Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 22, 2017

Alternate Ending

Rush hour in the United States, in the morning as the sun gives hope
to the inhabitants of the Earth, that tasks will get accomplished and
happiness is near the horizon.  Somewhere.
Scott, an average middle class white man with a mortgage, two
children, a wife with high expectations and plans for their family,
listened to National Public Radio while aggressively speeding up and
slowing down to get around trucks or other drivers of vehicles only
willing to do the speed limit.
“The president arrived in Cuba today to tour the country and to
witness the closing of the Guantanamo prison.  The last of the
prisoners were sent to federal prisons in Louisiana, Kansas and
Illinois.  This comes as the next wave of political refugees from
Syria, Yemen and Eritrea arrived in Atlanta…”
Scott turned to local news- all expressways designed in 1953 during
the Eisenhower administration, were jammed packed.  The weather would
be warm, Blackhawks won, Bulls lost; thirteen people were shot in the
city of Chicago overnight, three dead, two in critical condition.
Scott noticed a large Ford truck that was raised to monster truck size
in his rear view mirror.  The tires on the truck hummed.  The driver
of the truck rode right on Scott’s bumper until he moved from the far
left lane to the next lane over to the right.  The truck sped up
impatiently.  The bumper stickers on the back window of the truck
read, “She’s not my President”, “Trump 2020” and “Hindsight 2020”.
Scott profiled the asshole as he tailgated the next driver ahead of
him.  White-undereducated- homophobic-xenophobic-misogynistic, Trump,
gun, military loving, cow tipping, tobacco chewing, Country Music
listening, American and Confederate flag waving fellow… Citizen.
Guys who fit several of the profiles listed, beat him up in high
school and at college parties but he found a woman who didn’t want him
to bench press his weight a dozen times and drunk wrestle guy friends
in the backyard.  Scott’s wife wanted him to garden and do projects
around the home.  She wanted to go wine tasting and antiquing and take
Ballroom or Salsa dancing with Scott.  They were tolerant people who
loved diversity.  They wanted to vote for Bernie but alas things did
not pan out.  They both kept their Bernie stickers on the back of
their electric cars.
A minivan with a driver wearing some sort of shrouds crossed the
divider twice into the far right lane of the expressway.  Scott
applied the breaks to allow the driver to merge.  Instead the driver
drifted back to the left back into their lane.  Scott thought about
punching it or getting behind the driver and move to the left lanes to
pass.  Still having a bit of testosterone in his testis, he punched
the accelerator of his electric car and it raced forward the way a
semi does.  Scott just about passed the minivan when it suddenly
drifted to the right and rammed his car.  Scott lost control at the
speed of 58 miles per hour and careened into the wall.  The driver in
the minivan never applied the breaks.
“What?  What the fuck?  What kind of a fucking asshole does this
fucking shit and takes off?  No fucking way!”
Scott followed the van and called 911.  He was loud and appeared to
be out of control.
“I am the victim of a hit and run!  I am following the car now as we
speak…  I am travelling north on the 94 near Irving Park…”

“Sir… Do you mean west?”
“No, I mean north…  It’s 44 degrees and my screen on my dashboard
says north.  I mean north, what the hell does that matter?”
“It matters to the police when they have to either go east towards
Detroit or west towards Rockford…  Are you following that logic, sir?”
“Okay…  So do you have someone dispatched?  This driver is not stopping…”
Once off the highway, Scott called 911 for the city of Chicago and
answered a slew of questions that just made him mad.  Scott followed
driver all the way to a Halal meat shop.  There were sweet shops,
hookah lounges, restaurants and most of the writing was in Arabic.
Scott walked along side a woman most likely that was covered head to
toe in a burqa.  There was a little screen for her to look out of as
she hustled away from Scott and into the butcher shop.  She was there
to collect a lamb that was just slaughtered according to Muslim
guidelines hence halal.
A dozen cab driver looking men, scruffy with open dress shirts were
drinking brackish coffee and talking.  They immediately stopped
talking when Scott walked in.  Scott stared at the group of men and
then turned around and walked out.  When he walked back out, there
were two white cops.  Scott explained what happened with loud hand
gestures.  One of the cops radioed in for a “facilitator”.
“You’re waiting for a what?”
“A facilitator…  A female who speaks Arabic.  When these things come
up, this is how it is handled.  If we go in and drag her out, we wind
up on the evening fucking news.  Racist, xenophobic cops trampling on
the constitutional rights of a non-citizen and so on…  You have to be
careful of how you treat these people.  When I went to Iraq to fight
with and against them, they would just as soon blow you to pieces with
a bomb strapped to their chest, but we have to handle all these
situations delicately…  My advice to you…  Just file a hit and run
claim against your own insurance.  These people won’t have insurance,
license or anything.  You won’t get dick…  Just letting you know how
this shit works, sir.”
“This is fucking bullshit!”
“We agree with you…  Here comes the facilitator.”
The facilitator was a young thin white woman dressed in a white robe
like material.  She had the meekness of a librarian and barely spoke a
whisper.  She jotted down notes, covered her head with a scarf and
went in to talk to the woman.  After ten minutes, the facilitator came
out and started speaking with the word “so”.  She started every
sentence with so.  The facilitator went to college and majored in
Arabic just to land a job as a go between.
“So I spoke to Abu-Nasim-Kareem…  So she claims that she was not in
an accident and does not know what you’re talking about…  So I suggest
the police inspect the vehicles.”
The handles of the minivan on had a scuff but no paint.  Scott’s car
had a large indentation but no paint on the driver side and a
destroyed passenger side from contact with the wall.  The diagnosis
was nothing.
“So…  What do I do?”
“If you have insurance and you should.  You should report it.”
“This is fucked up…  I don’t even know what to say.  This is wrong… Fuck!”
Scott went home and poured himself a red wine that he and his wife
had purchased while in Sonoma.  He plopped down on the couch and
turned on the television.  It was 10 am and he was not going to make
it to work.  Scott had decided he was just going home.   He was going
to eat ice cream and watch nothing of substance on television.  Scott
was going to call his insurance company and take a nap and then pick
up his children from school and take them for a Slurpee and pretend
like the whole day never happened. Scott’s father-in-law, an ice
fisherman from Minnesota had been watching Fox news non-stop on their
television while visiting for a month.  His father-in-law had caught a
flight for Minneapolis that morning.  Scott was happy to have his
house back.  No old man to steal the newspaper in the morning, take a
monstrously smell shit before breakfast, breathe loudly like Dark
Vader, click his false teeth and comment out loud about the state of
things, hoping to draw Scott into a debate or a conversation.  He was
gone but Trump took his place.  On the television, at a rally in
Pennsylvania.  Scott never usually listened but he did that morning he
was angry.  Angry like a lot of other people disgruntled socially and
politically that they could not change the things that did not sit
well with them.  Scott poured a second glass of wine and plopped down
on the couch.  Trump took the podium with flag waving hicks in the
background.  Scott didn’t change the channel; he listened for the
first time that he could remember.
“Sometimes…  You lose…  That’s okay.  Sometimes a loss is a win… I
thought about the loss.  The razor thin loss in many states where they
said I had no chance.  I could have walked away and gone on with life.
I have been successful and will continue to be.  We have started a
movement that will continue to grow.  Throwing money at Iran in hopes
they do what we want, is not the answer.  Ignoring radical Islamic
terror is not the answer.  Accepting under vetted refugees is not the
answer.  Allowing America to be the dumping ground of the world is not
the answer.  I could go on with life but I feel my calling is to stop
our decline before it is too late.  This movement will grow and the
media won’t be able to stop this.  I’m going to the people and the
people are going to me… hindsight will be corrected in 2020.
Hindsight 2020!  Hindsight 2020.”
Scott emptied the bottle and did not move or change the channel.  In
hindsight he questioned what he thought and what he believed.  He was
angry and frustrated with an army of many others.  Will it subside?

Advertisements

January 18, 2017

1-20-2017

Pendulum, conundrum, electorate- ho- hum, persuaded and dumb.  Where
did this come from?
Crazy, frightening yet strong.   Simply put simplistic and genius with
a finger on the pulse tapping in to that, which is wrong with us. A
clown to some and they laughed but it was never meant to be funny.
Money, wealthy, ballsy billionaire.  People of color scared of the
unpredictable. Patriotic, simplistic people waving a flag awaiting the
arrival of the despot, in the best spot, at the best time- finally as
ludicrous as revolutionary, scary, obnoxiously brilliant- Americans
are many things but are they resilient?

The modern Prometheus?  What is this success?  Fascist? Genius?
Childish and clueless? Powerful and forceful, bold and amazing the
nasty hero of silent plurality in manicured, sanitized for your
protection suburban subdivisions in search of change of something
outspoken and blunt, unqualified, unbelievable, unstable,
unpresidential somewhere beyond the strip malls.  A clever, vulgar,
realist, opportunistic bombast of a new class- brash and crass.  The
ugly American uber alles.  Better to be feared than loved by the
progressives, the new recessives clinging to the coasts focused on
talking headed arrogance on news television.  A new shrewd, yet lewd,
entertaining aggressive who saved the republic- ans from going the way
of the dinosaurs.  Like Brexit, will he fix it as part of a horribly
refreshing nightmare of less kind and less gentler future?  “Sorry,
this is complicated business…”

December 22, 2016

What Hath God Wrought or A Tweet from Trump

Donald Trump…  You know, the guy nobody believed would become
president of the United States.  The great white hope. Brexit in
America, grab them by the pussy…  That dude.  He happened to watch an
MTV snippet of  resolution suggestions for white guys.  Trump
impetuously grabbed his cell phone, an I-Phone7+ that he received from
Rush Limbaugh as a gift for winning the presidency and decided to
record himself rebutting the millennial advice to white guys.  Very
unpresidential but damn funny.
“I happened to be up late wondering what I would do exactly if one of
our diplomats was whacked while giving a speech or if some exile from
Syria stole a plumbing truck from some poor Polish plumber in Windsor,
Ontario and decided to mow down people figure skating to, “It’s
beginning to look a lot like Christmas” in downtown Detroit.  Find
them and skin them alive?  Put them in Gitmo and play, Born in the USA
night and day in between waterboarding?  Slap Angela Merckle the way
Humphrey Bogart would have slapped a dame back when America was great?
Ah yes…Eisenhower, GM, IBM, unbridled American growth and prosperity…
Before the Beatles grew their hair and everyone smoked pot and hated
their parents for living through the Great Depression, fighting in
World War II and Korea, raised them wholesome and homogenously with
two vacations a year, just so that they could make love to whomever
and hate their parents for not liking Jimi Hendrix… And then I saw a
clip from MTV.   Today you got a whole lot of bust outs living in mom
and dad’s basement, playing beer pong and getting wasted playing
X-Box.  These are the same tools that when they get up to take a piss,
decide to go out and protest the fact that I won…  You know who I’m
talking about.  MTV put them on a recorded message to white guys.  Get
a little more aware, a little more hip and a little less white.  It
starts out with a wholesome looking white chap with a few nose
freckles who waves his hand as a gesture of hello but not a gesture
any person of color would ever do…  Why?  To damn white.  It smacks of
I’m a little pussy, cut in front of me in line, wet your finger and
jam it in my ear, take food you desire off of my plate and sodomize me
if you please.  Then you have the son of Steve Urkel, wearing a cat
shirt.  A nerdy black man who is in the know on what white guys need
to do in 2017…  Holy Smokes!  Then you get the poster boy for Michelle
Obama’s get-the-fuck-out-and-exercize-you-lazy-fat-fuck who looks like
the fat son of that hot Spanish chick, Sonia Veraga.  Next you have
Ugly Betty and Betty’s better looking sister and then the girl who
defected from her violin lessons and really thinks being white sucks…
Maybe she’ll date a black guy she was a pen pal to in prison with a
nice neck tattoo, gold-capped tooth and saggy trousers.  To his dismay
this modern day, Look Who’s Coming to Dinner might find out that white
momma wants to bag her daughter’s bad boy and white poppa’s decided to
switch teams during his mid-life crisis and grow a set of breasts,
crop his junk and learn to garden and cry at things that really don’t
warrant a tear while watching The View. Meanwhile Tyrone, Tramane,
Trayvon or what have you, might slip the hood on his hoodie at his
dinner, surrounded by dysfunctional white suburbia family worthy of
Jerry Springer and text one of his homies his shock and awe at how
white people really are and send the same damn message that Samuel
Morse wrote on his first message on the telegraph- What Hath God
Wrought?  And meanwhile back at the ranch…  We get advice to white
guys.    This just in… Soccer isn’t really a sport and if you played
it as a kid and got a trophy for just showing up, I got bad news for
you…  You probably didn’t win.  You thought I would lose and I didn’t.
Stop blaming Russians and Wiki Leaks for a flawed candidate.  Accept
that some times what you believe is not the ultimate truth despite
what a college professor might have spewed to you…  January 20th is
coming soon.  Make a resolution in the New Year to accept reality
instead of some virtual, alternative thing people have told you is
possible.  Okay…  I think that’s good.  Barron, did you hit the stop
button?”

November 30, 2016

You’ll Get So Tired of Winning…

The Whackers or Little Whackers as they were known, had a Thanksgiving
Day tournament game that had to be played outside at a refrigerated
rink on a perfect late Fall day if you have to play ice hockey
outside- no sun, no rain, no wind and about 41 degrees Fahrenheit or 5
degrees Celsius if you live anywhere else in the world other than the
United States.

Coach Grimm walked in the locker room belonging to the Pee Wee
Whacker team.  Some of the boys were getting dressed, a few were
practicing stickhandling with a ball designed to practice stick work
with a puck when you can’t be on the ice.  A few just sat there cold
in their hoodies, not motivated to move yet because they were tired
and cold.  The regular coach quit after a dozen games after having to
take a job out of town or some bullshit.  Truth be told- the first
coach grew tired of guys not trying, not listening, not passing, not
pushing themselves and complaints by parents.  The Whackers went out
and got a veteran out of mothballs to help save the season.  Things
were looking up.  Coach Grimm showed up with his verbal pregame cattle
prod.  One of the players made the mistake of asking the coach if the
game they were about to play counted in the stats.
“When I wake up early on Thanksgiving morning, put my underwear on,
my pants on, my shoes on and drive to wherever the fuck this place is
to coach a game…  Yes it matters.  It matters to me and it should
always matter to you…  Turn off that ghetto fucking music.”
The one player with yellow tints in his brown hair, glared at the
coach as he turned off his Bluetooth connected to a Bose speaker.
“Sagging pants and bad poetry with a voice modulator will not be
tolerated any longer in the locker room.  It’s not music…  Now you
know…”
Coach paced back and forth looking at the ground and ceiling while
speaking to the players.
“When I joined you merry bunch, you were two wins and eight loses and
you’re now four wins and no losses since I’ve joined you.  Wanna no
the secret?  I don’t take bullshit. I’m not your babysitter or
substitute teacher… Why do you play hockey?  Cause your mom wants to
sleep with Jonathan Toews or your dad never quite made it to juniors,
The A or the show and thinks you got something just a bit more special
than the average beater playing this game?  All parents think too
highly of their kids. Who knows.  What I know after coaching this game
four times longer than you been alive, since your daddy was living in
his daddy’s balls and dinosaurs walked the earth…  You have to want to
fucking win.   Not just hope to win.  You have to decide that you’re
willing to go through a wall if necessary to get the win.  Puck is
loose…  The guy on the other team should be ready to shit himself at
the idea that you might put him through the boards as soon as he
touches that puck.  The opposition should marvel at the fact that you
move the puck like the Harlem Globetrotters passed a basketball and
that every shift, you play like it’s the last shift of game seven of
the Stanley Cup finals.  People who don’t know this sport will tell
you that wins and losses don’t matter.  Ask those people if it matters
to them that the person they voted for in the presidential elections,
lost…  Went down in flames.  Which brings me to this analogy-
elections and hockey are like a tug of war.  It’s momentum and
psychological.  You want to be sure that you’re all pulling together
to get your opposition face down in the muck, the slime, and the shit.
You want them to accept losing before they lose by being tougher.
You’re going to leave here in 90 minutes.  The Turkey will taste
better tonight if you win.  It always does when you win.  If you lose,
lose with your goalie pulled and you bombarding the other team with
seconds to go on the clock.  You should never get your ass kicked if
you’re ready for work on time. “
The kids looked at their coach who was old enough to be a
grandfather, who could still out skate them.  Bald, facial scars and a
chipped tooth from a high stick, which was fixed and then knocked out
again by a high puck to the face.  There was something inspiring in
his off the wall comments.
“Way back in 1973…  Maybe 74, the years all blend together…  There
was a kid from an Indian reservation who was fast and mean.  He would
slash the shit out of players and body them like he wanted to kill
them.  I was intimidated by The Chief.  He was quiet, mean and
determined to win.  The Chief come up the boards and I clipped him
with my hip.  I didn’t see it but others told me he cartwheeled and
had a ribbon of snot that wrapped around his helmet.  Was I bigger
than Chief?  Stronger?  Faster?  Probably not.  I got into his head by
knocking the shit out of him like a truck hit him.  If you gain the
centerline and dump that puck in the corner and then bury the Defense
as soon as they touch that puck in the corner, they’ll be whipping
that puck anywhere not to get clobbered.  You take away time and space
by bearing down on their asses by fore-checking at full speed…  Hands
in the middle.  Take a look at one another.  You need each other to
win.  This isn’t fucking golf; you need each other to do this right.
Why were the Beatles so good?  Because they played together…  The best
way to win a fistfight is to throw the first punch and keep swinging
until they stop moving…  This is a new era about to happen.  You have
a new coach.  You have a new president.  Things are going to be a
little different, a little raw…  If your new president was here
cheering you on today, what he say?
“Big?”
“Huge?”
“Make the Whackers great again?”
“Grab them by the pussy?”
“That’s it boys!  Your president would tell you that you’re going to
win so much that you’ll get tired of winning and he would tell you to
grab them by the pussy.  Let’s win this shit and give thanks that we
live in a country where we can take a day off to play the greatest
game ever invented…  Ice hockey.  Let’s go fucking get them!”

November 11, 2016

When Barack Met Donald

Barack extended his hand to president-elect Trump as he entered the oval office. Mr. Trump put his hands across his chest, closed his eyes and took a deep breath and held it.
“I took my first Pilates class today. I promised my wife that I would work on my flexibility and thought Pilates would be the place to begin. My wife is always saying I gotta be more flexible… What? I’m the most flexible man you ever met. I came to learn that this Pilates guy was put in an internment camp in England during World War I and he came up with this stuff while in a jail cell… Maybe that will be my first profound message to those locked up for all sorts of illegal and wholly subversive behavior… Ask not what the government can provide for me in the form of entertainment but what can I do to pass the time and become more… Flexible. Yes, yes, yes… I do feel more flexible today and a bit taller. All that flexibility makes you feel taller…”
Donald took Barack’s hand and shook it firmly. He then patted his right shoulder and looked around the room and smiled.
“I want to make this as unakward as possible, Mr. Trump. I want to prove to the nation that acrimony is not what we’re about. We’re above all that. This is what makes us who we are… The ability to accept the results and ensure that the greatest democracy the world has ever known, continues and continues to flourish.”
Mr. Trump clapped his hands and wiped imaginary tears from the corners of his eyes and then put his right hand on his heart.
“That is a beautifully heart-felt speech… It’s a shame the press isn’t here to hear this. I only wish the bust outs around my home could have heard this last night. People around the country had to reassure their crying children that I’m not coming into their home to deport or jail them, say crude things and grab their mom by the pussy… Meanwhile, I gotta explain to my son that the paid political activists aren’t going to drag us out and do us like the Romanovs. A bunch of Bolshevik, bewildered Bernie supporters and their inability to think like you and me, Mr. President. They just don’t get the whole bit about accepting results and this is not who we are… Is this room bugged? I betcha it is. TMZ, Wikileaks, Richard Nixon? I bet there’s planted Nixon bugs in this place you’re still finding like World War I landmines in Belgium.”
President Obama gripped his chin with his thumb and index finger, closed his eyes and shook his head. Was the moment of incredulity because of the things being said by Mr. Trump? Was it the fact that half the nation voted for this modern-day carnival barker who beat the odds and won or that the next president was going to piss on his legacy with the help of the senate and house? The correct answer- all of the above.
The current president shuddered to think about the potential abuse of power by his successor. Undoing transgender bathrooms, Obamacare, institutionalization of misogyny… the grabbing of the nation by the genitalia.
“Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Trump?”
“Yes… When did you decide the election was over and that I had won? I’m thinking after Florida… Maybe North Carolina. I always knew… CNN, NBC, ABC… The whole lot of them. It was like watching someone die… so when was it?”
” After you finally admitted that I was born in the United states…”
“Very quick, Mr. President… I can only hope that when Air Force 1 takes you towards Chicago, that you don’t hijack the plane to Ottawa. I’m thinking the Canadians got a really big wall to build to keep you and half of Hollywood out.”
“sarcasm is a sign of inferior intelligence, Mr. Trump.”
The zingers flew rapid fire from man to man for the better part of an hour before The thought came to Trump- I won this. I fucking won this thing. I beat Hillary, Obama, the Democratic Party and the Republican Party. I told the establishment to get fucked and enough people backed me. I don’t need to keep this shit going any longer. I won. I can walk out of this fucking door the way an Italian does from a balcony after popping a virgin on his wedding night- hang the bloody sheets over the railing to a cheering crowd and let everyone know that the deed was done. I can put on my smoking jacket and just relax now.
“We gotta go out there and face the press… How’s this gonna go? We lay the bullshit thick and get through this or we can verbally spar. I think the nation needs a day off from that sort of thing, right Mr. President?”
“Yes… We can have our own armistice day… I’m warning you though- any crap from you and this can go a totally different direction… You ready to do this?”
The two men emerged to a huge gathering of the press. Photos clicked furiously as the present and future presidents emerged from behind closed doors. President Obama spoke first.

PRESIDENT OBAMA: Well, I just had the opportunity to have an excellent conversation with President-elect Trump. It was wide-ranging. We talked about some of the organizational issues in setting up the White House. We talked about foreign policy. We talked about domestic policy. And as I said last night, my number-one priority in the coming two months is to try to facilitate a transition that ensures our President-elect is successful.

And I have been very encouraged by the, I think, interest in President-elect Trump’s wanting to work with my team around many of the issues that this great country faces. And I believe that it is important for all of us, regardless of party and regardless of political preferences, to now come together, work together, to deal with the many challenges that we face.
It was Mr. Trump’s turn to speak. Was he going to be a loud mouth, trash talking winner and turn the press conference into some sort of WWF event? President Obama held his breath as the president-elect began to speak. This was going to go well or become a food fight. Which would it be?
PRESIDENT-ELECT TRUMP: Well, thank you very much, President Obama. This was a meeting that was going to last for maybe 10 or 15 minutes, and we were just going to get to know each other. We had never met each other. I have great respect. The meeting lasted for almost an hour and a half. And it could have — as far as I’m concerned, it could have gone on for a lot longer.
We really — we discussed a lot of different situations, some wonderful and some difficulties. I very much look forward to dealing with the President in the future, including counsel. He explained some of the difficulties, some of the high-flying assets and some of the really great things that have been achieved.
So, Mr. President, it was a great honor being with you, and I look forward to being with you many, many more times in the future.

October 28, 2016

The Emperor’s New Clothes or F#ck The Cubs

Gil and Gail packed up their deviled eggs and New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that they bought while in New Zealand and headed over to their friends Tom and Tam. It was a beautiful fall night more like summer than fall with a full moon. The event was a baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Chicago Cubs. Tom, a huge Cubs fan, set up a television outside in front of a fire pit and a trampoline off in the distance.
Gil was born and raised in Los Angeles and was a life long Dodgers fan stranded in the midwest. He walked past a teacher’s union lawn sign and three different lawn signs for Hillary Clinton and a giant blue W painted on a plain white background to signify a win for the Chicago Cubs on the way to Tom and Gail’s backyard. Gail and Tam really liked one another. They met at a Pilates class and became great friends. They watched the Kardashians together at different homes and texted about it at night. Their sons played youth hockey together and Gil was the hockey coach. Gil was quiet owner of an ice hockey pro shop who played hockey, sold hockey and played hockey four to five days a week. Gil and Tammy’s son was thin and good-looking, fast and capable at being a scoring threat at every game. Tom and Tam’s son had man boobs and hips wider than his shoulders. The bookish son of Tom and Tam was slow and had a weak shot. Gil took their son as a favor to his wife who really wanted a friend up in the stands to sit with at games. Tom was jealous that Gil was in good shape and was a good skater and coach. Tom couldn’t skate but was wealthy and had season tickets to all Cubs and Chicago Blackhawks games. Tom was a partner at a law firm and drove a Range Rover and a Corvette with personalized Cubs and Blackhawks Illinois license plates. One license said PWR PLAY 69 and the other said LUV CUB 69. Gil had no hair, was built and had a half missing tooth much like the hockey great Alex Ovechkin and a face full of scars from years of playing ice hockey without facial protection. Gil refused to wear a cage or a half shield while playing and looked like a rough neck. Tom wore black horned rimmed glasses and had looked like an LL Bean model in front of his $5000.00 built in backyard grill, 50 inch television exclusively for the backyard and excellent sound system. A band from the 1980’s called Haircut 100 blared through the speakers while the ball teams silently  took batting practice. Gil stood with a bowl of deviled eggs in a LA Dodgers hat and shirt. Tom wore a Cubs hat with a T-shirt that had a large W on it. He was cooking filet mignon, he offered Gil a beer. Gil declined as he was gluten-free. It irritated Gil when Tom would offer him a beer. Even though Gil had declined dozens of times, Tom would still offer a beer to Gil. Gil had Ceiliaks disease which prevented him from processing gluten properly.
“Tam remembered and purchased a gluten-free, lesbian safe beer for you from Trader Joe’s… You can be like every other man around this town watching this game tonight and start the night properly with a beer.”
Gil opened the beer, tapped it against the bottle Tom was holding and talked about their son’s hockey team. Gil was careful not to say too much and let Tom comment on the high and low points of the season.
“The goalie is brutal… It is truly a testament to your defense that we’ve been in every game. Do you put your best skaters on defense always?”
Gil took a drink of his beer and pondered the best answer to a question he didn’t care to answer truthfully. Gil felt that it was a good idea to be as cryptic as possible with parents when it came to playing time, position and lines. Gil played Tom and Tam’s son on the first line even though he was a slow, tentative, ineffective player. It was a political move to appease his wife who was considering her friend’s feelings.
“I try to find a balance…”
“That is a beautifully scripted answer, coach. People try to figure out where you’re coming from. They want to know if there is something deeper to your tactics. I think mystery comes off as deep but I think I have you figured out, coach…”
“Tommy… This is a night all about baseball. I’m ready to take the night off of hockey. A full moon, great fucking weather, good food, booze and the Dodgers poised to make a California boy proud…”
Beer turned to scotch and then to wine. Bottles and bottles. Blue cheese on choice steaks with gluten-free pasta. It was a night to remember. A clear, full moon and August like weather in October. The game turned ugly for Gil. The Dodgers tanked and were getting crushed by the Cubs. It was a debacle not unlike when Gil was young and the Dodgers would lose every year to the Yankees. It might have been a moment of hurt pride that caused Gil to change from a good-natured fan to a critical observer of the type of man he disdained- bragging, rich, unathletic, pudgy Chicago fan. The Dodgers were losing by a touch down when Tom lit a cigar and laughed at the score between innings. Gil told Gail that he wanted to leave. she was having a great time without having to watch her children and she did not want to cut the night short and return home yet. The game ended with a huge Cubs win. Tam put on a song that harkened back to Burt Bacharach buy a band called Cousteau. No relation to Jacques called, The Last Good Day of the Year.
There’s something there
Among the fallen fruit and flowers, won’t rest
Only minutes, only hours unless
Now the morning breaks in showers, I guess
We’ll remember this all of our lives
On the last good day of the year
Gil sat and looked at the full moon as a gentle breeze blew through the leaves in the trees that were ready to turn colors and fall. Tom was going on and on about the Cubs and then switched to politics. After a beer, a scotch and many glasses of wine, Gil was ready to speak freely, uninhibited or reserved. Tom was taken by surprise.
“Fuck you. Fuck the Cubs, fuck unions, fuck Hillary and fat kids who really don’t want to play ice hockey… Enjoy your win you fucking pompous asshole. I hope Hillary gets the same fucking treatment Nixon got for the minor shit he did compared to that cunt.”
Gil knew that his wife hated the word cunt and that most women had a thing against the word. Both Tam and Gail gasped and tried to get Gil to calm down. It only made him angrier.
“You want to let all the Mexicans in? All the Syrians? Every fucking moderate who makes their wife cover their whole fucking face like a goddamn Ninja? Fuck you and your W shirt and Hillary lawn sign… Your kid is going to wind up with heart disease by high school if you don’t discover the word no. No you can’t eat whatever you want and drink sugary bullshit. Your son has bitch tits… I know that might be harsh to hear but you can thank the Cubs and Hillary. Bitch fucking tits on a 10-year-old and why? Because you can’t say no to him? You wanna know why my kid is fast? Because he eats yogurt instead of gummy worms and fucking Doritos…”
” I think you’re angry Tom…”
“Yes, I am. When unathletic fucks like you gloat, I get mad. You don’t know dick about how to really win and it falls into your lap tonight and you’re like a fucking scientist about baseball. Yes… The fast capable kids play defense on my teams and really I believe your son would be happier with a hot dog and a drink up in the stands next to you than forechecking. You got season tickets and you want your little son of sam to play like Kane or Toews.”
Gail came up and hugged Gil and put her hand over his mouth. Gil pushed Gail away in a way that let her know that he was not done. Tom had enough drinks to stand up to Gil and he did.
“You’re mad that the Dodgers lost and that Trump is about to go down in flames. Too many people do not buy into the Hitleresque bullshit spewed by Trump. Mexicans are the paste that holds this country together. Who is going to do the shit they do for the money they make? Big strong, stupid, flag waving, tear-in-the-eye patriot who hates anything not white. You’re the big hockey coach but you weren’t quite good enough to make it so what do you do? You coach.”
Gil took a step towards Tom with the thought to give Tom a smack. Tom sneered and raised his chin as if to say, “smack me! I don’t give a shit.”
“You know something, fuckface? I won’t ever apologize for being white. I won’t ever apologize for not blindly trusting people who hate me. Vote for whoever you fucking want. Why do we all got to know who it is? Why not put up a lawn sign that says you need a little blue pill and porn to make it with your old lady? You know what? All I need is a little text telling me to get home fast and my dick hurts to be cramped up in my jeans knowing that it’s going between my old lady’s legs just as soon as possible. You like baseball analogies? I’m the fucking closer who doesn’t need a warm up pitch. Put me in cold and I’ll finish the game…”
The women left the two men alone who were about to come to blows. Tom was about to rebut Gil when the women put on a song from the 1980’s from their youth. It was a Sinead O’Connor song called The Emperor’s New Clothes. In the light of the moon, the two men watched their rather fit middle-aged wives sing and bounce on the trampoline naked slathered in coconut oil. The oil glistened off of their breasts. The men stopped fighting and looked on at their wives without saying a word. Tom poured a glass of wine for himself and Gil. The men stripped down to nothing and joined the ladies on the trampoline on probably the last good day of the year. The song played on repeat while they made love or something resembling love beside one another.
Everyone can see what’s going on
They laugh `cause they know they’re untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong
Whatever it may bring
I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don’t think so
You asked for the truth and I told you
Through their own words
They will be exposed
They’ve got a severe case of
The emperor’s new clothes

September 28, 2016

The New House of Un-American Activities

In the year 2021 after the national elections that gave Hillary Clinton her second term, a committee was formed within the Democratic Party dominant House of Representatives called The New House of Un-American Activities. The committee was created to prevent racism, xenophobia, misogynistic and Islamicphobic behavior in the private work place.
Rutherford J. Mann, was hauled in after a questionable speech to shareholders. Mann, a former Marine who used the GI bill to get himself through college, excelled in the workplace and became a CFO of a major fortune 500 company. After a few too many drinks on a day when the stock price for his particular company under his watch, shot up, Mr. Mann spoke freely. He never refrained after that day. His candor lead to problems between he and the government. Why the antisocial behavior? Was it the fact that the stock tripled in a short period of time? Was it that this was the third time he laid his hand upon a struggling company and turned it to gold? Was it because he was an old, white male? Probably all of the above. His manic, plain speaking speech landed him in front of the New House of Un-American Activities.

Rep Jefferson- Good afternoon Mr. Mann… Do you understand why you stand before us today?
Mann- I have an idea why but I don’t think anyone who is forced before this tribunal ever knows for sure.
Rep Washington- Please clarify, Mr. Mann.
Mann- There are many agendas out there and something such as this witch hunt is born somewhere for some reason. Where it originates and why is probably unimportant as it is truly Un-American.

A few laughs from the press and the viewing gallery caused the gavel to be hammered by Representative Adams of New York.

Rep. Adams- Mr. Mann are you now or have you ever been subversive?
Mann- Please explain what that would mean exactly.
Rep. Jackson- One who would be unwilling to temporarily allow refugees from war-torn areas, shelter in one of their many secondary residences when the law specifically states that private property that is not of primary residence, must be made available to house refugees. This is a right afforded all refugees under the law who are in the process of becoming naturalized citizens. I believe it has come to light that you paid relatives to occupy your secondary homes in Maine, Florida, Hawaii, California and Aspen to skirt the law… We have emails regarding payments that were made to various relatives… I quote, “I would just as soon burn down these places than let recruits sleep in my beds.” Recruits? What would they have been recruits for exactly?
Mann- Um… The Democrat Party most likely…
Rep. Washington- The sums of money you have donated to what has been determined to be subversive causes is impressive. Racist, xenophobic fronts abound and as a wealthy donor, you must know that giving to these causes makes you a defacto bigot. A lot has been improved an eliminated over the years. Citizen policing boards to ensure no profiling of any sector of the public ever occurs again within the ranks of our police officers. The Common Access Act which provides that anybody of any gender can and must be allowed access to areas formerly reserved for specific genders… Men only. Women only… This is not much different from colored only. Reactionary subversion cannot be tolerated. We are a tolerant and educated people that take equality for all seriously… So with this said we will read off a list of your charges.
Rep. Harrison- “Stand and piss the way god intended men to do. Piss on the seat, the rim and floor. Let them all know a man was there and don’t apologize for being a man…” This was recorded April of 2018 at an airport in Dallas. “Women get all riled up over the word Cunt… You get a bitch hormonally unbalanced due to bleeding monthly or when the tap gets shut down and we should be able to read a situation at all times or we are oblivious… Is it any wonder dad always looked like a defeated veteran of a foreign war most the time? He went to war daily and lost. He couldn’t discuss it with you because you were idolized by the enemy… Where did women like Margret Thatcher go? You have this crazy cunt giving the farm away and letting anyone steal the crops and claims it’s owed to them…” Which crazy cunt would you be referring to, Mr. Mann? This was recorder June of 2020 in an elevator of your company.
Mr. Mann took a sip of water and winced as if it was cheap vodka going down hard. He ran his index finger around his collar and then replied.
Mann- my people were once farmers. I might have meant my grandmother was giving away the farm as the saying goes but I don’t recall the comment and quite possibly it may have been taken out of context. The urination comment was directed at a man who had disc surgery to his back and could not sit and urinate properly. The comment must be noted that the man to whom I was speaking was in great pain and had difficulty sitting and urinating as is now law but a law which is difficult to police for many reasons… Is that all?
Rep. Washington- Not even half done… Comments here which I must refrain from reading because they are so offensive. Comments about different races, religions, over weight people and the government. You believe and have publicly stated that the government is on the wrong track and that we are all being led down a path to destruction. All are very serious… I am going to recommend that Mr. Mann be added to the growing list of subversives that have already been identified and added to the list. Unless we as diligent Americans step forward and cut out these cancers that surround us, we will return to the way it was back in 2008 and I don’t think any of us in good faith could want that for this country.

So what became of Mr. Mann? He took his severance package and went to live out the rest of his days in Argentina. Years later a reporter for a television show in the United States found the former American on his ranch in rural Argentina. He was hunted down like a former Nazi doctor and questioned from the fence of his ranch as he sat upon his horse. “Do you have a comment for Americans at home that wonder what has become of you?” Mann rubbed his scruff, pushed back his silver hair and said, “If I lived in a house with no windows and only two doors leading nowhere… I’d get the fuck out of that house anyway I could.”

September 14, 2016

Nietzsche Beside Me

Filed under: poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:09 am
Tags: ,

The seconds tick matched up against my heart. Driving past the point where it starts. It feels like a hundred degrees, sweat drips down my back as I try to breathe, try to remember all the other Septembers. There’s a home in my heart from way back when I was given speed to help me slow down to think. The head gets weak and then the heart speaks. I went back to find them all knowing they’re gone. Perhaps the things I inherited are no longer suitable, no longer practical. I tried to slay the windmills from across the land from my head to my heart. I may never get tired of living, sharing a smile, a laugh captured in a moment. Life is a scent that won’t ever let you down. I want to steal back the things I thought would always be mine captured in the resin of time. Autumn comes in waves of warmth and cold. The warm sun and a cold breeze I remember this all of my life and can close my eyes and nothing changes. There is something there between the things I love and despair. Happiness and sadness as old friends on a park bench as they hold hands in a quest to understand why we exist. Maybe everything is nothing.

September 2, 2016

They Got Your Number

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 12:20 am

Blackhumouristpress's Blog

Dirk’s phone rang while he picked his nose and read text message while standing and pissing over the toilet at work. Dirk had to roll up his sleeve and reach into his piss to retrieve the phone. The ring tone of a barking dog was what went off every time Dirk’s wife called. Dirk had the ring tone on high. When it rang, the bark echoed in the large men’s room at work. For others that were in that room at that moment, it sounded like a real German Sheppard in the bathroom. One puzzled pisser looked under the stall to find a guy kneeling and swearing over the toilet bowl. It was 9am and it already had the making of a bad day.
While Dirk was sitting on the red line, elevated train which ran parallel to Lake Michigan on Chicago’s north side towards downtown, he made a few…

View original post 1,159 more words

September 1, 2016

They Got Your Number

Dirk’s phone rang while he picked his nose and read text message while standing and pissing over the toilet at work. Dirk had to roll up his sleeve and reach into his piss to retrieve the phone. The ring tone of a barking dog was what went off every time Dirk’s wife called. Dirk had the ring tone on high. When it rang, the bark echoed in the large men’s room at work. For others that were in that room at that moment, it sounded like a real German Sheppard in the bathroom. One puzzled pisser looked under the stall to find a guy kneeling and swearing over the toilet bowl. It was 9am and it already had the making of a bad day.
While Dirk was sitting on the red line, elevated train which ran parallel to Lake Michigan on Chicago’s north side towards downtown, he made a few phone calls and paid a bill over the phone.
“1776 1812 1942 911… expiration date 1-21… numbers on the back? 9000… zip code? 60203 and the name on the card should be Dirk P. Eller. E L L E R.”
Sitting next to Dirk was a chubby young man with a bike helmet on, holding a skateboard with a long beard like a relief pitcher in baseball, a post Civil War president or even a religious Jew. The young man had recently been deposed from his city of Chicago job for sleeping on the job. His job was to place the Denver Boot, wheel lock device on automobiles that had collect more than three unpaid tickets to the city of Chicago. The man’s name was Bill. Bill got off of work and played video games all day at home, on his couch until he noticed the sun was gone through the window. Bill got home from work, ate cold cuts and pizza crust that was two days old out of a box resting on the garbage, turned on his X Box and literally played until he had to return to work. Where did the time go Bill wondered to himself. He finished work at 8 am, got home by 10 am, ate, took a shit and then played until 10pm at night. No sleep. Not even a nap and it was time to return to work. A couple of No-Doze pills and a Red Bull gave Bill the runs quick and then he was alert until about 4 am. At about that time, Bill pulled behind a car that he was supposed to be placing the boot on and fell asleep until 9 am. When he opened his eyes, the world was fast at work. Cars everywhere, people walking and the sun was high in the sky. He had 24 missed calls on his phone which was on silent. This was the third time. Bill lost his job. Nobody feels pity for tow truck drivers or those that place the boot on autos or for sheriffs that need to evict people when they lose their jobs. All are well hated. Bill happened to be recording all the information Dirk was giving over the phone. Dirk was well dressed and looked like a smug, rich fuck. Bill was going to have a little fun with his ex-boss and charge it to Dirk’s card. Bill reasoned that the goods would be returned and Dirk wouldn’t actually have to pay anything.
Dirk’s phone in the toilet? Yes, it was Dirk’s wife who discovered a charge of almost $10,000.00 to an online sex toy outlet. A semi truck full of boxes addressed to Bill’s boss who had fired him, arrived at their city office off of Addison street, just west of Wrigley Field. Hundreds, maybe a thousand dildos crafted, pink tips painted with care by hand by genuine Mexicans in Mexico and imported to the United States. Wait until Trump hears about this!
When Bill’s boss went down to shipping and found a room full of boxes addressed to him, he became curious. He cracked open a box and pulled out one of the containers and found a 12 inch black penis. Others were white. Some had huge veins and were wide. circumcised and not. Some were double and triple dongs. Dirk’s wife looked at their statement and found that their was a huge purchase to an online sex merchandise company and jumped to the conclusion that her husband was still a deranged sex fiend and a repeat offender. He had been caught skyping a Russian woman in the past. She was on the bed plowing herself with a cock that looked much like the one Bill’s boss received when Dirk’s wife Dawn woke up one night to find Dirk beating off and moaning in the basement. After marriage counselling and vows to give up such fantasies, the huge purchase put Dawn over the cliff. She jumped to conclusions. How could he spend so much on sex but I can’t get granite counter tops in the kitchen?
By the time Dirk got to the Apple store and replaced his phone, Dirk had received dozens of text messages from his wife.
“YOU SICK PERVERTED CREATURE. YOU BELONG WITH THAT WEINER GUY FROM NEW YORK. YOUR BOTH SICK FUCKS. I TRIED TO REVERSE THE CHARGES AND I CANNOT. THE BANK SAID THAT IT HAS BEEN OVER 24 HOURS SINCE YOU BOUGHT THIS SHIT. THE COMPANY WILL NOT TAKE IT BACK. WHO IS YOUR FRIEND AT THE CITY OF CHICAGO THAT ACCEPTED THIS SHIT FOR YOU? I DON’T NEED TO KNOW. I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR HOURS AND IT GOES TO VOICE MAIL. THE OFFICE COULDN’T REACH YOU. I AM LEAVING THIS MORNING TO STAY WITH MY MOTHER IN MICHIGAN. I GOT THE NEXT FLIGHT OUT. I THOUGHT YOU TURNED THE CORNER AND THAT YOU LOVED ME AND WANTED TO WORK ON US BUT REALLY YOUR JUST A TWISTED LITTLE MAN. YOU BOUGHT THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS OF SEX TOYS BUT CAN’T EVEN TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER UNLESS YOU HAVE A GROUPON. FUCK YOU! WE’RE DONE!”
I want to tell you that the merchandise was sent back and the culprit was caught. I want to tell you that the money was put back in the Eller account and that Dirk’s wife believed that fraud took place. The bank told Dirk to check with the City of Chicago. Dirk talked to numerous people, explained what had happened only to be hung up on or put on hold. Nobody gave credence to such an outrageous story. The bank held Dirk responsible for the charge since he and his wife failed to contact the bank within 24 hours of the fraud. The bank suggested he go to his local police office and ask for a detective. Dirk went to the local police station next and was further frustrated. Dirk lost his cool with the woman behind the bullet proof glass at the police station after having had to repeat the chain of events several times.
“I’m speaking English to you… I shouldn’t need to repeat myself! Somebody bought $10,000.00 worth of dildos and charged it to my account. The bank won’t reimburse me and they suggested I go see a detective at the police station nearest to my home.”
The indifferent clerk behind the glass asked Dirk the wrong question which set him off.
“Sir… This isn’t a job for detectives… What do you want me to do?”
Dirk suggested to the woman that he would come behind the glass and insert every last dildo up her ass. That prompted cops within an ear shot of the conversation to come out and detain him. He was charged with a misdemeanor offense of threatening an officer of the law. He got out on bail. It really was a bad day for Dirk. And some days are like this.

« Previous PageNext Page »

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.