he had slept in. Bobby suspected the man was from the IRS or an undercover cop. Bobby pre-empted the man by speaking first.
“I paid my debt to society. My girl bailed me out and I go to court next Wednesday. Til then I ain’t got nothing to say,” said Bobby.
“Sir… Hear me out. Your life is about to change for the better…”
Agnes struggled to sit up. She smiled despite the fact that she was missing her two front teeth and had two black eyes. Agnes was certain her prayers were going to be answered.
“Your from the Oprah Show, aren’t you?”
The man in the suit just smiled and began to explain to Bobby what his purpose was. Bobby had a few questions to ask of the finely dress man.
“So lemme git this straight… You git 33% of whatever we can git in court?”
“That’s entirely it…”
“That sounds like a lot of fucking money, man. I git in a gawd damn accident and you git to walk way with a third? That’s some bullshit, man,” said Bobby.
“Sounds bad to you? How would you like 100% of dick? Sounds a lot worse than 66% doesn’t it? Let me speak plainly, my friend… You’re living with your common law wife in her sister’s one bedroom apartment. You no longer have a car and you work for a Polish gentleman who calls you to work when his regular crew is too drunk or busy to work for him. You have nothing. You stand to make enough money to catapult you out of these dregs that you presently wallow in. You could buy a home, a car, start a business. You more or less have won the lottery. My job is to bring this to fruition. Athletes have agents when they make their millions because they have agents who know how to shake the tree for money. You want to risk going to court and telling the judge in your folksie way that you have been wronged? The judge will dismiss the case and you won’t get diddly squat. Now if you have me going before the judge, I can tell him what a har d working man you are that is trying to make a buck out of a quarter. I can tell him how your health for the rest of your days, will prevent you from working any longer as an apprentice tuck pointer and that you no longer can work the only job you’ve ever known. I can tell him how the correctional system rehabilitated you and how you’ve been an upstanding citizen who works and pays his taxes.”
“Um… I git paid under the table in cash. I ain’t filed since 1993, ” said Bobby.
“Don’t worry my friend, we’ll just skip that part of it,” said the smiling attorney with bleached white teeth. “We’ll work around all that… All I need is a signature below from both of you… Getting whacked from behind from an executive of a major automobile company… By years end, you’ll be hob nobbing with Oprah… Trust me.”

Blog at