Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 24, 2017

Cava, Clean Glasses and Nothingness

Filed under: humor,humour,Ice hockey,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:16 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Sal washed bar dishes  first in soap then a solution of water and
bleach that kills anything that could hurt you.  He then let them drip
dry and then took a towel and dried each glass until there was no hint
of finger prints or lipstick or anything.  June sat at the bar, leaning on her elbows.
“I’m amazed by the detail to each glass…”
“Worst thing is serving someone and then they hand it back to you
because of lipstick, or a hair or Rumchata that dried or something.
They not only don’t want to pay you but now they’re disgusted and want
to go.  They then go home and jump on Yelp to let the world know that
there was a pubic hair in their rum and Coke.  The bartender was
indifferent and nobody should ever go to that establishment for that
reason.  I try hard to take away that argument.  Want to hate the
world and complain like a coward?  It won’t be about dirty glasses.
You could go home and say that I have mercenary qualities and looked
bored and you might be right but you at least got a clean glass…”
“And I like that about you…  I’d like a Cava.  Not a little souvenir
split but the whole fucking bottle.  Bring me a flute because I am a
lady…  Right?
“But of course… You asked for Cava.  Did you know that in French if
you separate Cava into ca va, you’d be asking someone how it’s going.
So let’s try it…  Comment ca va?”
“It sucks today.  I went to a funeral of a friend who just died of
cancer and then found a dick pic on the computer and letters and
letters to a mutual friend related to an affair.  I have not divulged
that I snooped and that I have seen the evidence and my fiancé
continues to lie.  I asked him if he would take a lie detector test
and he said that the idea of putting him through such a harsh test
just shows that there is no trust between us…  What should I do?”
“Um…  Do you want to stay with him?”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s a tough one…  True story…  When I was a young man, a man who
knew me and played ice hockey against me, was courting my wife.  Guys
I played hockey with told me,  my eight year old son told me in a
round about way and I didn’t want to believe it.  Once I became a
believer, I caught the two of them together at his place.  I destroyed
the apartment and beat him thoroughly and then left before the cops
came.  Would I do that today?  No way…  I would just walk away.  Jail
time, stroke or a hard attack is not worth it if someone is not with
you, truly with you.  Embarassing him on Maury Povich or on an episode
of Cheaters will not change anything.  No charge for that advice.”
June drank two bottles of Cava and talked about plants, movies, her
children, her fiancé again and death.  After more than an hour, June
noticed a book on the bar and asked about it.  It was a French book
entitled, L’Être et le néant.  Sal didn’t really want to discuss the
book.  June pushed and so Sal took a breath, rubbed his bald head and
looked up at the ceiling.
“How do I put this… Hmmm.”
June always did the talking and Sal the listening.  Sal was caught
off guard.  Sal never let on how he viewed the political landscape and
whether he was for or against the president.  Jazz and ice hockey he
was happy to discuss but all else was never divulged.
“If I were to describe myself, it may come off as self-deception
about the human reality.  I could make myself falsely believe not to
be what I actually am.  Or  deny my freedom by becoming what you
perceive as a bartender.  This means that in being a bartender, I
might believe that my social role is equal to my human existence.
This book explains that an occupation, race or social class should not
define who you are.  I am a person and not a bartender…  I could
become anything.  You sell real estate but is that really you?”
“Fucking deep shit and in French no less.  And that’s interesting to you?”
“I’m interested to be aware while I doubt much of everything in life.
To know is to be and we need to be and know what we are…  There is a
lot I know and a lot I don’t know. I am and actually I don’t know why
I am.  Can I define what I know?  Can I define what I am and wish to
be? There are things I know that I know. There are known unknowns.
That is to say There are things that I now know I don’t know. But
there are also unknown unknowns. There are things I do not know I
don’t know… And so I read about it…  In French.  It’s all really
fucked up but it sounds not so bad in French… N’est ce pas?”
“I don’t think I will ever ask you another question, Sal.”

“I’m totally okay with that, June.  I’m a good listener.”

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 14, 2012


Filed under: Ethnicity,obama,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:15 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Mathilde, a name she created for herself, decided when she opened up her Jazz club, that she would only speak French to her bartender, whom she was sleeping with on nights when she really wanted to have sex.  Jasper would then watch Mathilde light a cigarette, flick her wrist towards Jasper and say, “va t’en…”

Mathilde inherited money from the husband of her grandmother who had married the last of five husbands. George never had children and had saved well after serving in World War II.  Mathilde lived in Paris for a year and then returned to the states to claim her money and open her club.

Mathilde was into Film Noir and a look among women and men of days gone by.  She tried hard to recreate something that didn’t exist any longer.  Jasper wore a red sports coat and a thin black tie.  The television screens in the club were from the 1950’s and only played old movies.  Mathilde could speak perfect English but chose to only speak French upon returning from France.  The job description online for a bartender was that he not she, had to be fluent in French.  Jasper was born in Montreal.  Jasper was not French but had to learn French in a French-speaking city.  Jasper found Mathilde amusing.  He did not mind fucking the thin woman with tangerine shaped tits when the mood caught her.

“Sir, there are very few people in this day in age that would selflessly give to their country and join the armed forces.  I have chosen the infantry so that given the opportunity; I can send those Allah loving towel heads up to heaven to get their 72 virgins in the afterlife.  I feel very strongly about this sir.”

“How old are you, son?”

“21 today, sir.”

“Well thanks for that.  I forgot to check your ID.  I used to live in Los Angeles, West Los Angeles to be exact.  I used to take a number 2 Santa Monica bus from Westwood near UCLA down Wilshire Boulevard to where I lived.  The bus would cut through the VA and cemetery where thousands of boys laid silent.  Boys just like you.  I hope you make it back and go on with your life, kid.”

“Sir, it is what god has chosen for me.”

“Another mango rum, kid?”

“Better make it two.”

Mathilde sat on a stool in the center of the bar and listened to all the patrons speak to Jasper.  She would comment to Jasper in French.  Of course.

“Pourquoi?  Il est tres jeune et beau …”

“Right…  Like Rousseau said; a blank slate.”

“These Jazz dudes think they got it all figured out.  They all tend to play the same shit from a ten-year period where colored dudes were shooting heroin and turning Benny Goodman on his head.  This was the American classic period, man.  This is Beethoven, Mozart and Bach for Americana.  Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane and these young white dudes play it and play it.  Don’t get me wrong, man.  I dig it.”

“Colored…  Now that takes me back to a simpler time.  Pay phones, UHF and Richard Nixon.  Say Mack… Why the Steven Segal look?  Nixon had a similar hairline to you.  He would never have pulled it back in a pony tail, had a vodka with a splash of cranberry and called a colored an African-American.”

“You’re right about that, Jasper…  It is sort of redundant, isn’t it?  I mean they all came from Africa so why always push that back in their faces every time you refer to one of them with the obvious?  Am I right, Jas?”

“Who could argue with that logic?  Another splash of cranberry with your vodka?”

“Easy on the ice and easy on the cranberry…”

“Doucement avec l’alcool…  la coute pour ca c’est trop cher.”

“Jasper…  You are an ageless creature.  You must be a half-century but look to be under the age of thirty-five.  How do you do it?”

“Well, I eat well, exercise and try to keep in mind that everything happening here is transitory.”

“Transitory…  I like that word.  It is a polite way of saying that everything doesn’t really mean shit, correct?”

“Righto mate…  Some slob stood in this bar 100 years ago and discussed the Titanic slipping into the sea and breaking up the huge monopolies like US Steel and Standard Oil.  Guys like you ordered a whiskey for under a nickel and guys like me made thirty cents a day and lived in a flophouse.  I live in an apartment and make…  not that much more than thirty cents a day and is it really living versus existing?  Le plus les choses changent, le plus ils sont le meme…”

“My exact words…  Another Hemingway, please.  Absinthe with a hint of champagne, please.”

“Tu gagne beaucoups d’argent et les autres chose sont plus important que d’argent, mon vieux.”

“Bien sur, madam…”

“Romney picked wisely.  I think the kid looks presidential actually.  So Romney takes a job that nobody should ever want.  One of these smelly punks who sit in parks, strumming guitars, worrying about the rich, suddenly becomes furious that their hope has changed and buys a gun from the same guy who is hooking them up with drugs and kills Romney.  This leaves the job to the kid from Wisconsin.  Mind you that this hippie assassin, this modern day Lee Harvey Oswald’s family is contributing to a Protestant church somewhere in suburbia and is also one of those families who gave  $250.00 to help Romney defeat the incumbent while also sending money to their bust out son who lives in a park somewhere, protesting  everything…  What do you think?”

“I think that any restaurant that only offers you two choices on the menu, cannot be too good.”

“That sounds very communist.”

“Freedom or the illusion of freedom is the heroin of the masses…  I think Marx said that, didn’t he?”

“Never mind…  Give me another one of those Belgian beers.”

“Of course.  That sounds very American.”

“Jill…  I don’t mind the whole French thing in front of the consumers but you don’t need to do that when we’re alone.  We both speak English as a first language.   Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind just once?”

Mathilde spoke in a clear Midwestern accent while laying on her side, smoking a cigarette out of a holder while listening to Nat King Cole sing in French.

“Life sounds better in French…  Even if it is not even close to being ideal.”

Jasper lifted his eyebrows as he slipped on his pants and readied himself to leave Mathilde’s house for the night.

“D’accord…  C’est votre vie et j’habite etre avec vous…”

October 10, 2009

Women in Bars

Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:02 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Sarah and Angela made plans for two Fridays in a row to leave their homes in Grosse Pointe to have a drink in Hamtramck which is a little island of a town encompassed by the city of Detroit. After a few cancellations, they met at Small’s. In the main room was a noisy garage band. Sarah and Angela found a table under a television where Fox Detroit was agonizing over the unravelling of the Tigers in the last days of the 2009 baseball season. Neither of them was interested in that nor anything else going on in crowed bar that cool autumn night. Catching up was all that they really hoped to do.

Sarah was the mother of four children and was married to a second generation Greek man who owned his own garage. Demetrius inherited his father’s garage that was started back in 1959. Demetrius made a good buck and lived a fairly simple life.

Angela was the mother of two children, one of which played ice hockey on a team with Sarah’s son. Angela and Sarah became friends immediately and carpooled to hockey games and practices and eventually became each other’s confidant.

Sarah ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and Angela had a Corona Light. A young fat man with mutton side burns, many tattoos and a backwards Lions hat on, put ten dollars in the juke box and played every Ramones tune available. Sarah blinked hard and shook her head.

“Have you figured out when boys become men? This little cherub probably still lives at home and plays drinking games in his parent’s basement in between X Box tournaments with his equally unmotivated friends who are living at home with their parents,” stated Angela, while leaning her chin on the palm of her right hand.

“Um my loving husband is sitting right now in my living room with his brother and cousins, watching a Red Wings game on a seventy two inch television. Four fat Greeks wearing Chelios jerseys, eating wings and drinking beer. I could walk naked in front of all of them and they’d never notice. His fucking brother is such a goddamn pig too. He makes that sound when you’re sucking snot up from somewhere in your throat. It is so damn gross and then he swallows it.” Said Sarah.

“I hate it when his parents come over and the wives of his cousins and brother. Everyone is Greek and they all speak Greek and I’m just running around making coffee for the old people who are ripping on me in Greek because I’m not Greek. Thank god I’m not Greek. Something happens when those Greek chicks have kids. Their hips expand and they grow moustaches. I shit you not. Even the good looking ones get fat asses and facial hair. When I first met his parents they assumed I was Greek and then they wanted assurances from me that the kids would go to Greek school on weekends to learn to read and write in Greek. My Greek god turned into just a fucking Greek. Him and his cousins, brothers, their wives, his parents and their Hellenic hip disease… Honest to Christ almighty. I’m immersed in the fucking white sauce of life.” Said Sarah, while Angela laughed uncontrollably.

Sarah was short with brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Sarah’s inspiration unbeknownst to her was Angela. Angela had her last child a few years back and began to work out religiously. Angela’s husband had told her that he could not get aroused since she had become more matronly than he had anticipated. Angela signed up for spin classes, Pilates and swam. Everyday she tried to get in between a half hour to an hour of exercise. Within six months, Angela had lost forty five pounds and looked and felt better than she had in years. Angela’s husband still criticized her one too many times. Angela had found more than exercise to occupy her time.

“I have something I have to get off my chest,” said Angela after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m seeing a Polish poet who works during the day as a plumber”.

Sarah laughed as though Angela had told a joke. Angela wasn’t laughing. Sarah reached across the table and grabbed Angela’s forearm.

“I want to hear about this and don’t leave a fucking detail out,” said Sarah.

“I told Tom for weeks to fix the P trap under the sink in the kitchen. I thought he had done it and I open the cabinet to get cleaning solution to clean up a spot where the cat has taken to pissing over and over and the cabinet had fallen apart totally. I could see the foundation through a hole where there used to be wood. I was so pissed. I go into the den and he was looking at porn or something on the internet. As soon as he heard my feet stomping towards him on the hardwood floor, he turns off the monitor… So fucking childish… Anyway I ask him why he never took care of it. He shrugs like my other kids and says he forgot. I was so mad that I went to the hardware store to get the parts myself. I connect it all up and water is spraying everywhere and I’m about ready to cry. There I am under the sink with a pipe wrench and I have whining kids asking for pudding pops and Tom gets upset because he’s trying to watch football and the kids are yelling. He gives them each a granola bar and tells them to play downstairs. Mind you, I’m under the sink with black shit all over my arms and he never attempts to stop watching football which he could tape if he wanted to and help me with something that he should have done. Instead he tells me that I’m going to fuck it up and sure enough I do. Instead of crying, I put on my running shoes and took the kids to the high school track with me and they walked while I ran. I ran three miles and came home and made cookies and never gave another thought to the damn leaking pipe. Tom runs the water and it’s now spraying all over everything under the sink. He says with his smug assed smile that he knew I would fuck it up. My sister tells me to call this handy man named Marek and he comes over the next morning. This guy walks in and I just knew even before he said one word that we were going to connect. He disconnects what I put on and adds some Teflon tape and it works perfectly. Marek tells me that I did a good job except for the tape and he gets ready to leave and doesn’t charge me. I force the guy to take a fifty and I’m thinking that’s that. A week later, I’m right here in Hamtramck at Trowbridge having coffee one night and low and behold my plumber is reading poetry. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t shirt and nervously reads his poetry in English with his cute Polish accent. There were maybe a dozen people there and I waited until he was done and bought his book of poems and had him sign it. Well one thing leads to another and we get together and he reads my poems and I his and then one night we go to dinner and wind up back at his place for hours. I can’t tell you how many times we made love. It was love. You know when you’re fucking and when it’s actually the act of love making. Every time is so good and I can’t wait until the next time,” said Angela.

Sarah had her mouth open as if someone had poured cold water on her. Sarah asked the obvious question.

“Tom? Tom understands that I’m there but I’m gone. He can smell it on me that something has changed. He had the balls to say to me the other day that I act too good for him now that I got in shape. I told him that I’m the same person I was when my ass was too fat for him. There’s just less of me than before. Have you started running yet? Are you doing the 3K with me at Thanksgiving?” Asked Angela.

“I’ve been begging Demetrius to let me have a dog. I want a dog that will jog with me. Maybe a Doberman or something that’s built to jog. I’m up to a mile a day. It takes me twelve minutes but I’m getting better.” Said Sarah.

“So if you want a dog just go buy one,” said Angela.

“It doesn’t work that way when you’re married to a macho Greek. He says if I blow him once in a while, I can have the dog. I’m blowing him twice a week now and last week I wind up getting a cold sore and he’s so sure that he’s going to get herpes on his nut sack that he makes me give him a hand job. Can you believe it? Like junior high, honest to god. I get olive oil and am jerking his cock while ESPN is on the gigantic television. He’s just about to cum and Stavros calls for me to bring him a drink of water. Demetrius gets so pissed and then I gotta start all over again. My damn right arm was cramping and I offer to go in the shower with him since I’m on the rag and he’s horrified that I suggested a little shower sex. I told him it will be fun kinda like mixing a porno with Psycho. He could watch my blood go down the drain. Anyway he tells me to shut up because he can’t concentrate. Finally he cums and I make sure it goes straight up in the air and lands on his precious Red Wings home jersey. He jumps up and mops the come off like it was fucking ink. He thanks me and I tell him I better be getting a team of mush dogs like they have in Alaska,” said Sarah.

At that moment a young cocky guy walks up holding a beer. He had longish blond hair and wore a Fedora with ripped up jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He lifted Angela’s purse up from the stool next to her and sat down uninvited.

“What’s up, ladies?”

Sarah liked the attention but Angela did not appreciate it. The young man could not hold a blow torch to the Polish/plumber/poet and she let him know in so many words.

“Um Kid Rock… You may not have noticed that we have chosen this table away from everyone else because we wanted to be alone. We don’t want you to go away thinking that we are going to crawl out of here and into a bed with each other because we don’t play for that team. Had you been in tuned to clues, you may have noticed too the rings on both or our ring fingers which is a symbol in our society of marriage. Now marriage may not matter to you and that’s cool but we really don’t want or need the company right now. I’ll buy you a drink if you go away,” said Angela harshly.

The young man walked off and Sarah and Angela continued to share details of their day to day lives. They shared things about their children, things they wanted out of day to day life and the physical changes they hoped to make in their homes. They shared intimate details of their lives and cherished the time they set aside to check in with one another. The speed and demands of day to day life made their meetings a necessity for sanity and order. They hugged as they got to their cars and promised to meet the next Friday. The next Friday did not happen nor the Friday after that. It would be a little more than a month before their next opportunity to connect. You can be sure that they’ll both have something they’ll want to discuss. They always do.

Create a free website or blog at