Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 21, 2014

Operation Crowbar or I Gotta Guy

At city hall in the city of Chicago, early on a Monday morning after reading about a dozen murders and over thirty shootings between Friday and Sunday, the mayor threw a fit.
“How is it that we have more fucking murders in this goddamn city than Baghdad or Kabul? I’m tired of press conferences where I hear that the murder rate is actually down but shootings are out of control. It’s a tribute to medicine that thirty people get shot and only a dozen die… THIS BULLSHIT HAS TO END NOW! I’M READY TO HEAR SOME IDEAS OUT OF YOU ALL INSTEAD OF DUMB FUCKING LOOKS… ANYONE?”
The common reply among men in Chicago when someone needs something fixed; I gotta guy. One of the mayor’s guys had a guy.
Now the mayor of Chicago knew about apartheid South Africa about as much as most Americans. It was a terrible thing that a white minority instituted separation of races. A guy named Mandela went from being a Communist perpetrator and an enemy of the state to president and so on and so forth. One of the mayor’s aides knew a guy, who knew a guy who knew the guy necessary to straighten things out in a way that could be understood in the hood. When a large smiling man with a sizable space between his two upper front teeth arrived at a meeting at city hall, it was clear he had the strongest personality in the room. With a strong Afrikaner accent, Jan used an analogy to explain the task ahead of him.
“Thees prrroblem you arrrre having ees nothing. Whaat you arrrre asking of me ees like asking a chef to make you a hard-boiled egg… Now you have to ask yourselves eef the peace you will get ees worth the price you are going to pay. Peace costs money, my friends.”
The large man was once responsible for keeping order in South African townships where angry black people were unhappy about the oppressive laws forced upon them. Jan also overthrew dictators in Africa and lead South African troops to a war in Angola. Dissuading random gangbangers from randomly murdering innocents and others deemed deserving did not seem like a difficult task to Jan. A huge price tag would be accompanied by a huge presence not seen since the riots after Martin Luther King Jr.
Jan stopped talking for a moment. He took out a marker and began writing on a blank sheet of paper. The squeak of the marker was the only sound in the room. Jan stood up and walked over to the mayor’s desk and ripped off a piece of tape and taped the paper to the wall. One word was written on it that nobody understood since it was a Dutch/Afrikaans word.


“You all know the word Apartheid… Learn thees Dutch word, my new frrrriends… Like a fucking hard boiled egg.”

Nothing was announced and nothing was said beyond the walls of city hall. The following Monday, it was front page news that nobody died or was shot within the city limits of Chicago other than one domestic dispute gone wrong. The papers tried to analyze why. The mayor came out with the chief of police to announce that the authorities were turning the corner and getting a handle of the situation and other canned catch phrases used by politicians and athletes alike. So what really happened?
Dozens of enormous trucks with steering wheels on the right side of the vehicles pulled up in every neighborhood with high incidents of murder. These trucks were like Hummers on steroids. They were like angry Land Rover limousines capable of withstanding landmines. For those who liked jacked up vehicles with large rims, these high riding trucks were an item to inspire true awe. Close to thirty former South African Police trucks called Casspirs rolled into rough streets where tourists never tarry. People who stood on corners and front porches began to notice soldiers of fortune filing out of the Casspirs with automatic weapons and scopes. These weren’t fat, old, white men in cop cars. These were white and black men equally in full soldier uniform that were soldiers of fortune from South Africa. Chicago residents in the shit neighborhoods who followed the law and rules and never sold a drug or carried a weapon, smiled and waved at the stoic soldiers that walked around with their fingers on triggers. Something serious and different was afoot. At the press conference with the mayor and chief of police, the mayor responded to the questioned that was posed repeatedly; what did you do to stop the violence?
“We used a crowbar… Sometimes you need to pry back to get at things… Next question… Nobody was murdered this weekend in the city of Chicago. Let’s talk about other things that need fixing… Let’s talk about the Cubs.”


August 27, 2009

Truth and Reconciliation

In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.

The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.

The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.

Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.

On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.

“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.

“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”

Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.

A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.

“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”

The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.

“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.

“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.

“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.

“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”

“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the other claims?”

“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”

“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”

“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”

“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”

“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”

“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”

“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”

People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.

“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”

“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”

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