Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 27, 2018

Make Believe


Kurt ran the plates of the young woman who was swerving while texting in an old Buick.  The car’s registration was expired, the driver’s license was expired and she had no insurance.  She cried as he explained to her that she would be ticketed and the car towed.

“If I had the money for insurance and to get the license tag renewed, I would have done it.  I am flat broke right now until I get my first check.  If you would find it in your heart to let me park here and take the bus home, I will get someone to take me in and register the car…”

Kurt, a police officer used to dealing with so much gang violence on Chicago’s west side, actually felt bad for the young lady.  It did not hurt that she was fit and pretty, dressed well and her car was clean and did not smell of booze or weed.

“Okay Ms. Tonisha…  I will let you get this automobile home without towing or ticketing you.  You have to get everything in order.  The next cop you come across will not be so kind…  I have a favor to ask of you and you do not have to say yes.  There is no gun to your head figuratively speaking of course…”

Now Tonisha felt that white people were the devil and those they were all of privilege, responsible for slavery and for all the misfortunes of the black community and the world.  Only thing worse than a white man was a white male cop.  She saw them as predatory profilers.  Kurt while driving his beat, thought that many blacks were animals that preyed on each other and pointed everywhere except at themselves over problems in their community.  Like most people, Kurt didn’t see himself as racist.  He has a black friend he drinks with that also is a cop and a former soldier.  Every white person has a black friend and they often begin a sentence while speaking to black people by saying- I have a black friend…  Kurt was never drawn to black women particularly but saw how beautiful Tonisha looked and thought hanging with her for the night would be fun and really amusing. The thought came to Tonisha that he was going to ask for a sexual favor.  She hit the record button on her phone.  The question was weird but there was an opportunity to make some money.

Kurt showed up at the banquet hall in a convertible Jeep in a suit, Tonisha in a tight fitting black dress, with pearls to contrast against the tight velvet dress.

“All you have to do is roll with me…  I want to have fun with this all tonight,” said Kurt.

Kurt was fit for a man of nearly 50 years of age.  Kurt had not been to his previous 10 and 20-year reunions but told some old friends that he had lost contact with that he would come. Kurt didn’t believe in Facebook or Twitter and nobody really knew much about him.  He had attended a high school in a northern suburb north of Chicago, joined the military and then became a cop.  He grew up a hockey playing Punk Rock kid with a bald head, tight jeans, Doc Martin Boots, plain shirts with suspenders and hated the world.  He hated his mom for marrying a man he hated back then and the anger of Skinhead Punk Rock, appealed to Kurt.  Thirty years later, Kurt was still playing hockey, was divorced from his wife and living away from his children in another state.  Kurt had a great disdain for the people he went to high school with.  They made fun of the culture he had adopted and didn’t accept him in their circles of friends.  Even the guys on the hockey team felt he was a weirdo albeit a good player.  Kurt put his nametag on and one for Tonisha.  Kurt gave Tonisha his last name on the tag.

“Do you like Champagne?”

“Um…  Hell yes.”

A group of men who used to be on the hockey team were sitting at a table together with their wives.  Kurt walked up and pulled the chair out for Tonisha and then pushed the chair in.

“Wow…  Thirty years…  My god, where has the time gone?  Toni…  These are all guys I told you about that I played high school hockey with…  Lester, Tom, Jim, Horse…  You don’t wanna know why we called him horse…  Bill the goalie.”

Tonisha could feel all the eyes of people old enough to be her parents, burning into her.  The men were thinking that he had managed to land a very pretty, young, black woman… Black woman.  They knew that Kurt was one of those bald kids who hated everything and everyone back in the day.  The Skinheads hated everyone who was not like them and thirty years later, their star defenseman married a black woman?  No way.  After drinks and more drinks, some dancing and then dinner, the questions started coming.

“Toni was driving fast…  I mean really fast.  Texting, swerving, changing lanes without signals, blowing red lights just to get away from me…  Because I’m a police officer, not just some crazed white dude after a pretty African-American princess…  Naw…  I’m just kidding.  She has a thing for ice hockey players and white dudes in general and she happened to be at the rink watching another white dude that she broke up with to be with me.  After a few years, we married and have… two girls…  Twins.”

The women looked at the young woman with a waist the size of a neck and wondered how she got that figure back.  The women there were older, lumpier, wrinkled and Kurt looked like the fountain of youth with a shapely and pretty young thing that would jump-start any man’s libido.  When the night was over, Kurt stopped at a pizza place that never closes in Berwyn and in fancy clothes; they stopped to have a slice of pizza each.  After hours of dancing and drinking, they had worked up an appetite.  Tonisha talked about mundane things with Kurt as they laughed and ate but she had to know why Kurt went through such an elaborate lie with people he used to know.  Tonisha stood to earn $100.00 and keep the clothes he purchased for her and yet she had to know his reasoning for such a bizarre night.

“Those people all live in a Facebook world.  They might take forty pictures of their annoyed wife and kids but they post that one where everyone smiles and looks happy to be together on vacation somewhere.  I’m so happy for you that your kid got a trophy or that you’re at the Grand Canyon…  That’s fantastic…  Why should I give a good goddamn?  It’s not real.  You never hear that their lives are fucked up and that they are stressed out, maxed out on credit cards and suicidal.  They want each other to think everything is fabulous.  I was interested to see if I look as bad, better or the same as those fucks.  I’m trying really hard to fight the effects of aging.  It was purely scientific.  I appreciate your help with this whole make believe night.  I know it’s silly but I really wanted to put on a show for these people tonight.  What are they saying to on another on the way home?  Wow, she is so young, so beautiful and so… Not white.  I may never see them again in my life but I left them wondering…  Come on, I’ll take you home.  Your mom is probably waiting at the window to make sure the cop didn’t kill you…”

Kurt flipped channels as he pet his dog that was sleeping on the couch beside him.  Baseball highlights, hurricane footage from Hawaii.  Kurt was drifting off to sleep when his cell phone buzzed.





After close to a half hour a response from Tonisha came in.



Kurt responded immediately.




December 13, 2015

Chicago’s Finest… At a Bad Time


                “Every damn cop that ever fired a shot at something or someone will have a hearing…  Am I fucking clear to you?  All cops who ever pulled their gun out will have their day in court. Dig up everything you can find before others do and we will have a special committee to hear every case…  DON’T STAND HERE LOOKING FUCKING DUMB!  GET TO WORK!”

                And so it was that every cop alive that ever pulled or fired a gun, was put in front of a Chicago tribunal.  Those willing to purge themselves of wrong doing, might be able to keep their jobs if it was found that the lives of the officers were in danger.  It was sort of a truth and reconciliation tribunal like South Africa had after apartheid whereby white officers went before a commission and apologized for wrong doing and then went on with life without penalty.  Why?  So that the mayor could keep his job.

                The city called in the Altgeld 20.  Altgeld Gardens as it was called, was a housing project where poor African-Americans lived.  It was named after a former German born Governor of the State of Illinois.  Nobody in the early 2000s gave a shit about the name of their blighted housing project.  It was bordered by landfills, steel mills and constructed during a time when asbestos was widely used in the construction of the buildings.

 The police got a tip that the Gangster Disciples were gun fighting with the Black Disciples.  Why?  Drugs, territory, territory to sells drugs, retribution and so on.  Ten squad cars raced in a line down 130th Street towards where the gun fighting was taking place.  It was alleged that four innocent men were gunned down by police that night. The four innocent men were gang members who terrorized the residence of Altgeld Gardens.  This fight took place nearly ten years earlier and was captured on a VHS recorder from a window.  On the film, you can see the mostly white cops surrounding and shooting the gang members in a clearing among buildings, like fish in a barrel.  Anyone who did not drop their weapon immediately was shot.  It was the commission’s belief that none of the officer’s lives were in danger and for that reason, at a minimum, all who took place in the murders, should be fired and their pensions taken away.   Residents of Altgeld Gardens took turns reading accounts of the confrontation that day.  The last to speak was a little old woman by the name of Dorothy.  Dorothy had the same hair style that she wore back in the 1950’s.  She was a tiny old woman in a nice dress and a pill box hat held in with hair pins.  She sat on the witness stand with white gloves covering her hands and her purse on her lap.  She smiled a serene smile and waited her turn to speak.  The whole crowd of angry protestors and former neighbors of the since closed housing development laughed at what Ms. Dorothy had to say.

                “Now y’all fixin to crucify all these here officers.  Nevah the mind dat we killin each other an little ones who happen to git in the way.  There one man among all these officers who never pulled his gun and wadn’t even part the whole ordeal…  Officer Miller…  You want to tell them all or should I?”

                Officer Miller looked down and picked at a loose thread on his cuff.  He had a hard time looking at Dorothy or any other of the people in the room.  Officer Miller was horrified by what was about to be said about him.

                “Well then…  He won’t talk, I will.  I was watching ma television bout 9pm.  The lottery numbers was about to come up and I was all ready to look at what I got.  I don’t nevah win but I play.  Some call it gambling but I don’t see no harm in pickin a few numbers and maybe git a few dollars off it.  Ain’t like no casino.  Anyway, I had all ma tickets spread out and I was waiting for that woman to pull the balls that bounce around in the air puffer that make them move round.  I suppose I nevah heard them numbers cause all the sudden the door was knocked down clear off the hinges.  There stood Officer Miller.  He wad out breath an he aksed me where I keep ma crapper.  I toll him dat ain’t no way to enter a person’s home and ain’t no way to aks where the bathroom at.  I looked at him and say- excuse me?  The man was sweating and panting.  He removed his gun and begin to unzip his pants while he walk to the washroom.  He slammed the door began a moaning and crying.  I believe it wad comin from both ends on him.  Now this went on foh a good few minutes maybe five.”

                Officer Miller recalled stopping off for lunch and eating something with sour cream.  The cream was truly sour.  It hit Miller when the call went out that ten squads were needed to quell a gun fight at a housing project.  Miller began to sweat and it felt as though he had rodents running through his intestines.  He felt waves of nausea come and go and had to use all the muscles possible to keep from shitting in his pants.  Miller turned to his partner, Officer Termini and told him to stop the car.  Termini told Miller that it would not be possible.

                “Are you fucking nuts?  You want me to stop now so you can take a shit?!  If I stop, every car behind us is stopping too.  I can’t do it.  You’ll just have to fucking hold it,” said Termini.

                “You have to stop or I’m going to shit my pants.  I’m sick.  Something is wrong and I have to fucking go now,” said Miller.

                Termini drove faster and told Miller he could just shit in the field when the got there and hope that he wouldn’t be shot while relieving himself.  When all twenty cars pulled up, Miller went into the trunk and pulled out the battering ram.  It was a heavy cylinder shaped metal with two handles meant to break doors down with.  Miller found the first door he could reach and broke down the door without knocking.  Once in the bathroom, the shit poured from Miller’s ass while vomit flew from his mouth.  Miller turned his head while sitting on the toilet and filled the sink with vomit.  It felt as though the end of the world had arrived for Officer Miller.  After five minutes of expelling food and fluids from every orifice possible, Miller opened a small window and closed the door behind him.  His shirt was drenched from sweat.  Dorothy looked at the man who looked like he was about to pass out and guided him to the couch and laid him down.  She wet a washcloth and put it across Officer Miller’s forehead and held his hands.

                “You gone be alright, baby.  You jus sick.  You coulda knocked and I woulda opened up but now I understand what you was up against.”

                “Ma’am…  I’m so sorry.  I will have this door fixed immediately and get cleaners in here for your bathroom.  I feel so bad about this, ma’am.”

                While Dorothy and Miller spoke to one another, gun fire popped in the night like popcorn in a popcorn maker.  It was nothing new to either Dorothy or Officer Miller.  Both were used to hearing gun fire.  After all- it was Chicago and a part of Chicago where nobody white ever went unless they had to.  It was poor and gang infested.  Dorothy was just a widowed church going elderly lady who kept to herself.  The gangsters knew it and left her alone.

                “And so…  I don’t know what you all fixin to do to these here gentlemen.  They might be wrong or jus doin they job.  It ain’t foh me t’say.  I can tell you this- Officer Miller was in a bad state that day and he had nothing to do with deaths or gun fire dat day.  I ain’t got no reason to lie nor stretch the truth.  God as my witness- this man look like he wad gone die on ma couch.  Officer Miller was a man of his word.  He got someone to install a new door dat night.  In a day, I got it painted.  I had two Polish women come to ma place and clean the entire bathroom.  Nice ladies but none could speak a lick of English.  I aksed them thangs and they just laughed and kept saying yes.  I say girl, what’s your name an the one laughed an jus say yes.  I jus laughed and said thank you.  So y’all do whatchu want but this man here ain’t like the rest.  Maybe he a shot someone ifin he wadn’t sick but on dat day, this man could barely stand.  He innocent as the day he born…  And dat’s all I got t’say.”

                Officer Miller was found not guilty that day.  And faith in humanity was restored to the jaded if only for a day.

December 9, 2014

A Kidney Don’t Mean Beans

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:26 am
Tags: , ,

Terrance not Terry was listening to Kenny G. on the way to Midway Airport in Chicago. The official story was that he was on his way to visit a client in Fargo, North Dakota but actually he was on his way to see his girlfriend in Memphis, Tennessee. Terrance’s wife didn’t stop to think that in Fargo, North Dakota, there probably wasn’t a great need for hair care products for black women in such a homogenous part of the country. All Lanita knew was that her husband traveled a lot for work leaving her to raise their two children for the most part.

As Terrance was listening to the whiny soprano saxophone music that would fit well to soft porn on Cinemax, the thought popped into his head that possibly he forgot to turn off the computer in the living room before leaving home. On the screen would have been his email messages to his girlfriend Chiquita in Memphis. Lanita, the wife, knew nothing of Chiquita the girlfriend. Terrance looked at the digital display on the dashboard. The flight was to depart at 12:35pm it was 10:55am. Terrance thought that he might have logged off but then again maybe not. He had been on the phone arguing with Chiquita about paying bills for her that her ex-husband should have been playing and may have forgotten to log off of his email account. Terrance was also a bit put off that he donated one of his kidneys to Chiquita and she had only thanked him initially and then never discussed it again. Terrance expected more gratitude from his girlfriend.   Spoiled, kept women don’t usually lavish praise on their sugar daddies for going overboard. It’s part of the game. You take care of me and I will provide some ass. Or something close to that.             It had been three months since he learned that he was a match for Chiquita whose kidneys were failing. Terrance never hesitated. When Lanita saw the scar on her husband’s body, she asked him what happened.

“Well… When I was in Arkansas some time back on a sales call, a big pit-bull came right at me. I ran my ass towards a fence and climbed as fast as I could, slipped at the top and snagged my side on top of the fence. It was just a few stitches… I’m tough, I can handle it.”

Terrance exited Lake Shore Drive heading south and immediately tried to enter going north so that he could get back to his condo overlooking Lake Michigan and ensure that his email was in fact logged off. Terrance sped in his late model Jaguar like a state trooper in high pursuit. About a block ahead, it looked to Terrance like people sitting across all lanes of the highway. He wasn’t imagining things, there were people sitting in the road. As he pulled up, there were young artsy looking people, mostly white but some blacks and other people of color. Some were chanting, “can’t breathe”. A few were banging drums. One loud, white young man with snarled rat’s nest of braids under a bandana, wrapped within an American flag, was ranting into a bullhorn.

“They send young men to fight for freedom on the other end of the world when we don’t even have freedom here in this country. African-Americans are being massacred by the law, a law that doesn’t protect us. This big brother shit and heavy handed, racist system has got to stop now, people!”

As the saying goes, he was preaching to the choir. Nobody disagreed with him or the megaphone message. Terrance was trapped with cars ahead of him and behind him. He began to panic about the thought of his wife coming home and finding out about the kidney donation, the girlfriend in Memphis and so on. Terrance walked up to the skinny young man and tried to get them to move by making up a plausible story.

“Hey man… I don’t want y’all to stop what you’re doing and as a black man, I appreciate your attention to this sad situation but the thing is right now my wife is bout to have a baby and any minute she bout to drop… You dig? I need to git through and git my wife to the hospital… The water broke… Baby is coming… I need to git home now.”

The ranting young man hugged Terrance as he was speaking. Terrance wanted to punch the man in the face but didn’t.

“Life is a beautiful thing, man. It’s sad that your son will be born into this world, this country and have to worry about being jailed, shot at by gangs or cops. I feel for you, man.”

Terrance took the arms of the young man off of him and spoke more firmly.

“I ain’t havin a boy. It’s a girl and my wife bout to trip if I don’t git her to the hospital…”

Terrance ripped the megaphone from the young man and pled his case to the crowd. The group of subversives, anarchists, nihilists, communists and trust funders all looked at the black man in a nice suit and collectively decided that Terrance was not the type they were fighting for. A rich black man in a really nice suit next to a really expensive car struck the crowd as if Terrance was an Uncle Tom, sellout. The group was not interested in moving for him even if his wife was going into labor. Terrance became honest with the crowd.

“When y’all finally own something one day, you gonna want that protected. You gonna want protection. When a cop stop you, they ain’t never no reason to resist arrest whether you feel justified in selling single cigarettes on the street or walking up the middle of a busy street after stealing a blunt. Get you Johnny Cochrane and plead yo case in court. That’s how the world works and it ain’t gonna change. Y’all agree with each other on what’s wrong with society but these people in these cars need to be somewhere right now. Right now they hate y’all and they wish to hell y’all git arrested and I agree with them. Now imma tell you that if y’all don’t move the fuck out the road now, you gone git hit by my automobile… I hope you can understand the fucking words coming out my mouth.”

Cars moved enough in front of Terrance so that he could drive to the front and play a game of chicken with the protestors. Terrance blared on his horn and inched forward until someone whipped a can of paint at his window. Things got ugly after that. Terrance was arrested and bonded out by his wife. Lanita gripped the wheel of her car and said nothing to Terrance. The silence concerned him. Terrance asked if everything was okay. It was a silly question.  Things had come unraveled in their married life. Lanita not only read the emails regarding their relationship but found pictures of her husband and some white woman with a ridiculous name like “Chiquita”. What Lanita didn’t know was that Chiquita was a former stripper who could do interesting things with a banana and her vagina. Chiquita wasn’t Latino and didn’t particularly like bananas.

“Baby… You gonna git tired and you gonna need to rest. When that happens, you gonna wish all you lost was your kidney…”

And so they went home. You use your imagination as to what happened next. The end…

July 21, 2010

Wonder Drugs

            Officer Gomez, Sandra Gomez stood five feet six inches and had brown stubble for hair.  She had a strong jaw yet a very attractive face.  She became a Chicago Police officer five years back.  She served as a young Marine in Desert Storm in the early 1990’s.   As far as women police officers go, she looked butch but yet had a stunningly beautiful face.

            Sandra was a second generation Ecuadorian who looked European.  Her parents had left Ecuador when she was very young.  They had a hacienda like home in Quito that was equipped with servants.  The servants were poor Quechua Indians.  Three Indian women took care of the home and the children.  They wore big skirts and Fedora hats.  Her father heard from friends who did really well in United States with real estate and so the family moved to Chicago.  They moved to the United States and it really never turned out to be that lucrative for them.  Everyone thought that because of their last name, that they were Puerto Rican.  Sandra’s father considered changing their last name to Jensen, which is Norwegian for the son of Jen.  Sandra’s mother, who’s maiden name was Hidalgo, thought that taking on a Scandinavian name was ridiculous.  The family struggled like many immigrant families do but they were happy and well balanced.  Sandra’s family eventually went back to live in Quito where life was much slower and more patient with older people.

            Sandra started to lift weights towards the end of high school.  She had a boyfriend that would slap the back of her arm and laugh when it jiggled.  He told her that he loved Hispanic girls with a little meat on them.  He told her that he was not interested in skinny white girls.  Sandra one day saw her boyfriend coming out of a restaurant with a skinny white girl with blond hair, with her arm wrapped around his.  It had been weeks since he initiated sex between them and Sandra suspected something.  Sandra began to run everyday.  It was hard at first to run two blocks.  By the time she joined the Marines, she was able to run an eight minute mile. 

            Sandra like many women who had low opinions of themselves, felt that she could always do better.  Sandra discussed with an owner of the small store front gym that she would like to be more toned and more muscular.  This store front owner began to give her injections of a steroid that was purchased for dirt cheap in Mexico.  Within three months, Sandra was stronger and looked stronger.  Her stomach was defined and her arms were muscular.  Her breasts became domed shape rather than plump and full.  Sandra could run faster and lift more weights.  The gym owner told her how much money she could make on the side by doing wrestling and stripping aside from entering body building competitions.

 On Monday nights, the gym owner would rent out a suite at a luxurious downtown Chicago hotel and invite men to wrestle women like Sandra.  They would pay $200.00 an hour to writhe and wiggle on a rubber mat, covered with oil.  The same gym owner was able to convince the women to do lesbian porn movies too.  Sandra and the other women became hooked on the way they looked and the gym owner was their pimp.  Sandra’s job was to arrest people who took, sold and distributed other illegal drugs during work but she saw nothing wrong with what she was doing.

            “Sir… You the owner of this building?”  Asked Sandra while pointing her pen at Mort.

            “I’m just the manager of the building,” said Mort, while fixing his glasses, sporting a ball cap that read, “Bass fear me”.

            “I thought this guy here was the manager… What’s your name again?”

            Dwight replied.  Sandra asked to see his driver’s license because she thought he was trying to be funny.  Sandra had decided that if it was not his name, she was going to find a reason to bring him into the station.  Fortunately for Dwight, it was his name.

            “No, I’m the janitor, he’s the manager…  They need managers to watch the janitors and then the big boss watches everyone.  Nobody trusts each other… This is how it works. I don’t need him and he don’t need his boss but everyone need a job.”

            Sandra closed her eyes and held up her hand for Dwight to stop speaking.  The night before, she had wrestled a group of Japanese men who were executives for a drug company.  Their job was to come and tell the Americans who ran their company for them in the United States, that they were being bought out by another drug company and that 50% of the current workers would be let go.  Their company had just developed a drug that helped people with narcolepsy, stay awake.  It worked so well that young twenty something aged clubbers were using it so that they could stay up all night.  Their slogan was a catchy one.  They had a Charles Nelson Reilly look alike with a magic wand, spreading pixie dust over the head of some poor person who was unable to stay awake.

            “Wakie wakie, eggs and bakie…” said the Charles Nelson Reilly impersonator with a magic wand, while laughing hardily with a double chin.

            That became the catch phrase all over the United States and Canada.  The scientists had actually screwed up.  They were trying to make a drug that helped people with insomnia sleep.  It had the reverse effect.  Insomniacs were up for days and felt great as if they had slept.  One of the scientist decided to try it on narcoleptics and voila.  One billion dollars in tests for the FDA and the fledgling drug company had struck gold.  On billboards, on the sides of busses, on the radio and television, was the distinct laugh of Charles Nelson Reilly, a moderately famous dead actor who was flamboyant yet funny. 

 Those who worked for the company thought that they were secure.  The three Japanese men were there to bust the bubble.  There was another company that was purchasing them and only needed a portion of the work force.  C’est la vie.

            Sandra had to wrestle the three hatchet men from Japan men who were in their early thirties.  Through their interpreter, they asked Sandra if it would be possible to have sex with her at the same time.  They were willing to pay her close to $3,000.00.  For them it was a deal since their money was exchanged from Euros.  Sandra declined.  They offered her and extra $1,000.00 if they could masturbate on her.  She went along with that.  The gym owner had cameras set up in the room and caught every second of it.  It became his promotional film for Japanese executives.  It was on the internet but was not easy to find.  Sandra never found out.  Sandra was towelling the spew off of herself at roughly one in the morning while the three Japanese men, grinned like fools and bowed to her as she got dressed and exited the hotel room.  The money was helping Sandra to buy her dream house along the shores of Lake Michigan.  She had several thousand saved in certificates of deposits.  She was a million away but getting closer all the time.  The dream house was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright back in the twenties.  It was a swell looking abode. 

            Sandra took her notes of the robbery at the building and left.  She had two hours left on her shift.  With under an hour to go, she would be called to a dumpster where a baby was found dead.  A teenaged mother, fearful of losing her twenty four year old heroin addict boyfriend, put her newborn baby in a plastic bag and threw the baby in the dumpster behind her building.  A homeless man looking for scrap metal and scrap food, found a catatonic new born in a plastic bag.  Sandra experienced many heinous things as a Marine and as a police officer, but that one took the cake.  Sandra worked an extra four hours.  She was the one who had to take into custody the young woman who suffocated her week old child.  In the apartment was a small child, watching Miley Cyrus on the Disney Channel, while sitting on a urine stained mattress in a bedroom.  Sandra fought hard not to break down and cry.  She told herself that it was a job that somebody had to do and it was one that she signed on for and that anything and everything would be possible.

            “Hey sweetie…  We’re going to go for a ride, okay?” Said Sandra.

            “I want to finish watching Hannah Montana though,” said a cute little girl who was almost seven years old.

            “I know honey…  But we really need to take a ride now.  I promise you’ll get to watch your show again soon,” said Sandra.

            “It’s my favorite show…  I want to be like her when I grow up,” said the small girl.

            “Yeah?  I think I wanted to be Wonder Woman…  We gotta go now.”

  Life always looks so much better on television.

May 11, 2010

Welcome Home, Soldier or It’s a Thag’s Life

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 9:22 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

Kilbourn came back from two tours of duty in Afghanistan without much psychological damage and his whole body intact.  Being an Army Ranger, Kilbourn had been really gung-ho about finding and defeating the Taliban in Afghanistan.  After seeing the situation and living it, Kilbourn understood that it was not going to be easy to flush out the enemy as it was all to easy to cross the border into Pakistan and disappear for a while.  Kilbourn suspected that if the Soviets, who were ruthless and not too concerned with human rights and polls at home, could not defeat the Taliban or the former Mujahedeen, it was going to be damn near impossible for the United States to win both the hearts and minds and whatever else needed to be won in order to feel good about having gone there in the first place.

                Kilbourn landed at O’Hare in Chicago and had his sister take him to Superdawg so that he could have a really good Chicago hot dog, fries and a shake.  A group of friends gathered at Kilbourn’s apartment on the north side of Chicago to celebrate the fact that he was home and had not been killed or blown apart into nonfunctioning pieces.

                 The next day, Kilbourn stood out on the patio that faced the street and had a cigarette in the warm spring sun.  It was nearly noon and it felt good to sleep the whole night without interruption, in a bed, with sheets and a pillow and not have to worry about dying… So much.

                A man, who looked to be a solid mélange of several different races and ethnicities, drove up on a bicycle made to resemble a low rider vehicle.  It had long forks and little wheels and a banana seat.  For a boy of twelve, it would have fantastic ride.  For an unemployed, felon on drugs, the bicycle was a bit ridiculous. 

                Avery had been out of Cook County Jail for almost two weeks and had just been piss tested the day before and so he thought it was safe to indulge in some recreational drugs.  The black Jeep Wrangler that was jacked up and full of military type stickers on the back caught Avery’s attention.  He noticed that the driver side window was down enough to put a hand through.  Avery got off his bike and reached in through the window to grab a smart looking ball cap with pins and patches on it from the Army.  It belonged to Kilbourn and had the staff sergeant patch on it and pins.  Avery grabbed a handful of toll money from the cup holder and stuffed it into his pocket and drove off with Kilbourn’s smelly military hat cocked to the left.  Kilbourn ran down the stairs, barefoot with no shirt on and a pair of jeans.  Kilbourn never yelled.  He decided he would tackle the thief off of the bicycle and then beat him to show him his displeasure with the fact that he had to go fight for people like him.  Kilbourn thought that a better punishment for a man who would steal a hat and pocket change out of a vehicle, should be to have the hands removed by the Taliban.  The Taliban would be able to dissuade the drug addicted thief from stealing again at least with his hands.

                Avery tried to make a call on his cell phone while riding the bicycle  towards a mechanic’s garage.  Avery was within the fence when Kilbourn caught up with him.  Several men walked out wondering what it was that Kilbourn wanted, half naked and out of breath.  Two of the four men had wrenches in they’re hands.  It had been a few weeks since they were robbed by a white guy with no shirt on and they were all curious as to what it was that Kilbourn wanted.  Kilbourn sensed the situation was going to deteriorate and so he defused the situation the best he could.

                “Did you guys see a dog come by here?’

                The men shook their heads as Avery got off of the bike and staggered inside the shop.  Kilbourn went back to his house and called the police and within thirty minutes, a squad car showed up.  The officers were more annoyed than anything else to be dealing with the theft of a ball cap.

                “So it was a baseball hat?”

                “No not a Cubs or a Sox, hat…  It was my staff sergeant’s hat that made it all through two tours of fucking duty in Afghanistan.  Dudes with fucking bathrobes and towels on their heads were trying their level best to fucking annihilate me and I make it all the way home and some fucking crack head reaches into my car and steals my shit.  It’s the principle of the whole thing, man.  How would you feel if you just got home after fighting for fuckheads like that and then you get robbed?”

                Officer Timms thought about it.  He had served in the Desert Storm and had been in Kuwait and remembered what it was like to trudge through the desert while the sky rained oil.  Officer Timms remembered thinking that not one damn person except his mother seemed to know or care about what he had to go through in the Middle East.  Officer Timms offered to drive over with Kilbourn to try and retrieve the hat.  The two officers were about to get into the squad car when Avery drove towards them on the bicycle, wearing the Army hat cocked to the side while talking on his cell phone.  Avery soon figured out that the officers were chasing him and picked up his speed on the bike.  Avery couldn’t have peddled fast enough to elude Kilbourn.  Kilbourn sprinted like a lion on the Serengeti towards a wildebeest.  Kilbourn tackled Avery and removed the hat from his head.  The two officers caught up and slapped the cuffs on Avery.  Avery’s eyes were glazed on his forehead were the words, “Thag Life” in gothic blue letters.

                “Thag Life?”

                “Shh-damn… I wad fucked up when I got the tattoo.  It’s sposta say T-H-U-G…” said Avery.

                “Doesn’t say much for our education system when a thug can’t even spell out what he represents,” said Timms.

                “True dat…” said Avery, while shaking his up and down in agreement.

January 22, 2010

A day in the life of an American part II

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:33 am
Tags: , , , ,

Now keep in mind that our hero in part 1, blended one day into the next without the benefit of any sleep.  He has spent over $15.00 on over priced coffee which included the obligatory drop of coin change into the barista’s clear box next to the register. 

            Trent’s mother has come unexpectedly with his her husband, Trent’s step father who is nearly three years younger than Trent.  His stepfather is a former Marine and a closet homosexual with a drinking problem.  Trent has driven over 100 miles since leaving home half of which were in a Smart Car.  He answered over 30 emails on his Blackberry as well as answered close to ten voice messages.  We find him pulled over on the north side of Chicago in part two.

2:20 pm- Trent has been pulled over by an Officer O’Malley in squad car 1592.  Officer O’Malley is fifty seven years of age, has twenty two percent body fat and a penis that used to get 4.75 inches long when it could become erect.  That was back when his body fat was under fifteen percent, over ten years ago.  Officer O’Malley enjoys watching sports, loves his nine grand children and his time share in Cancun.  He and his wife fall asleep watching Jimmy Kimmel on late night television in their matching recliners most evenings after watching the news.

            “I hate to do this to you but there is a law here in the City of Chicago and normally I wouldn’t give a driver a ticket but I sat behind you for an entire red light and then you made a left hand turn without using your turn signal.  I’m going to give you the choice of what I give you the ticket for…  Personally I would go for the cell phone as it will not go on your record,” said Officer O’Malley.

            Here’s the irony; Trent was on the phone with the Chicago Police Department, trying to get an officer to meet him at an apartment building where a tenant had adopted all the furniture in the foyer, for her own unit.  A water leak from an over flowing tub in the thief’s unit had caused terrific water damage to a unit below. 

            A section 8 tenant with five cats, called to tell Trent that plaster had fallen and hit her while she was asleep in bed.  The tenant had already called an injury attorney that she sees every commercial break on local television.  He was in her corner all along.

            “I’m on the phone with the Chicago Police Department right now!” Cried Trent as he held out the cell phone towards the officer.

            “Okay…  I’ll let you go on that account but I gotta ticket you for the left without a signal.  That was just plain stupid, sir.

2:47 pm- Trent walks into the lobby of the apartment that had been stripped of a table and four chairs.  Two lesbian officers stood annoyed with the janitor of the building whose name was Abulfasal and was born in Bosnia.  Abulfasal changed his name to Bud.  Bud had a wife and four children who lived in the one bedroom basement apartment belonging to the company that Trent worked for.  His wife is an illegal alien and Bud is missing a tooth.  The tooth came out while fixing a small plumbing issue in the building the year before.  He hit himself with a large pipe wrench while trying to loosen a rusted fitting that was leaking.  Bud underestimated his own strength.  He loosened the rusted fitting and took his tooth with it.  With no health insurance, his tooth did not stand a chance.

            Now the lesbian cops both played softball on the same team and were training to run a marathon.  Both of them had short cut hair and very pale white skin and spoke an octave lower than the voice god meant for them to have.  They were annoyed that Trent had left them waiting in the lobby for over ten minutes when they were in the middle of eating lunch when the call came through.

            The tenant opened her door to find Bud, Trent and the two female cops with low voices.  The tenant was trying hard to get off of drugs and find a job but the problem was that she just had a child three months earlier and had another one that was eighteen months old.  Both children were of mixed race or as they called them in the old days; mulatto.  She was thin and pale with greasy blond hair, with huge bags under her eyes and a black front tooth that was affected by heroin.  She was smoking a cigarette and trembling.  The father of the second child had just called her from Cook County Jail and needed to be bailed out.  She had no money and her boyfriend would have to stay until a court hearing and then maybe some extra for breaking the terms of his probation.  The young woman was really nervous about what would happen upon her boyfriend’s return.  Violence of some sort was expected but what was not known was to what extent.  She had some time.  Meanwhile she was at the mercy of Trent.  Trent looked at the sleeping infant in an old car seat and couldn’t ask for the woman to be arrested.  He ordered Bud to move the furniture back to the lobby and bolt it down.  The officers questioned Trent in the hallway.

            “It’s up to you…  We can arrest her, the kids become ward of the state and chances are the judge is going to let her go anyway…  Whaddya wanna do?”

            The tenant with the five cats could hear the conversation as she walked up the stairs with yellow Tweety slippers, holding an ice pack to her head.  Even though she was clunked pretty good on the head by wet plaster, she was absolutely fine.  She was hoping to win the lottery on this one and nothing was going to come out of it.  At that moment though she was full of hope as she climbed the stairs in her yellow slippers, holding the ice pack against her forehead, she interjected.

            “You better know what you’re gonna do, mister.  This is a serious situation…”

            It was a serious situation.  Trent at that moment was the closest he had ever come to quitting life completely.  Nothing suicidal but more like clearing the deck.  What Trent really wanted to do was go back to work and quit.  He wanted to tell everyone at work to go fuck themselves and try to have a nice life.  He then wanted to go home and tell his mother to plan her life better and send the Marine to rehab.  He then wanted to put it to his wife that they sell everything and open a wine bar in the Bahamas or maybe a miniature golf center.  Trent was ready to slow his life down.  After all, every work day was nearly identical to the one he was having and some times he would sleep and often times he was too wired to relax.  Trent wanted to live by the ocean where most every day was as beautiful as the next.  He wanted to drive his car on the left with a wheel on the right and watch cricket matches in the shade on days that he wasn’t selling wine or handing out putters.  All of these thoughts crossed Trent’s mind as he sat in stand still traffic late in the afternoon on Interstate 94 headed north even though the sign says west towards Milwaukee.  While Trent contemplated changing his entire life for the sake of saving it, he listened to the news about tens of thousands of some of the poorest people on the planet, losing their lives in an earthquake in Haiti.  The news was more or less subliminal.  Trent then received a text from his wife.

            “What’s the plan with your family for tonight?  Eating?  Food?  Please advise.”

            Trent really wished that she had not ended the sentence with please advise.  Most people who complained all day long in emails, always ended their emails in please advise.

            7:52 pm- Trent had brought home some deep dish pizza that Chicago was really famous for.  His mother, her husband, his wife and he all made small talk.  The kind of talk that when you try to remember what was discussed the next day it leaves one wondering what exactly was exchanged for hours?  Weather?  The baby?  The past?  It didn’t matter.  While everyone chatted, Trent scooped up their infant daughter who was fussing due to the fact that she was hungry and tired.  He changed her and got a bottle of formula ready.  His eyes grew heavy as he starred down at his infant daughter who was having a hard time keeping her eyes open and focused on him.  After all, he was one of two people she could now pick out of a crowd of strangers if she had to as she drank her milk in his arms.  Trent thought about all the meaningless but necessary bullshit for a moment while looking down at his baby girl and decided he was no better or smarter than the Salmon.  He like most, were just trying to fight their way upstream, against the tide for the benefit of their progeny.  That’s just how it goes.

January 18, 2010

A Day in the Life of an American Part 1

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:51 am
Tags: , , , ,

Trent Kelly was one the fortunate Americans who had a job and for that he was truly thankful.  As a leasing agent for apartment buildings within and around the city of Chicago, he met people everyday that did not qualify to rent an apartment due to poor credit or no job.  They were all less fortunate.

12:38am Friday- Trent returned from playing four games of pick up basketball with young men from a Romanian Christian church who were roughly half his age.  Trent sat and watched the Cleveland Cavalier/Utah Jazz game that he recorded prior to leaving home as he ate roast beef with Munster cheese that had been microwaved.  No bread with the cold cuts and cheese.  Trent slams in a handful of blueberries and a small stalk of broccoli.  He remembers that they fight cancer and have antioxidants.  Trent doesn’t remember what an antioxidant is exactly.  He knows that it fights oxidants with vigor and it makes him feel healthier to know that there are less oxidants within him as a result.

            As Trent tries to decide whether he should have a glass of red wine with his sleep medicine, he watches Shaquille O’Neil miss two free throws and wonders how a man plays the game of basketball for so many years and is still unable to shoot over 50% from the foul line.  He wonders how the man does not take the whole summer in his palace overlooking the smog and over population of Los Angeles from his mountain side home and shoot free throws over and over until the rhythm is secondary just as putting on a panel on a Ford Taurus would be to some poor slob on an assembly line making a great American vehicle in Windsor, Ontario.  It’s a panel that gets put on the right front, just like the last one and ten thousand others before it and after it.  Ten thousand free throws per summer and one is bound to shoot at least 50%.  Lack of rhythm must be the key.

            A television time out it became time to decide whether to have a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot and wash that down with sleep agent that has Diphenhydramine HCI.  Just 25 little milligrams to help with sleeplessness.  Insomnia is a pervasive problem for Trent.  He goes to the bathroom and urinates and looks at his own face in the mirror while relieving himself.  He has dark rings under his eyes like a raccoon and a hint of crow’s feet around the eyes.  Trent thinks to himself that he probably doesn’t appear to be forty yet or at least what he perceived forty to appear like when he was twenty.  His hair is salt and pepper and for the mean time, it’s more pepper than salt.  His head is shaved due to the fact that it is thinning in spots.  Every week without fail, he visits a Ukrainian woman who was raised in the former Soviet empire and only learned to speak Russian.  She tells Trent as he fights sleep in the barber chair, that the current president of Ukraine is a piece of shit and hopes the man who lost in 2004, wins this time.  Trent only faintly listens as he tries not to breathe the breath of the Ukrainian woman who smokes a pack of Marlboro Cigarettes a day.  Trent didn’t realize that the Ukrainians had their own language and that their language was in fact not Russian.  Trent is not thinking about the president of Ukraine or his adversary or the cigarette breath of his female barber from a former Soviet region as he takes the Minoxidil and rubs it on his scalp as he has for years.  He has Minoxidil for his hair and Nair for his back with a spatchula to help reach those troubled areas of his back.

            The phone rings at a little after one in the morning right after Trent swallowed a little pill to help him sleep with a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot.  Trent thinks about the temp girl who answered the phones at the office and how she was not supposed to give out his cell number to tenants but was supposed to give out his email so that he could receive emails instead of calls.  The phone played Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries as loud as could be.  The phone was in the bathroom next to the bedroom where his infant daughter slept.  The same song that played in Apocalypse Now when Robert Duval attacked by helicopter, the civilians on the Vietnamese beach, stunned his relatively new born daughter from her slumber.  While a fragile tenant cried about feces coming up from her toilet and the need for immediate action, Trent’s new daughter went off like a siren.  Trent’s sleepy wife staggered past Trent who was on his cell phone after one in the morning to attend to their child who was woken by a phone replication of a Richard Wagner song.  Trent’s wife didn’t care who it was that he was talking to as much as she cared that he was talking with his day time voice in the middle of the night.

            “I hope you’re saving lives tonight.  There are people in Haiti that are dying.  I sincerely hope nobody is dying,” said Trent’s wife, as she changed the diaper of their screaming new born who was fighting the diaper change with both arms and both legs.

            Trent added two scoops of Similac to four ounces of water and handed it to his sleepy wife who was sitting in a rocking chair, waiting for the liquid meal for their new arrival.  Trent tried to assure the woman that he would get a plumber the first thing in the morning. 

2:10am Friday- the Utah Jazz with roughly five minutes to go, had an eleven point lead on Cleveland.  Trent watched James Lebron undress the entire Jazz squad in a little more than three minutes as an email was coming in.  This is what the subject said;



            Now the tenant who wrote this was a stay at home father of twenty nine years of age with 18% body fat and a 3 and ¾ inch penis.  This tenant loves Xbox and comic books and saw Avatar five times.  His wife paid for the tickets each time as well as the popcorn with extra butter and the economy sized cola.  Trent got to play god with this particular asshole.  Trent pretended to be sleeping and would respond to the urgent message until after noon time later that day.

            Now one of the best finishes to a basketball game took place with five seconds to go in the game.  Like a good Disney finish, the Utah Jazz inbound the ball and got it to a man with the last name of Gaines who had been playing minor league basketball in Boise just days before.  In front of a sell out crowd, he hit a three pointer at the buzzer and solidified his chances of sticking in the NBA.  Another email came in.

            “Trent honey, its mommy.  I have decided to come and visit you, your beautiful wife and darling new addition.  I read my horoscope and had a dream about dying early and decided that since I have the time, I will be coming with my husband Bob to spend the week with you.  Life is short and you never know what could happen.  I’m going to need a car and hope that we will not be crowding you if we stay at your place… Hugs and kisses.”

            That single email kept Trent from sleep more so than anything else that could possibly happen.  Even with a sleeping aid and red wine, sleep would be postponed for the night pending the arrival of Trent’s mother from Vermont.

            Now Trent was born and raised in Los Angeles by a single mom who happened to be a hippy.  Trent’s mother was on her sixth husband.  This latest step father was three years younger than Trent, a former Marine and an alcoholic.  Trent got on line and found a motel called the Ambassador on Lincoln Avenue on the north side of Chicago and an independent car rental company that rented Smart Cars for his mother.

5:02 am Friday- Trent stops at a Starbucks.  An effeminate young man with skin tight jeans and two earrings on his lips asks Trent what he would like to drink in a southern belle lilt.  Trent for a moment remembered when being overtly effeminate was as dangerous as being overtly communist and wondered if communism and homophobia died simultaneously.

            Trent bench presses first at the gym.  Four sets of 235 then leg lifts push ups, pull ups and then curls.  Trent’s heart pounds as he takes a hot shower.  Next to him are two old Jewish men that small talk.  Trent listens in.

            “Mortie…  You’re late.  It’s one of the seven deadly sins isn’t it?”

            “What, what… Not getting my tired old ass out of bed and to the gym and for what?  I’ll still look like a wrinkled prune with ball sacks hanging down to my fucking knees…”

            That made Trent smile as he stood naked in front of the mirror, putting lotion all over his body.  Trent could see some muscle tone and a hint of a six pack on his abdomen.  He dreaded getting as old as the old Jews but knew with each day, the time was coming.

8:45am Friday- Trent picked up a yellow Smart Car from O’Hare airport and drove to Midway Airport on the other side of Chicago to greet his mother.  The Smart Car shook as it went 62.5 miles per hour on the Stevenson Expressway.  The news from Haiti was dismal.  The Blackhawks won and the weather would be sunny and above freezing for the fourth day in a row. 

            A Chicago Police officer in a bright yellow raincoat came up and yelled at Trent for pulling up in the fire lane to pick up his mother and her husband.

            “You leave that car for a second and I’ll have it towed…” said the cop.

            “I’m picking up those two people there,” Trent said, combatively.

            “And I’m telling you if you leave the car, it will be towed.”

            Trent had no way of knowing that the middle aged angry officer, had been sent to Midway to keep scofflaws and terrorists from double parking their cars because he had been caught grocery shopping and sleeping in his car by a news television station that was trying to point out just how lazy some police officers were and their abuse of power.  The cop hated standing out in the cold, telling people to move their cars all day.  Do you blame him? 


Trent, his mother and step father, were eating at Brandy’s Family Restaurant on Cicero and 52nd Street.  The waitress looked a lot like WC Fields, red nose and all.  Everyone except the girl who rang people up and sat them, were morbidly obese.  Trent didn’t know exactly what to say to his mother and stepfather who he did not like.  He mentioned the fat people.

            “2/3 of Americans are obese now and 90% of them are in this room,” said Trent, while stirring his coffee.  Trent’s latently homosexual step father, who was three years younger than him, starred at Trent blankly.  Nothing was said by either Trent’s mother or the Marine.

            “Musta been a pain in the ass to get to Albany, New York with all that snow in Vermont.  Did you make it to the airport okay?” said Trent, searchingly looking for something to discuss.

            “Well I love to hunt and ski…  Chop down wood and just enjoy god’s green earth,” said Bob, in a manly and quite husky voice.

            Trent didn’t understand the answer to his question from Bob and did not press him for an answer that made sense.  Trent listened to Bob claims of being the outdoors man and couldn’t help thinking about the $1,000.00 phone bill he had to pay for his mother due to the fact that Bob rang up a doozy by calling1- 900 gay phone sex numbers while on a drinking binge.  Bob had no idea that Trent knew.  Trent told his mother that before he would help out with the outrageous phone bill, he had to know first what kind of 1- 900 Bob was calling.  Trent called one of the numbers and heard this recording:

            “You’ve reached The Man line…  Lot’s of interesting men are waiting to talk to men just like you.  Your seconds away from joining the fastest growing network where men meet men…  Just like you…”

            11:00 am- A mandatory meeting was called for all employees of the real estate office where Trent worked.  A bald man who looked like Dr. Phil with eyebrows that looked like gerbils, stood with his arms folded at the front of the room behind a podium.  The owner of the company came in late and the murmur that had filled the room immediately ceased.  The boss started the meeting with a red face and trembling hands.  He was so angry that he literally shook.

            “I called this meeting to put you all on notice.  Someone stole a gift from my desk while I was on vacation and yet nobody knows where it is.  Among us is a thief…  Secondly, I brought my eight year old son in the office and allowed him to look up Nick on Line from the front desk computer and come to find out that someone here was looking at a website called Goats and Blondes.  MY SON BELIEVES IN SANTA CLAUS STILL AND KNOWS ABOUT SEX WITH FUCKING FARM ANIMALS!  I had to learn this from my wife as she learned this while reading him Dr. Fucking Seuss before bed.  You are all being put on notice.  I have hired Mr. Dupuis to monitor everything that goes on in this place from here on out.  This bullshit ends today.  Mr. Dupuis… The floor is yours.”

            The boss received a gift certificate from his girlfriend at work while he happened to be away with his family over the Christmas holiday.  He received a text message from his girlfriend who had purchased a gift certificate to the Love Palace.  The Love Palace was frequented by couples looking for intimacy and fun.  The suite chosen by the girlfriend had a pool with a slide and a trapeze where she could lower herself onto her boyfriend.  The text message read as follows:


            Upon returning, the boss panicked over the prospect of anyone seeing the card from his girlfriend.  He of course he yelled at his girlfriend for leaving the envelope on his desk instead of giving it to him.  Whoever stole it knew that it was safe to steal since; the boss could not divulge the contents.  The same person who stole the card also was looking at bestiality on line too.  I can’t say who it was.  It just wouldn’t be right for me to get involved in this.

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