Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 8, 2016

Donald Does Detroit or Let Them Eat Fluff

                One of the board of education members happened to be at a golf outing that was attended by Donald Trump.  It was at the Trump golf Mecca in Florida and Trump was going to join a friend, a friend of a friend and a Chinese dignitary that couldn’t speak English.  Trump didn’t have time for 18 holes but he said he could do 9 holes.  The friend of a friend put up the challenge that he could beat the quartet and if he did, rather than bet money, Trump would have to give a speech while in Detroit to high school students who showed signs of promise but were struggling to stay in school.  Trump told the friend of a friend to fuck himself, nobody beats Trump on his own course, and I will beat all of you and still speak to your kids.  Trump won but may have cheated.

                After the debate at the Fox Theater in Detroit, Trump took a motorcade tour of the city of Detroit.  He took out his phone and began to tweet.

                “Detroit will be great again.  The United States will be great again.  I just might buy up half of this town and see to it myself.  Travesty what has happened to a once great city.”

                Early the next day, the Fox Theater was filled with thousands of students picked by Deans and principals of various inner city Detroit high schools to receive a verbal pep talk, a bitch slap, a verbal dunking in the water tank of life.  Rumors swirled that JZ, Beyoncé, Kanye West and Cam Newton might be at the event to speak to chosen students.  After twenty extra minutes of waiting, secret service agents walked in ahead of Donald Trump.  There he stood with his thinning helmet of hair, orange face, a squint like Clint Eastwood and famous scowl.

                “I love this damn town so much that I decided to stay an extra night.  I told your school superintendents that I want to speak to the future of Detroit.  I want to try and reach them in some way.  I don’t know that I can, but I’m going to try…  Now who here is rich?  Let me see a show of hands.”

                A few hands went up and some laughter.  This triggered the inner Trump in the Donald.  They were all about being Trumpled.

                “You might misunderstand me.  I don’t mean wealthy enough to buy a used Buick and put a sound system that would blow out your hearing faster than if you were blowing off mortars in a battle field without ear protection.  I don’t mean having enough money to buy dope and sell it in an neighborhood the way say an Arab party store owner sells you a forty ounce and some blunts and maybe a box of Pampers…  I don’t know exactly what your immediate needs could be.  I’m talking could any of you here walk out and let’s say, buy a house, buy up a block, buy up the downtown and turn into something you think is positive for this town…  I could.  I could move every piece of property that I own worldwide and fill up the city of Detroit with what I own…  That my pupils is what it means to be truly rich.  Anything else is wannabe…  I could move everything I own right here in Detroit but that would take too much time…  I have a better idea, how bout I just buy up this town and turn it around myself…  This country is a lot like Detroit- a once great nation that built things and sold things to the world.  Detroit used to sell the lion’s share and I do mean Detroit Lion’s share of cars to the entire world.  Was JFK killed in a Toyota?  No, kids…  It was a Lincoln Continental made right here in Detroit.  When I’m president, we are going to make so many GM, Fords and Chryslers here that it will make your head spin.  Cars will be made here in Detroit.  Flint will get Detroit water again…  You’ll see.  Now all of you can do something to change your lives, better your lives so that you don’t die prematurely.  Die dealing drugs, die at the hand of the police who I love and are really treated quite poorly by the press who are not allowed to cover this meeting here today…  Die from eating really bad food and getting really fat because you can’t afford good food because you’re too poor to buy good food that won’t make you suffer.  You should want to be responsible, prosperous people who don’t try to sue each other on Judge Judy or figure out whose baby is whose on Morrie Povich.  Everyone here would like to visit Jamaica one day for a vacation… maybe Hawaii, am I right?  Sure, sure… but if you’re sitting in the state pen in Taylor, you’re not going to see anything but some of the worst people in the world, going nowhere and doing nothing with a wasted life.  Who wants to get pinched one day by the cops who I love dearly and end up in jail?  Who wants to do time and wind up on all fours in front of some big lifer staring at a prison wall and wonder how did I get here and how can I get out.  Don’t get there…  Let me say it plainly…  Are there any evangelicals in the crowd who I love so much?  I love the Evangelicals but don’t want to offend them.  They’re easily offended by profanity but it is a dialect I know all of you understand all too well so let me sum this up fast because I don’t want to lose you…

STAY IN SCHOOL AND PROVE TO THE WORLD THAT YOU CAN GET A DEGREE AND WHETHER YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT DEGREE OR WIPE YOUR ASS WITH IT, PROVE TO THOSE ABOVE YOU THAT YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE GIVEN A CHANCE TO RISE IN THIS CRUEL WORLD.  DRUGS ONLY MASK THE FACT THAT YOU HATE YOUR LIFE AND WANT TO GO TO A BETTER PLACE IN YOUR OWN FUCKING HEAD IF ONLY TEMPORARILY…  WHO WANTS TO BE SOMEONE’S BITCH IN PRISON?  WHO WANTS TO GET SHOT UP ON THE STREET?  I DON’T MEAN TO YELL BUT I WANT YOU TO KNOW I MEAN WHAT I SAY.”

                It got quiet.  Nobody clapped, nobody booed or murmured.  It was a strange moment for Donald.  He shrugged his shoulders, took a drink and went on.

                “People are gonna get offended in life.  That’s just how it is.  I can’t help that.  You make a comment about homosexuals, men who used to be women and women who used to be men, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Eskimos…  I actually might lose Alaska because I called someone an Eskimo.  You wanna know what?  Unless you came on the Mayflower, you came as an immigrant.  It’s just that simple.  Some of your people were brought on slave ships, some crossed the border illegally but you’re here now and you’re American.  For those who don’t follow rules and order, you will be sent back.  We will have a country, we will have borders, and we will be great again…  Detroit will rise again.  I love Detroit.  I love Detroiters.  I might just come back and buy this town and put the best minds on the job of bringing jobs back and bring them back first to right here in Detroit.  People want to sneer at Detroit?  When I leave office, you won’t be able to afford to live in this town.  They’re will be a Starbucks on every corner, gluten-free, lesbian safe grocery stores, boutiques with stuff so damn expensive, you’ll think you’re in Paris.  You stand with me and I’ll stand with you.  You do the right thing and I will do the right thing for this city, for this country and we’ll be great again…”

                Donald raised his right arm up.  It was more like a papal wave than a Nazi salute.  A few students rose to their feet and clapped.  Then before long everyone stood and clapped.  Stunned teachers and administrators clapped and they didn’t even know why exactly.  Where they bullied into clapping?  Where they inspired to clap?  Nobody could quite put a finger on it and really, it didn’t matter.  Trump was off to another town to inspire others to vote for him just like a half dozen other presidential candidates were doing across the land and why exactly?  To have old music played every time you walk into a room?  To be treated like a king and hated like a king on the way to the guillotine, oblivious to the plight of the commoners.  The messages and words vary from candidate to candidate but it all comes out the same- Let them eat fluff.  Nothing of substance.

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January 14, 2016

Yelping the 2016 Presidential Candidates

Republican presidential candidates -***** – I give the current cast of candidates five stars. I believe it is about time to think outside the box and outside the beltway. Career politicians- you’ve been served. Somebody has to stand up properly to the Iranians, North Koreans, Chinese and work with Russia for sane solutions. I think Vlad understands what deposing another dictator in the middle east will get us and it isn’t democracy. Trump is saying the things that many in this country think but do not dare say for fear of being labelled a backwards racist. We need to bring in throngs of Syrians just so our women can be fondled, robbed and raped at the Superbowl? Build a wall to keep us safe from everything. It’s a scary world and we had all better start taking notice. Would it be wrong to have morals and scrupples again?

1/2*- Unbelievable everyday that the media reports on the ridiculous things Trump says and does. Is this how Hitler made it? It’s like having your racist, drunk uncle show up to a family party and everyone is amused by the shocking things he will inevitably say. Maybe you’re not for Trump. Oh but there are others nearly as ludicrous. And starring Grandpa Munster as Ted Cruz. I say send him back to Canada and let him read nursery ryhmes to the Parliment in lieu of getting anything passed. Uncle Ben Carson, seeking to become the house Negro for the overseer Republican establishment. Marco! Rubio! Sorry, I can’t see you because I’m swimming with my eyes shut through this sea of blind reactionism. I know there are others still hanging on to the idea that they will be discovered and suddenly surge fifty points and become the front runner. Not even their spouses take them seriously. I ran a fortune 500 company, I was the governor of a state that was happy to get rid of me, my dad ran for president therefore I should do the same, yes but my brother and dad we’re presidents! We are a nation of shallow, short attention span people who get their news in sound bites and bullshit via the internet but really who is taking these idiots seriously other than ancient white people who remember the good old days when everyone was white who was somebody and gosh golly- all the presidents were men and white. Most Episcopalian too.

Democratic presidential candidates- *****- I’m not sure at this moment how I will vote but it is certainly a breath of fresh air to have sane, intelligent and civilized candidates who understand that our enemy is not a religion and that people who live in this country are not going anywhere. The elephant in the room is race relations and how the police target people of color on a daily basis. We have more to worry about within our borders than outside of them. Does anyone want to go back to the good ole Bush days? I think not. We are still recovering from the near collapse of our system under Republicans who were lead around by banks and Wall Street on all fours with ball gags in their mouthes. Bernie is not their slave and I think that speaks to the numbers of people out there that are ready for someone who is more of a third party candidate than the run-of-the-mill Democrats. Unemployment at 5%, low interest rates. Things were not this good in 2008. Whether we ultimately elect Hillary or Bernie, America will be in good hands. I’m waiting to see how things go in Iowa and New Hampshire before making a choice. Like the president said last night- we are the most powerful nation in the world and the state of the union is good!

1/2*- I kept trying to give the current list of Democratic presidential candidates no stars or less than that and this damn site won’t let me. Rome is burning and Bernie is playing the violin while Hillary plays cello. So your husband was president and you opted to look the other way on a slew of his indescretions that would get a raised eye brow from the other Bill- Bill Cosby. Benghazi, classified documents floating unsecured and Nixon had to resign? Pinocchio lies so much and so often she doesn’t even know when she’s lying. As long as we get more imbedded potential terrorists into this country in the form of refugees, I’ll go to bed feeling safe that the Iranians won’t make a bomb and use it against us so they can continue to fight proxy wars and terrorize the west. Don’t really care if your president is woman? Think that maybe she is not necessarily the heir to the throne exactly? Maybe you’d like an old time hippy communist who wants to dig deeper into your pockets to tax further and redistribute any wealth this nation might have. Yes comrade, there is a Vermont and if you let him, Bernie will turn the nation into one big Vermont- neo hippy, tree hugging, no deoderant wearing, gluten free, lesbian safe world where we are all use the same gender neutral bathrooms but men would have to sit when they piss so as to not be mysoginistic pigs. Yes everything and everyone equal but maybe some just a tad bit more equal as we will need some among us to run the new politburo. Eight more years of this silliness and we will be practicing Sharia Law and have a St. Lous style arch at the Mexican border that reads, ” Work makes you Free”. That’s if we haven’t been bombed out of our misery first. If Trump isn’t the answer, the right questions are not being posed. Come on!

December 16, 2015

And Justice For All

Filed under: america,poem,trump,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:42 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

                Hang the flags perpetually at half-mast- every day a crisis

                NRA Card member or those among us who join Isis

                The reactionary fears arms closed, the liberal embraces eyes blind

                What we find in the quagmire is a desire for someone to come and lead

                Feed the electorate a new poll, detract away from the hole of

                Economics gives way to Islamics, tactics of the feckless and the reckless

                The new red scare finding fanatics everywhere that the radical facts are

                empirical

                Isolation resuscitation cooperation dissemination to save a nation

                Refuge or not to refuge refuse the nuclear centrifuge

                Weather or whether- it’s all huge and looms like a mushroom cloud

November 25, 2015

Between Calais et Marseille

Seth knew he was an atheist at a young age.  Being half Jewish and half Muslim left him no choice but to be an atheist out of fear that he might have developed two personalities, each a different religion and wind up attacking himself.  It was upon the death of his father around the age of ten that Seth’s mother dropped the bomb of his life on him.

“Chaim was a very good man and he loved you like a son…”

“Mom?  Wouldn’t he love me like a son if he was my dad?”

“If he was your dad…  But he wasn’t.”

It was with that conversation that Seth learned that his real father was a handsome Algerian man who spoke perfect French, owned a restaurant and had a thing for Seth’s mother.  Soon after conception, Seth biological father sold his restaurant and moved to France, leaving Seth’s mother with an issue- a pregnancy from an affair.  Seth’s mother led her husband Chaim to believe that Seth was his son and so everyone lived happily ever after.  For about 10 years.

Seth learned to play the guitar and he liked to write poetry.  As he grew older he became aware of the world around him and became more and more socially and politically aware.  Seth had a job at an independent coffee shop where he strummed his songs and read his poetry and held meetings of like- minded people.  These like-minded people protested things like the World Trade Organization, police brutality, gay rights, transgender rights, rights of prisoners and most recently, rights of refugees to live democratically free with all the rights bestowed upon born Americans at birth.  Seth was approached by a French student who happened to be at the coffee shop the night that Seth was performing some of his acoustic songs about bringing refugees home to their home away from home in America.  It was all set up for Seth.  The French student contacted someone who knew someone who was putting together a peace rally to raise money for Syrian refugees living in tents near Calais, France.  Seth was to be flown, fed, paid and put up for a weekend in France for a festival.  Seth would be given a 30 minute acoustic set on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, get paid and return to the United States.  It was a dream come true for pretty much a closet musician who wrote songs that almost nobody ever heard.

Seth arrived in Paris with his acoustic guitar and a back pack.  He wore a pork pie hat and loose clothing.  Seth wanted to try Absinthe while in Paris since he was a huge Hemingway fan.  After several drinks of Absinthe and a discussion with the English-speaking bartender on what life might have been like for Hemingway, Seth was as they say- fucked up.  Seth staggered to the train station and boarded a train for what he thought was headed to Calais on the far north of France near the Belgium border where battles to defeat fascism took place.  Instead Seth boarded a train headed for the far south city of Marseille.  Unbeknownst to Seth, while there was a huge peace rally designed to raise money for refugees fleeing Syria, there was a huge neo-Nazi, skinhead, National Front rally being held in Marseille.  It was at about 2:00am that Seth was awoken from a deep sleep by five British skinheads that were headed south in solidarity with their French fellow racists to be part of huge anti-immigration rally.  They grabbed his guitar case out of his hands and took it out of the case.  It took Seth a solid five seconds to figure out where he was, how he got there and what might be potentially going on.  The five bald young men in boots, tight jeans and bomber jackets studied the guitar.  They knew they were in the company of some sort of hippy, peace-loving American and they were going to make his night miserable if they were correct on profiling him.

“Oi mate…  What ave we here?  A guitar, is it?  Where you headed with this instrument, mate?”

Seth remembered getting his ass kicked by jocks over the years and knew a severe ass beating without any chance of anyone coming to his aid in a contained sleeping compartment could mean death.  Seth played it cool.

“I’m headed to the same place as you…”

The skinheads were a bit perplexed.  This thin smelly American in baggy clothes suitable for a street panhandler in Seattle did not quite look like what was going to be at the far right rally.  They studied the stickers on Seth’s guitar case.  There was a hope sticker with a picture of Obama, a rainbow sticker, equality sticker and several other very liberal looking stickers.

“What’s all this on your case, mate?  Looks loike you ave a strong loike for Obama and rainbows and such.  Did you get all this at skin rallies in the states?”

It was a coy question and Seth rolled with it.  Seth could read the looks on the five young men’s faces and knew the cat was going to have to bark like a dog if he wanted to get out of the dog pound safely.

“This case…  I bought this from a music store just before leaving the US.  I went to a pawn shop and bought it for really cheap.  I told the guy I needed a sturdy travel case for my guitar and he came up with this.  I literally bought this thing yesterday to make the trip.  I haven’t had time to take all the bullshit off that was put on by someone who used to own this.”

“No worries, mate.  We ave ands…  We can elp you with that…”

As the young men picked at the stickers with their thumb nails, took drinks from a bottle and became rowdy, one of them demanded Seth play them a song that he was intending to play at the rally.  Seth convinced them that he once was part of a Ska/Reggae band and was now a solo artist from the states who was for Donald Trump, sending Mexicans home, telling gays that they cannot get married and so on.  Seth was pretty convincing and he kind of needed to be.

“Shit…  Look at shit that Obama has got us into…  Trump is the answer to everything that’s fucked up in America right now.  I’m tired of the gays, ghetto rap, illegal immigrants, feminist, Obama loving liberal shit…  Yup, it’s time for a change.”

“Roight, mate…  So play us a li-ool something you came up with that you are thinking of playing in Marseille.”

Seth was quick on his toes to create something out of nothing.  He modified a strummy folk song he wrote called, “Bring Them Home” into a fast Ska tune called, “Send Them Home”.

It’s time to stand up and do the right thing maybe the white thing

They’re fucking here due to the Arab Spring and here’s the next thing- Send them home,

Send them home! We’ve fucking had enough- Send them home.

 

It was catchy and danceable and the English skins loved it.  One of them asked him to play another song.  Seth became nervous.  He blew his load on that one little ditty and didn’t quite have another bullshit song in him.  The thought suddenly came to Seth to sing The Marseillaise, the national anthem of France.  Seth learned it so that he could strum it and get everyone in Calais to sing along and then because they were as close as you could get to Great Britain, the national anthem of France would morph into, God Save the Queen.  Seth busted out another Ska beat and began to sing in French.

 

Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!

God save our gracious Queen Long live our noble Queen God save the Queen Send her victorious Happy and glorious Long to reign over us God Save the Queen!

The skins listened to the recognizable song in French and sang along to their own national anthem with arms around each other, drinking and shouting. When they arrived in Marseille, Seth was whisked up to a stage that Skinhead bands shared for the weekend long festival. The drunk British skins demanded that between sets that Seth be allowed to play his national anthem medleys and his anti-immigrant song. A barstool like seat was set up for him on a stage looking out at thousands of people. Seth was buzzed again from drinking with his new “mates” and played the songs without thought. The crowd of thousands began to gyrate to the song doing a Ska dance called a “skank”. It was surreal. Seth finished and was patted on the back and hugged. He drank with a bald girl with black lipstick at the festival who eventually fed him, shaved his head and fucked him several times in her hotel room. Seth woke early the next morning to find a bunch of skinheads laying around the hotel room on floors and couches. Next to him was the girl who made love to him and then another guy on the other side of her. Seth gathered his things and slipped out without awaking anyone. He bought a ticket for Calais and arrived a day and a half late. Seth was the second to last performer to sing his folk song for the refugees and those supporting the refugees. Seth looked out at the crowd of thousands who had smiles and were attentively waiting to hear his song, “Take Them Home”. Before going into the song, Seth pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and jokingly said a few words first.

“If you’re an American in Paris… Don’t drink Absinthe before departing for Calais… You might find yourself shaved bald on a train headed to Marseille instead… Long story but I’m here now…”

 

September 18, 2015

Stalking Problems? We Can Help

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story,stalking — blackhumouristpress @ 3:22 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Josh belonged to one of those 24 hour gyms.  He had just finished benching, curling, squatting and a one mile run while watching Sports Center.  Josh’s plan was to go home, take a shower and go visit his ex-girlfriend unexpectedly and uninvited.  It sounded like an aerosol can being shook up but actually it was a high protein shake that tasted a little bit like chalk and shit.  I never had either but we can all use our imagination on this one.  Josh was shaking up the shake before sneaking up on it, wearing a cut up muscle shirt and walking towards his car with an inflated chest.  He looked most formidable.  As soon as Josh sat in the driver side of his vehicle, a rag filled with Chloroform was placed over his face.  Josh went to sleep.  Fast.

A hood was removed from Josh’s head.  He was laying naked on a floor with his hands cuffed behind his back.  Two people were standing in front of him dressed in black Lycra including black gloves.  One wore a Hilary Clinton mask and the other a Donald Trump mask.  A cigarette dangled out of the mouth of Hilary.  The two said nothing to Josh.  They stepped out of the room and a small door opened which released about a dozen skunks.  A loud sound system of a snarling dogs scared the skunks.  They all raised their tails and sprayed the air.  Most of which landed on Josh.  The door opened again and the skunks ran inside.  On Josh’s ankles were two large shackles attached to wire.  A large door opened and Josh was pulled from the room smelling of skunks.  It wasn’t a slow pull but rather a fast tug into a room covered with ivy.  Josh was pulled across the floor full of ivy and then floor raised and tossed Josh in the air several times until all sides of his body had made contact with the ivy.  It was poison ivy.  Josh was then pulled into a room with so much steam that it was hard for him to breathe.  It was dark and breathing became harder and harder.  Josh smelled of skunk and the sweat was beginning to make him itch but with his hands locked behind his back, it was impossible to scratch the itches.  Just when Josh thought he might suffocate in the room of complete darkness, another door opened and the steam poured out around the light of the next room.  Josh was yanked hard by the ankles again into the last room.  The room was very bright and extremely cold.  Sitting at a table were the two figures in all black with Hilary and Donald masks.  Josh’s teeth chattered profusely and his ass cheeks stuck like frozen chicken to Styrofoam on the stainless steel floor that was lowered to about 0 degrees Fahrenheit.  A screen lit up with soft music.  Josh’s ex-girlfriend spoke to him in a video cast against the wall.

“Josh…  Listen…  I don’t love you anymore.  I don’t like you anymore and I don’t want to be with you anymore.  Showing up at bars when I’m out with dates and friends is beyond weird.  Telling me that nobody else can ever have me is wrong.  You don’t own me.  Take this as a warning today.  If you stalk me any further.  Some really bad things are going to happen to you…  Okay?  I don’t want to hurt you but I cannot allow you to scare me with crazy phone messages, insane emails, weird Facebook posts, uninvited visits at all hours where you scream for me like an idiot.  Your friends were more important than me.  You are an immature, lying goof who thinks that you own me … Well you don’t own me (The old 1960’s Leslie Gore song, You Don’t Own Me, played softly in the background).   I sincerely hope this message sinks in…  I am not fucking around with you any longer.  Go on with your life and be happy and leave me the fuck alone.”

Josh was knocked out again and dropped off in front of the 24 hour gym naked.  The night attendant called the police.  When the cops arrived, they found a sleeping man, naked covered in a rash that really smelled like skunks worked him over.  When Josh came to, he was too scared to tell the cops what really happened to him.  He told them that some of his softball buddies made him the focus of a hazing ritual.  Josh was asked if he wanted to go to the hospital by the officers but he declined.  Instead he got into his car without a lick of clothes on and drove himself home.  The cops just shook their heads.

For $500.00 per visit, you too can contract Stalk Busters.  Sure it’s expensive but it really works.  Ask around, someone can hook you up with them.  Who are these guys?  Out of work entrepreneurs who provide a service to women everywhere who no longer feel safe after breaking off relationships with men.  You might find their ad somewhere on line.  It’s a picture of a man in a Hilary Clinton Mask with his index finger raised to her lips as if to say Shhh.  “You have stalking problems…  We can help.”

August 26, 2015

Back from The Future or Kiss Them For Me

Luke fell asleep or passed out as a song from Romeo Void blared on the stereo in his room. He laid naked next to his girlfriend. They had matching Mohawk haircuts. Pia was curled up in the crook of his arm. They made a cassette tape of songs Luke liked and Pia. Til Tuesday Voices Carry played after Fear’s Let’s Have a War. Luke’s pulse was low. Whale low like thirty beats per minute. His blood pressure dropped and he found himself walking down a long tunnel and at the end of the tunnel and walked down the sidewalk from the grade school he attended, up the driveway of his parent’s home to find a house full of dead relatives sitting around a table eating coffee cake and talking. Uncle Charlie with his droopy eyes smiled.

“You’re in for a goddamn treat today, kid… Like to drink? Like to take pills? Like to drink and take pills? Go take a look in your room… Go ahead.”

The room was all sanitized. No more Plasmatics, Dead Kennedys, Circle Jerks posters. No cute photo booth pictures with Pia. It looked more like an office than the room that he remembered. The door to the closet lead to an office with a woman behind a glass. She stood from her desk and told Luke to go on through to the other door. The other door lead to a bathroom. Luke searched around in the dark for a light. He flicked on the light and beside him was a woman he never met but seemed to know him. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded in the doorway. She was blond and had some freckles and smiled as if she was about to say something funny but never spoke. He looked into the mirror to find someone who looked a bit like him but much older, stronger and tired. A girl of about twelve years old walked in without saying a word plopped down on the toilet and began to piss. A younger girl of about ten years of age came in to brush her teeth. She smiled and hugged Luke without saying a word. Next came in was a small mixed race little girl with the charming smile of Shirley Temple who dropped her dolls into the bathtub full of bubbles. The room went from a small water closet to a large room that seemed to grow. Next to enter the room was a young man in his twenties who looked very fit who was looking down at a hand held computer. He looked up and smiled a crooked smile, raised his eyebrows and kept walking. He was followed by a smaller boy who held a hand held game. The boy was so engrossed with the game that he bumped into Luke’s bare chest. He looked up and smiled. Another young woman walked in walking a large black dog. She had strikingly blue eyes. The music was loud. The Souxsie and the Banshees song Kiss Them For Me was playing but he thought he heard the young woman say “hi dad”. A tall black woman with braids walked around the blond woman. She never made eye contact with Luke and walked quickly away. An exotic woman with faint freckles walked by with her arms folded, shook her head, grabbed Luke’s chin and shook his face. She looked at the blond woman and winked.

Transfixed by the inner sound of your promise to be found, oh

Nothing or no-one will ever Make me let you down

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed Kiss them for me, if I am delayed

The blond woman followed down towards the end of the bathroom.  The door opened up and inside was an ice rink full of people who waved while skating.  Luke kept walking towards the next door.  Through the next door was a white room with a stand-up bass.  Luke walked up and played the bass but no sound came out except the music which was already playing.  The next room was full of papers with only tunnels like cornfields.  The small blond girl with freckles laughed and ran.  The man with the computer followed by the boy with a hand held walked by.  The pretty little mixed race girl with blue eyes ran and looked over her shoulder.  The young woman with the black dog jogged by Luke.  The twelve year old girl danced past in circles.  Luke ran behind all of them until they disappeared.  Luke opened a door and immediately fell in the dark.  He picked up speed until he couldn’t breathe and then he hit the ground.

“What the fuck!  What did I fucking have?”

Pia looked up at Luke who was sweating out of every pore on his body and shaking.  The music kept playing but it was distant.  She stood up and grabbed a cum shirt off of the floor and wiped his forehead.  She asked what was wrong.  Luke’s teeth chattered as he tried to explain his vivid dream.

“I was old and shit and I had like six children and three wives and there was ice and music and a lot of bullshit paper work.  It went on and on.  I kept walking through doors.  People had phones that weren’t connected to anything.  People were fatter and there were more of them.  There were no Soviets and people went to Cuba like it was Vegas and everyone had atomic bombs…  People watched television everywhere and I think their televisions were watching them.  It was fucking scary.  The whole time I walked I felt like I was being pushed through life faster until everything just blurred and nothing could be remembered or enjoyed…  I think it was a dream but somehow I think it was something else.  It was so fucking real…  Listen…  Tonight I just want to rent a video from the video store and just be cool.  I don’t know what kind of trip that was but it wasn’t cool.  It was like it’s a Wonderful Life gone wrong…  You know what I mean?”

“Was I there?”

Luke didn’t answer.  He looked into the mirror and sang a song that didn’t exist yet in 1984.

Transfixed by the inner sound of your promise to be found, oh

Nothing or no-one will ever Make me let you down

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed Kiss them for me, if I am delayed

August 17, 2015

Winds of Potential Change

Filed under: humor,humour — blackhumouristpress @ 11:54 am
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Television blares images- the princess holding her baby is apprehensive, pensive look towards Calais

Knowing there is no way to change the ebb and flow of those who

Run from their kingdom- a mass of human destruction called Syria

Serious wringing of hands over construction of nuclear matter- does it matter?

You get a bomb, they got a bomb we have a bomb and the anxiety of what’s yet

To come.

If you conserve we preserve Federal Reserve and reservations for the indigenous and a

Prestigious candidate debating waiting for him implode to meet his fate propped by polls by those

Who see the holes in the road leading around the bend back to where we stand in the slipping

Sand- building Berlinish walls at the Rio Grande for the Grand Old Party going the way of Whigs

Stand tall and shake a big twig for the greatest country you never met- Tremendous debt and a genuflect towards a Chinese syndrome of the purchase of consumer not-so-goods

Come back to bed, dear- it’s only the wind of potential change in the age of climate changing back to the times of dinosaurs, pre-historic ingenuity- igneous, porous blind faith in the ability of the electorate to find the protectorate of this really great way of living- with liberty and justice for all… or at least some.

May 27, 2015

The Gauntlet Through Suburbia or It’s Kinda Like Dutch

Filed under: belgium,humor,humour,Short Story,suburbia — blackhumouristpress @ 8:51 pm
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Margot totally forgot about the block party as she came around the corner to find two barricades blocking the entrance to her driveway. It took a few seconds for the whole thing to register- The busybody fucks put together a block party and put the fun house/trampoline squarely in front of her driveway. She would have to park her car on the side street and face the gauntlet of neighbors on her way to her door. There at the table was the neighborhood old nosey woman with her mentally challenged adult son with the underbite. He is a Bagger at the neighborhood grocery store and it takes longer for him to bag the groceries than to go up and down the aisles to shop. His mother landed him the job. Ted is harmless unless you’re a deviled egg. Ted sat next to his mother and poked each and every one of the deviled eggs and then licked what stuck to his hands as he smiled at his own fingers. Next to Gladys and her son was Susan and her husband George who had gastric bypass surgery, right after they became born again Christians. They have two adult sons who work doing delivery at a pizza restaurant. They make under minimum wage and have nice late-model Chrysler cars. One has a Challenger and the other a Charger. They blast ghetto Rap and wear sagging pants and crooked ball caps delivering food to hungry homogeneous consumers nestled in a really safe community. Margot thinks the boys are dealing dope and they are. Susan and George have two younger daughters after a ten-year sabbatical on spawning. They are twins but not fraternal. One is thin and tall and the other is grotesquely obese and tall. Margot wanted to wire up her backyard so that the chubby one would get a shock much the way a dog does with invisible fences. The heavy-set girl was forever picking flowers and kicking soccer balls into Margret’s plants.

Next two at the table were the neighborhood lesbians that looked like two ugly Dutch men with Dutch boy haircuts. They both played on several lesbian softball teams and treated their Pug named Schotzie like their baby. The larger of the two large women was the daddy and the smaller but rotund one was the mommy and they called each other that. The daddy seemed to always sweat even when there was not a good reason such as cold weather or inactivity and she smelled slightly like a skunk. Perspiring, unwashed skin against more perspiring unwashed skin tends to give off a scent after while. They glared at Margot. They were no longer friends because Margot changed her mind and decided that she really did not want the Pamper Chef stuff that the mommy was peddling as part of her stay at home employment so that she could keep an eye on the dog who had a slipped disc.

The lesbian’s dog Schotzie kept growling at the judge’s well-behaved German Sheppard that sat unleashed at his side. The judge looked like Joseph Goebbels with his legs crossed and his concentration camp dog at his side. His wife had an Eva Braun look to her. She had a nervous thing she did where she kept straightening a strand of hair that was already straight. Margret suspected that the judge’s wife was trained to be obedient and submissive like their dog. The judge never spoke and his wife only commented on the weather. At the far end of the table were the wife swappers. Margot didn’t know for certain that this was going on but felt that the spouses of each couple was far too chummy. Margot was right. The couples would order a pizza delivered by the hip hop looking pizza boy neighbors, have a few drinks and take turns with each other’s spouse and then critique each other’s performance.

The thought often came to Margot- wouldn’t it have been better to stay in the city where the sounds of leaf blowers did not cut through the morning air each and every quiet morning, where busy  with mentally challenged sons would not watch her from their windows, where dysfunctional next door neighbors would not ignore their son’s dope dealing and allow their overfed daughter to destroy her garden, where Nazi look a likes and lumpy lesbians with dogs never would feel at ease to hold a gun to her head to get her to buy unnecessary stuff that she didn’t want or need? No. The city was cold and distant. There were no block parties and you had to lock your car doors and dead bolt your front doors and watch your purse. People in the city never said hello to each other unless they were about to panhandle.

The neighbors were all intrigued by Margot.  Why did she buy a house in the suburbs? Was she ever married? Did she have kids? Why is there no man around or a woman for that matter? Is she happy? Is she sad? Is she content? Is she hiding something? Is she really American? They all wanted to know. It’s the suburbs and everyone sticks their noses up each other’s asses like dogs at a dog park. Gladys asked Margot to stay for a drink, the born-agains asked her to stay, the lesbians, Nazis and wife swappers all took their turns. Margot felt she had no choice. Like a gun to her head, she sat and waited for the questioning at the yearly block party while she sipped a Pinot Grigio out of a plastic cup.

“Well, I came from the city but am originally from Belgium…”

Nobody said anything and then the son of Gladys with an underbite and deviled egg residue on his fingers, looked at Margot and asked a profound question that nobody expected or thought to ask Margot. Ted watched geography shows on public television constantly but nobody knew that. They all thought they were in the presence of a savant. “Did you speak French or Flemish in Belgium?”

Margret answered that she spoke Flemish. Nobody knew what that was. Nothing was said for a nervous ten seconds until the judge’s wife commented while straightening her hair.

“Well we certainly picked a beautiful day to have this block party, didn’t we?”

Yes

February 3, 2015

I Believe

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 10:22 am
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A friend from high school who does a lot of theater in New York called me and left me a cryptic message on my voice mail. “Hey it’s me…  Call me, I need you to do me a favor.”  I was intrigued.  This is a guy that I was friends with as a teenager who taught me two songs to play on an upright bass for a variety show in high school.  The songs were Oh Boy and Not Fade Away by Buddy Holly.  It was like sedated Rockabilly and I loved the idea of entering the contest with wannabe Hair band lovers with spandex and Marshall Stacks and no sense of dynamics. We grew up and moved on and he does theater and so he came to Chicago and asked me to write something sincere about what I believe about what I believe.  I stood in a dark theater with three other men and they filmed this.  It played as a hologram over the weekend on Friday and Saturday.  I was all set to make the pilgrimage to downtown Chicago via train on Sunday to view what I did and others when the extreme weather killed it. A snow storm.  I will never see what I did and what others came up with.  My buddy texted me to tell me that mine was good.  He use the word “ringer”.  I spoke from the heart and it was a fun exercise in thinking about things that matter and so this is what I came up with.  Somewhere in New York City, my high school friend Richard Maxwell is doing his thing.  I am honored that he came to town and thought about having me do something with him that mattered to him.  Thanks, Rich.  Here are my thoughts and my side notes added later.

I believe the best days are spontaneous- When you think things are going to be ordinary and mundane, something totally unexpected happens. You meet someone you fall in love with or have one night with that leaves you feeling good about yourself and humanity. You find a hundred dollar bill rolling around in the wind or an extra burger in your take out bag.

I believe holidays with family are good- provided we don’t discuss religion or politics or have to listen to Uncle Asshole only talk and never have him allow others to talk or question anyone on what has happened between Easter and Thanksgiving.

I believe that I want to believe in something after life- Yes… I don’t want to get to the end and see a sign at the end of the tunnel of light that says- “Thanks for your cooperation in keeping order and stability on Earth during your stay. The whole god thing was designed to keep you in line… Sort of like Santa keeps kids in line.” Everlasting hell tends to keep people from killing and aping each other every two seconds.

I believe the most memorable days of life is witnessing the birth and death of someone you love- I was present for the births of my three kids and the death of the most influential person in my life. Being at the gate to welcome them and see them off is the strongest thing you can be apart of.

I believe life is short and gets shorter with age- At 20, I thought that old people were 30 and that I would live to be 40 maybe. I drove fast with out seat belts or helmets and just could not think of anything that could kill me. I was going to live forever.

I believe Americans are shallow- Not all but most. If it makes you feel better, I can speak French but think the French are pompous and their culture is overblown and not the benchmark.

I believe Nixon was the most knowledgable president in my life- Nixon was a smart man who let his paranoia get the best of him. Having Henry Kissinger in his ear probably didn’t help either.

I believe if Fidel Castro had made it into professional baseball, Cuba would have never become communist- If Fidel was as good as Roberto Clemente and made a good buck playing baseball, he wouldn’t have given a fuck what happened in Havana. “Well if I can’t make it playing baseball in America, I’m going to be a dictator that sticks his thumb up America’s ass”

I believe the Cold War was a better era- Reagan, Gorby, west coast hard core punk, Magnum PI… Come on, that was some good shit. You were either with us or against us and the whole globe was divided into allies or foes and if you really paid attention, you could see modern day slavery on the television via live feeds from places like Soweto during unrest in South Africa and never stop to think that the American south was in the same boat just twenty years earlier.

I believe ice hockey is the best sport there is- firstly learn to skate. Then put a stick in your hand. Then control a little disc while keeping your head up so as to see what is coming at you so that you don’t get obliterated. Pass the disc to someone and then get open so that the guy you just passed to can pass back before he gets smacked. It is soccer with hitting and knives on your feet. If you can speak the language, you understand best what is happening. If you never played, your missing out.

I believe you have to exercize to lose or maintain weight- from the “duh” files. Staple your stomach, just eat grapefruits, sit home and watch bullshit on television and somehow it just happens that your look like that smiling chick on the lame stomach machine that only works if you are losing more calories than taking in.

I believe eating well will keep you healthy- um this too… Eat shit and look like shit. Eat well and look good.

I believe old age will not be fun- I’ve yet to meet an old person who said that they love losing most of the people they new from their youth, like depending on strangers and offspring who are annoyed with them, like taking a cocktail of medicine just to make it to the next day, like getting slower, less autonomous and unable to stop pissing in their pants. I don’t believe I’ll beat the curve either.

I believe H.L. Mencken was the greatest American writer- check him out if you haven’t heard of him. He will make you laugh and appreciate really good writing.

I believe I am capable of deep love- and this has nothing to do with just getting a woman to cum but occasionally I strike oil there.  Love is getting donuts for the little fuckers on a Saturday morning, holding hands with the little one while ice skating, making them laugh during a family meal, watching television at the end of a hard day with that person who knows you unlike anyone else and still loves you. It is at moments like that while watching hockey highlights that I like to say, ” I know I joke around quite a bit and am rarely serious but I want you to know that I love you… Please don’t expect me to say this sappy shit too often though. It just weakens the phrase for days when you will really need it.”

I believe I have been a good father- As adults, the big ones still text and have meals with me. I suspect when they start spawning their own kids, they’ll appreciate my efforts even more.

I believe I am a good undiscovered writer- I don’t have time to blow smoke up someone’s ass at some workshop weekend in nowhere Florida, listening to people who got discovered just to learn that their wife had a friend who is married to someone who is a literary agent… Oh, that’s how you got discovered… I know a few mechanics and plumbers and so I just post short shit while I work on longer shit and hope my wife makes friends with someone who knows someone who will find merit in my shit and feed it through the eye of the needle.

I believe I am a good ice hockey player… for my age- I can still keep up with the youngsters. Part of the secret is being intelligent and knowing what you can get away with. Gordie Howe played until the age of 53 professionally. I still have time to be called up.

I believe I am a good bass player- Not everyone I know can play bass. Not everyone I know who plays bass can play a stand up bass. Not everyone I know who can play a stand up bass can sing and play. Of those that can sing and play the stand up bass, not many can play for three hours straight without pissing.

I believe I am in good shape- I can take of my shirt and not apologize

I believe I am a nice person- To those I think will respect and appreciate it and not just look at a kind gesture as a sign of weakness.

I believe i have a bad temper- I have been in a few fist fights. I have broken things that meant something to me including my hands from punching things that don’t give.

I believe in democracy- I don’t know what we have exactly but it’s good to know I will not be put in front of a Sunday afternoon tribunal and stone to death for poking fun at the government or god.

I believe vacations are necessary- Yes… If you got stuck in the snow this past week, you like to think and believe there is something nice out there where you won’t die from the elements if you get locked out. Sand, sun, ocean somewhere away from Americans.

I believe day time television is stupid- Is it any wonder terrorists pick up American feeds and conclude that they need to put us out of our misery.

je crois que c’est possible pour moi de converser en Francais- pouquoi? Peut-etre un jour je voudrais habiter en Quebec. A jouer hockey et parler Francais un petit peu.

I believe most people can be nice- yes… They have the ability within them

I believe there is evil- yes, they have this within them to and like a reverse gear on a car, we all have transmissions within us that can be shifted at a moment’s notice.

I believe the eighties weren’t that bad- no mortgage, no bills, unending supply of food, sleep til noon on weekends, work for beer and concert tickets only. If I could visit for a few weeks, I would go today.

I believe landlines are necessary- no service when you need to make a call sucks. You shouldn’t need to point your phone towards Mecca on a mountain top to make a call or be heard.

I believe organic is a gimmick- I think everything is eventually going to kill me. Even the good shit.

I believe there should be a viable third party to represent the people of the United States- Yes. You get two choices like two doors with brick walls behind them. We keep opening the same two doors thinking that the wall behind it might somehow not be there.

I believe Chicago is a great place to live- I also am quite fond of Detroit which I visit very often for music. Los Angeles is also good to go back to and remember what it was to be young and have my whole life ahead of me.

I believe that Lake Michigan looks like an ocean- It really does.

I believe the best era to live in was the 1950’s- no wars after Ike took over, the suburbs and interstate system was created, one car, two vacations, jobs, pensions and good looking clothes.

I believe it is necessary to be hugged occasionally- yes but not too much please.

I believe in love at first sight- when you know you know.

I believe the New England Patriots cheated- The whole country except the state of Massachutes thinks this too.

I believe it doesn’t matter if the New England Patriots cheated- with all the starvation in the world, does it really fucking matter?

I believe children are important- No jokes here. They are truly a gift if you have one. Enjoy them, they grow up fast and then milk you of resouces without any remorse.

I believe racism still lives- It is the elephant in the country and occasionally things happen that bring attention to it.

I believe every racist makes acceptions- any white person who ever says, “I have this black friend” is the hint. The fact that they have only one acceptable friend of color is because he or she is just a little bit unlike the rest of those people.

I believe wine tastes better than beer- especially American beer. Mule piss in a glass and if it is lite beer it is mule piss sans the calories.

I believe every war after World War II was avoidable- Great Britain dismantled their kingdom after World War II and said, ” ere you go, mate… ave the world. You can be the most powerful nation in the world and stick your bloody fingers up the arses of anyone you bloody well feel deserves it as long as it can be justified for the sake of freedom and democracy” and we’ve deluded ourselves ever since.

I believe men should open doors for women- I know you can do this shit for yourselves but momma taught me this is how it should be. Don’t try to undo this. The next generation will have you doing everything for yourselves.

I believe dying is scary- I try never to think about it in depth. My grandfather who was funnier than me, smarter than me and better looking than me used to say, “there’s no good way out of this”

I believe there is never enough time to do all the things I want to do.- Life is like Disneyland. You cannot do everything there in one day. Do what you can and try to be happy with it.

January 13, 2015

When Mohammed Met Sarah

Filed under: chicago,humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:41 am
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When one meets someone who is simple, one dimensional, unaware, naïve, unintelligent and ignorant, they shake their heads and dismiss the person. When two people of all these deficiencies find each other, many find it quaint not unlike watching a midget couple holding hands in public.

Chaim, an orthodox Jew convert, lived in perfect harmony with his wife Sarah. Sarah’s father set up Chaim and his daughter with a kosher bakery. Bagels, like Sushi and Indian Cuisine has transcended the masses and so the couple made a good living supporting their children selling bagels to hungry Americans. How did they meet? People like to know how people met.

Chaim was born Patrick Cole and then became Mohammad Al-Sabba after converting to Islam upon being jailed for idiocy related to drunk driving on a suspended license. The Aryan brotherhood tried to pull in the sturdy looking man with a dumb look on his face with platinum hair and muscles on top of muscles. A jail house cleric with a great hate and disdain for America, the American way of life and anything generally that was not geared towards extreme interpretation of the Koran, befriended our hero. Rather than befriend and convince other Muslims within America to become Martyrs and donate their lives to the greater good, A man who called himself Terry went to work on those he felt were as pliable mentally as Playdoh within the penal system.

Patrick was driven to Canada upon being released from jail. He was brainwashed near Toronto, given a fake passport and trained in Yemen for three months before being brought back to Canada and then smuggled back into the states and sent towards a heavily orthodox Jewish area of Chicago called West Rogers Park.

A young Jewish Satirist wrote an independent blog about the absurdity of life in general. Being a not so bad artist, he drew Michigan Avenue in Chicago, jammed packed with yellow cabs with smiling middle eastern men with their heads sticking out of the driver side windows with a caption, “Find the real Mohammed in the cabs”. There was Mohammed Morsi the politician, Mohammed Rafique a Cricket player, Mohammed Ali a boxer, nameless and faceless Mohammeds and then the actual Mohammed. This was a no-no, faux pas, verboten and was only punishable by death. Terry whose name was really not Terry, preached the evils of Americana to Patrick who had been a simple southern boy without a proper race scorecard. He wasn’t quite sure who was with who other than black was black and white was white and them dang Jews was the devil.

“Do you think it is right that people glorify things like Maury Povich and Jerry Springer? Kardashians, Sex in the City and TMZ? This country is Rome before the fire and the fire is coming. To be a Martyr is a glorious thing and the mother of all gifts… Are you ready to train to make the supreme sacrifice?”

Patrick’s response- Hell yes!

Mohammed, I mean Patrick, walked into the kosher bakery looking for directions on how to find to a building, which was 1533 W. Touhy, the office of the satirist. Mohammed was at 1353 W. Touhy. Mohammed was to walk into the building and light a stick of dynamite strapped to a dozen other sticks of dynamite and say something very loud in Arabic that he memorized but had no idea what it meant. This was all to be done prior to sundown on the Sabbath Friday. Mohammed had the wrong address and wrong time. He showed up at a Jewish bakery just before it was to close on a Friday afternoon. A beautiful young woman with crossed eyes greeted Mohammed as he walked up to the counter. Mohammed’s head was shaved and he had a long blond beard. He wore what looked to be a bulletproof vest. Strapped to the vest were sticks of dynamite. Sarah didn’t seem to notice. Mohammed was immediately mesmerized by Sarah’s beauty.

“I created what I call the everything bagel… The united bagel of Benetton bagel. Would you like to try it?”

Mohammed did try it. He loved it. It was salty with garlic and cinnamon and parsley with chocolate. Mohammed had two and looked unblinkingly into the eyes of a young woman with a beautiful face, sweet voice and eyes that went where they wanted. She looked at the strong looking man in a black vest with cylinder like things affixed to it and sensuously said something to him at a distance to taste his breath.

“I had a dream last night that a blond prince on a horse was going to take me away up a the mountain where we could build a ranch house with a circular drive and we would be happy and have children… How is it that at the hour and minute of the Sabbath, you come into my life? You are my gift from god.”

A sexually repressed teenage orthodox Jewish girl and a virile convert to Islam rolled around naked as the day they were born on a cold concrete floor with flour and onions and poppy seeds. They made love, if you will, three times. Sarah was supposed to be at the synagogue and Mohammed was supposed to be with 72 virgins in the afterlife. Both of them came up short but found true and everlasting love. A simple kind of love that cannot be penetrated and jaded by race, religion, logic, reason, fanaticism, fundamentalism, clear sight or intelligence.

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