Blackhumouristpress's Blog

April 7, 2011

Baseball is not a Sport or Vishnu at the Plate

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:20 am
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            Vishnu Patel was able to anonymously come to the United States without having to wear a scarlet letter or fear for his life so much.  In India, Vishnu Patel was simply known as Vishnu since Patel is about as common a name as Jones is in the ghetto.

            Vishnu was a Cricket playing prodigy who was a fast bowler.  Bowling is much akin to pitching a baseball and has nothing to do with the sport of bowling even though Vishnu came to love that over time upon moving to the United States.

            Vishnu was a rich young man in India.  He could bowl fast and spin the ball so that when it hit the ground, it would bounce like a superball.  Vishnu was sponsored by all sorts of companies that wanted his name on cricket bats.  He was in songs and in movies and drove sports cars and had a big home.  At bat, Vishnu easily scored and had several centuries meaning that while at bat, he scored over 100 points all by himself.  Vishnu was the Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretsky, Brett Favre and Babe Ruth rolled into one.  Like the Hindu god of the same name, Vishnu seemed to walk on water but like all mortals he had something about him that tarnished him in the eyes of Indians; homosexuality.

            Vishnu had kept his secret under close wraps in India.  He was always seen in public with a pretty girl.  It was during a test match in Australia that he was photographed dancing and kissing another man in a gay night club.  Vishnu had crushed his supporters upon the revelation that he was in fact homosexual.  There were death threats and Vishnu’s kept man and he fled the country in 2008.

            Endorsements dried up and Vishnu fled for the United States for fear that he would be killed or jailed.  There was a fear among Indian parents that perhaps their sons might deem homosexuality as something that would be, “not so bad” because the great Vishnu fancied lads. 

            Vishnu took whatever money he had left and bought a Tim Horton’s franchise right outside of Cleveland, Ohio.  Tim Horton’s was quickly becoming the biggest Canadian export after beer.  Vishnu was satisfied being just another Indian in America.  People mistook him for a cab driver and a computer technician but nobody recognized him as a former great cricket player except one sports columnist who wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

 Tim Jones, who never lived in the ghetto by the way, relished being a thorn in the side of the Cleveland Indians.  It was Tim Jones who recognized the former star who single handedly decimated the West Indies Cricket Club in Barbados.  Jones was on had to witness Vishnu’s feat.  Vishnu had five wickets as a bowler and batted over a century to defeat the West Indies more or less, by himself.  Tim Jones went after the Cleveland Indian’s front office in his column.  Here is what he had to say:

“Chief Wahoo should have a tear in his eye just like the crying Indian from the early 1970’s commercial who was saddened and dismayed by what had become of his land.  What has become of Chief Wahoo’s Indians?  If the Cavs and Browns don’t make you cry, maybe this year’s Indians will.  A mere 9,000 fans managed to make it out to see their team win 7-1 against the Chicago White Sox.  David Hasslehoff might draw more than that if he were to perform at Progressive Field.  If you didn’t hear it already, the Indians turned their first triple play since 2008 on Sunday.  It is nothing like the front office’s triple play of getting rid of their three best players and expecting a dwindling population to step up and pay to see a shell of what once was a proud franchise.  Proud like an Indian.  Speaking of Indians, most of you would never know this but one of the best players to have ever played the sport of cricket owns Tim Horton franchises right here in the state of Ohio, right in the city of Cleveland.  I’d be willing to bet my wigwam and teepee that The Great Vishnu could save the franchise single handedly.  Picture any of our current has-beens or never-will-bees pitching like Cliff Lee and batting like a healthy Grady Sizemore.  I throw out the challenge to Mr. Patel and Mr. Acta.  Do something different.  Bring back the crowds. Let an Indian, a real Indian save the Indians from oblivion.  Wipe that tear from Chief Wahoo’s cheek and restore that stupid smile once again.”

Everyone who read Mr. Jones’ column knew that he was brutal on sports teams in Cleveland and knew that the Cleveland Indians held the most promise of success in the city of Cleveland before losing several players who may one day end up in the baseball hall of fame.  Tim Jones caught up with Vishnu and was surprised what he had to say about the sport of baseball.  Vishnu had laid down the gauntlet.

“Meester Tim…  I dawn vant to put dawn dee national pastime of a nation but ven I pass by parks and I see over-vait, middle aged men hitting a beach ball, under hand at a speed dat ees barely able to support it in dee air, I liken eet to a hunter tracking a cow.  How caan you meese shooting a grazing cow who looks at you stupidly vile lining up her head weeth a scope?  Now hitting a baseball might be a tad more difficult but eet ees naught cricket.  Cricket ees a sport.  Baseball ees a hobby.”

Native Clevelanders or rather white people and blacks who were once owned by whites, who have resided on indigenous people’s land that were mistaken by Christopher Columbus for Indians, were indignant by the brazen comments of Vishnu.  It was one thing for Americans residing in Cleveland to attack their own team and their own beloved sport; it was another thing to have a gay foreigner verbally bitch slap baseball.  Vishnu had no choice but to face those who loved baseball and the Indians.

Vishnu studied tapes of baseball for a few days and even watched some games on ESPN before contacting Tim Jones to set up a meeting between him and the Cleveland Indians.  If you can imagine this, Progressive Field sold out every seat in the stadium to watch the exhibition between a former cricket great and professional baseball players.  The Cleveland Indian front office loved the publicity.

Vishnu emerged from a tunnel wearing a collared shirt that had the letters, INDIA across the front with his name on the back with the number 13.  Vishnu swung his arm in a circle a few times before facing the first batter.  Manny Acta sent up a pitcher to face Vishnu.  Vishnu came running up from second base, hit the mound and threw the ball in a windmill fashion, delivering a pitch that did not bounce. A 160 km/h fastball or damn near 100 miles an hour pitch for a strike.  The speed gun registered 101 mph.  The pitch twisted in the air and dropped like it fell off a cliff.  Vishnu struck out two pitchers, then two batters that would be lucky to pinch run and then some real big fish.  The guys that might make more than entire population of the average worker in the city of Cleveland combined.  One of the bonus babies got a few foul tips before being felled.  It was then Vishnu’s turn to come to the plate.  Vishnu stood on the plate as though he was protecting a wicket.  He wore what looked like a jockey’s helmet with a protective grill with gloves and leg guards that one might find on a goalie in ice hockey.  Vishnu whacked everything that came his way whether it was a strike or a ball.  The last pitch was an 85 mile an hour fastball.  Vishnu took two steps towards the pitch and knocked it into the right field stands where a group of Indian expatriates were banging drums, waving an Indian flag with painted faces.  Vishnu carried his bat with him as he would have in cricket as he rounded the bases.  Backwards.

It would be fair to surmise that baseball fans, The Cleveland Indians and Americans in general felt badly about the publicity stunt and that would be correct.  Upon signing Vishnu to a multi-year contract as a relief pitcher and designated hitter, the Indians suddenly began to win and fans returned to Progressive Field.  After a while nobody seemed to notice or care that their star player was not only not American or a baseball player, that he was gay too.  As Americans often like to say to one another: Only in America.

March 4, 2011

My Way or Zimbabwe

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:51 am
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The word had come down from a federal agent to Salvatore Scarpelli that the FBI would be rounding up many gangsters wanted for murder, narcotics, prostitution and money laundering. Sal “The Horse” or “The Hammer” Scarpelli quickly gathered up all his liquid assets and took a trip to Zimbabwe. When his wife asked where Zimbabwe was and why he would want to go there, Sal had an answer. “Dey got dem falls there that is like one of dem seven wundahs of the woild. I always wanted to go to Africa… You know to kinda look around.” It sounded crazy to Sal’s wife until about four days later when a dozen or more federal agents came in through the door while Sal’s wife was smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee and watching live footage of federal agents rounding up suspected and confirmed mobsters. Sal’s weeping wife called Sal who at that moment he had an audience with the dictator Robert Mugabe of Zimbabe. They were drinking wine and Robert Mugabe was trying to explain the rules of the sport cricket.

 “Eet t’is a fantastic game… So you ave a bowler much like a pitcher een your baseball. The blowler ees trrrying to spin the ball so as to knock down dee wickets behind the batsman. The whole team at bat must get out firrrst before your team takes the field… Thee world cup ees going on now in India. Eet ees a fantastic time. I don’t meese a match. Thaat an Two and a Half Men. Fantastic show.”

 Sal had to take the phone call of his frantic wife who had a house full of federal agents ransacking their home and holding her for questioning as to where he was exactly. Sal’s wife couldn’t remember the name of the country and so she asked Sal to speak with one of the agents in charge.

“That’s right… Zim-bab-we… No extradition laws here, my friend so you can go fuck yourselves, ya hear me? You motherfuckers got some fucking nerve coming in my fucking house, upsetting my fucking wife foist thing in the morning…”

Now Zimbabwe is a landlocked country just above South Africa that used to be Rhodesia and has been ruled by one man since 1980. Their national motto is, “unity, freedom, work”. Close to 94% of the country is unemployed; and dissent of any kind is dangerous for one’s health. Despite the fact that Mugabe was able to stamp out dissent over the course of thirty one years, the new wave of political unrest in countries such as Bahrain, Egypt and Libya did not go unnoticed by the president of Zimbabwe. President Mugabe understood that Sal Scarpelli was a diamond in the rough, an ace in the hole and an answer to prayer. Salvatore Scarpelli was a ruthless gangster who received the nickname, “The Hammer” because he actually killed many people with a claw hammer when he was young and on the rise. The other nickname, “The Horse” was given to him due to the fact that when his penis was fully erect, was nearly nine inches long and 2.75 inches in circumference. Sal relished both nicknames. Over the course of thirty years, Sal went from a young foot soldier on the streets of New York to a multi-millionaire who owned land, businesses and had friends in law enforcement and government. Sal’s generosity most likely saved him when, if you’ll pardon the pun, when the hammer dropped.

Robert Mugabe laughed and shook his head as one of his assistants put on a cricket match between Zimbabwe and New Zealand. Zimbabwe was up 137-8 and it did not look good. New Zealand could probably match that score with two batsmen. President Mugabe spoke to Sal who was speaking to the feds but Sal wasn’t listening. When the conversation ended for Sal, President Mugabe got to the point of wanting a visit with such a high ranking mob figure from the United States. Sal was all ears as the saying goes.

“Your rrrrecord, your methods, your elusiveness is trrruly fantastic. I use the word fantastic when things are trrruly above board, top shelf… You my friend are thaat such perrrson. Things thaat need to be done without emotion or merrrcy is what I need. As you may ave erred, this Facebook, Twitter sensation has rrrun amok in northern Afrrrrica. I cannot afford to go out like Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette. No guillotines, no Rrrobespierre or new age of enlightenment… Dissent comes about like a brrrush fire and I need a rrrreally good fireman. I cannot allow dissent. I would like to make you ed of omeland security. South Afrrrrica add thees during the old days of aparrrtheid. Eet ees a way of keeping everrrything calm… I think eet aas a fantastic rrring: Salvatore Scarpelli, director of omeland security.”

 Sal got to work of amassing an army of men who secretly kept an eye on cafes and bars or anywhere where people congregated. Anyone accused of dissent went before a tribunal. Sal oversaw the hearings. The hearings went much like this:

“Peter metah… meetah coomboh… Ya know it would be fucking helpful to me if someone here who knows how to pronounce these fucking names might prompt me a bit on how to say this shit. DON’T JUST FUCKING STAND THERE! GO THROUGH THE FUCKING LIST AND WRITE DEM OUT PHONECIANLY SO I’M NOT TRIPPING ON MY FUCKING COCK HERE! Now then Peter… I will call you Peter for now until I get a bit of assistance. It has been brought to my attention that you have been brought here on charges of trying to foment a riot. Are you now or have you ever been a subvoisive?”

 It Worked as planned. Before long people from all walks of life were informing on each other to escape prison and possible torture. People were deathly afraid of the foreign white man who showed no mercy. It was like the Salem witch hunts and Red Scare rolled into one. The Department of Homeland Security worked with the efficiency of the KGB. Nobody trusted anyone and feared death or imprisonment for expressing an opinion. The President felt safe again to watch television and nap during the day. Sal when not presiding over the fates of Zimbabwe nationals, tended to his harem of women. Sal liked women of all colors and had new ones in his small mansion at all times. Sal liked two women at a time usually. Life was good for Sal in a country where white people were scared of black reprisal. Black people were now scared of a strange white man given full authority to keep peace by any and all means necessary.

 “In New York, we would take a fucking guy like you and string him up with a cement block attached to his ankles and drop him in the fucking river. That would keep him from ever getting ideas in his head again about going against the machine. Zimbabwe is the machine and the machine must work if it is to survive and flourish… Four months. We’ll review your case again after you’ve had some time to think about your delusions of fucking grandeur… Take his ass away from me… Next!”

 Sal was big tabloid news in the United States. Television networks wanted to interview Sal Scarpelli but only one interview was granted and that was to Eliot Spitzer. CNN sent Eliot Spitzer to Harare, Zimbabwe to conduct the interview that was doctored up to keep the public from hearing profanity. Rolling Stone Magazine got a hold of the real interview and the entire interview became an instant sensation on the internet. Sal answered all the questions asked of him and then had questions of his own.

 “I got a question you proly don’t want to answer but maybe one the public back in the United States might wanna ask themselves. How is it that a former district attorney and governor of New York who prided himself on going after so called, “organized crime”, gets fucking whacked for paying tens of fucking thousands on high priced call girls while he at the same time is fighting it? And then CNN give him a fucking show where he has the fucking balls to cross the fucking woild to ask me if I have any remorse for what I’ve done. Well I can tell you I won’t cry like a fucking bitch while my old lady stands next to me stone faced at a press conference. You can fucking bet your last fucking peso on that. Private failings is what you called it, am I right, Eliot? You fucking got caught and that’s the difference between you and me. I’m director of Homeland Security in Zimbabwe. That should be a big enough thorn in your fucking ass. As they say in every one of these countries that drive on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car: good day, sir.”

 The winds of change blew over parts of Africa but Zimbabwe remained as tight as a drum. Sal was heavily rewarded for keeping order. Sal lived like a French king and loved living in a land that had so much disparity. Sal rode around in his bullet proof Lincoln Continental and looked at emaciated, barefoot blacks hanging around aimlessly. Privately he thought to himself that it was no different than driving through Harlem in New York.

 While driving through Harare one day, Sal spotted the most beautiful white woman he had ever seen wearing a tight Red Cross shirt, talking to a group of children. Her hair was reddish and her face was angelic. Her athletic frame attracted Sal. He liked women who could sprint over those that could pull a wagon. Sal ordered the car to stop. He popped a mint in his mouth and smoothed back his salt and pepper hair before exiting his vehicle. A dozen men with machine guns surrounded the perimeter. Sal approached the woman with an English accent.

 “I noticed your Red Cross shirt and was wondering if I might be of some assistance to you ma’am… I work for the government.”

 The beautiful woman smiled and fluttered her eyes nervously before speaking. Sal was mesmerized by every facet of the woman’s being.

 “So kind of you to stop… Yes, well as you can see, these children are orphans who are forced to beg in the streets and though it is Africa and they very well might not die of the elements as say… Brooklyn in January, they nonetheless are hungry and without shelter.”

 Sal, unable to blink resolved to do everything in his power to help the situation. The woman who went by the name of Rachel was invited to dine with Sal at his home. Sal learned that Rachel played guitar and wrote poetry and decided it was her duty to help those less fortunate than herself for a few years before going on with her life. She wore a summer dress that showed ample cleavage and contoured her flat stomach and shapely bum. Love was in the air for Sal and the idea that Rachel would eat his food, drink his wine and converse with him and then leave, was an impossibility. Sal nearly demanded that Rachel stay the night with him but Rachel prevailed. Upon leaving, Rachel sent Sal a text message some twenty minutes after her departure. The message went as follows:

 I realize now I should have stayed. I want you too so very badly. Please come to see me at my room in Harare. I will be waiting for you, counting the minutes : )

 Sal showered and perfumed all areas that might sweat due to being anxious and desirous. Sal dismissed his guards and told them to wait in the lobby of the hotel where Rachel lived. He approached Rachel’s room alone. Waiting at the door in an ivory colored negligee that draped every so daintily over her firm breasts was Rachel. She had one toned arm up, holding the door as she greeted Sal with a smile.

 “I promise you won’t be disappointed…”

 Sal came to some time later on an airplane while wearing a straight jacket. Sitting on either side of him on a small jet were two white men. One was reading a fitness magazine and the other was napping with folded arms. Sal in a groggy state asked the man who was reading the magazine what was happening. He explained that he had been captured by the FBI and was being taken to a federal court in New York on a slew of charges. Sal became instantly despondent and remorseful that he allowed his libido to trap him like a preying mantis. Before being sentenced, the judge in federal court asked if he wanted to make a statement. Sal thought about it for a second and then asked to speak. The judge nodded his approval to Sal.

 “Um Robbie… Thanks for shot. I’m my own worst enemy. My advice to you: get the good looking dames outta the country. It’ll be your Waterloo.”

November 23, 2009

I Vill Charm Your fu#*king Snake

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:47 am
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“Who the fuck is going to pay for my fucking television? Huh? You mother fuckers killed my television.” Yelled a glassy eyed Mexican man with a strong accent.
Hector had come home from a small factory on Chicago’s west side. His job was to make grinding wheels for machine shops. The owner hired illegal aliens to make the wheels for him in a basement of the factory. It was an ingenious scheme. It would have been like putting Anne Frank to work behind the refrigerator. OSHA people would have closed the factory down in a second if they knew what was going on in the
basement. The air swirled with silica that went into making the wheels. The foreman wore a device that looked like a World War I gas mask that had two little air vents around the mouth. All the workers used paper masks and they were issued two a week. Hector worked ten hours a day and made eight dollars an hour. Hector had come from an area of Mexico called Jalisco. Hector paid a man close to $8,000.00 to take him across at Tijuana. The men, who took his money, provided him with fake papers. From there, Hector took a bus to Chicago to live in a studio apartment with his cousin and four other
men. A studio apartment is nothing more than a room that serves as everything but a
bathroom.
Hector started a side project of doing handy man repairs on the side. Sylvia, a seventy year old Jewish woman, hired Hector to fix some small items in her apartment and before long, Hector was living with Sylvia. Hector was a short dumpy Aztec looking man with dark, ruddy complexion and black eyes. Hector hated the United States.
Hector saw an invisible wall that kept his people invisible. Nobody seemed to notice that at all the restaurants, car washes and front lawns in upper middle class areas around the country, functioned because of undocumented Hispanics, primarily Mexicans. Hector knew that as an undocumented, illegal alien, he had to settle for whatever job and money he could find.
The silica made him wheeze and his eyes tear. Hector often coughed but thought nothing of it. Hector had been watching El Salvador playing against Mexico. It was a tied game in the 78th minute when six firemen axed the door open and began smashing all the windows out. Hector grabbed the arm of one of the firemen and as the fireman struggled; his axe went right through the 70 inch, high definition television that Hector had just purchased. It cost Hector the equivalent of ten days of work. The fireman apologized and walked out. Hector found out later at work that El Salvador won the match.
Sylvia stood on the sidewalk, trying to calm Hector while holding her parakeets in

a small cage. Hector had just downed several shots of tequila and wolfed down a six

pack of Tecate. All he wanted to do was watch the match on television and fall asleep on

the couch.

Hector and Sylvia found a motel on Lincoln Avenue called the Rio Motel.
Hector was checking into the motel that doubled as a convenience store too. Behind the bullet proof glass were cigarettes, pop, condoms, pain relievers and so forth. The Indian proprietor looked at Hector, a Hispanic man in his mid thirties and the seventy year old Jewish woman holding two birds in a cage, while dressed in pyjamas, was
impressed with that. Ajesh the proprietor was used to seeing all kinds of outrageous things but felt that the odd couple were the most unique of the night. Just as they were settling up with Ajesh, a young black, homeless man came in.
“Yo man, I’m just coming back for my cigarettes… I was in here back before y’all started foh the night and left my cigarettes here on the counter… You kin look at the tapes, I was here bout foh clock…”
“I don’t know nothing about no cigarettes, bro… You better leave now,” said Ajesh.
Hector slipped Fifty dollars cash under the bullet proof glass and handed it to
Ajesh. An Indian musical played in the back ground on a small television. There was one woman dressed in a Sari with twenty men, dancing in unison with her in front of a palace. Everyone of the dancers, were good looking people and light skinned to the point of looking Anglo with a hint of Indian. They were dressed in yellow and orange. They were all smiling, fit and happy. Ajesh was heavy and very dark and looked unhappy. He had a great disdain for the patrons who frequented the motel he purchased from a Korean couple several years back. The patrons used it to use and sell drugs, they used it to have secret rendezvous and some used it for prostitution. Illegal aliens used the motel as their
only means of living since they were fearful that a background/credit check would reveal the fact that they were not living and working in the country legally. Hector lived with Sylvia and so he had an apartment to go where there would not be four men to a room. Sylvia had companionship. She had someone other than birds and a television for interaction. Even though Hector was surly, he did appreciate the old woman letting him live with her. The relationship was non sexual for the most part. There had been a few
occasions where the chemicals within Hector, built up and drove him to do something that he would not have done otherwise. This poor decision making was aided by Tequila. Sylvia actually liked it quite a bit. It had been years since she had sex with a man. That night, there would be no sex and very little talking. They were both disturbed by the fact that they were instantly displaced from their apartment due to the fire.
“Hey man, I just want my motha fucking cigarettes… Look on the motha fucking tapes if you don’t believe me,” said the black man, with even glossier eyes than Hector.
“If you don’t leave now, I vill call the police,” said Ajesh, sternly.
“Fuck you, you fucking A-rab mothah fucking, carpet riding, snaking charming motha fucker.”
Ajesh emerged from behind the bullet proof room with a good ole Louisville Slugger. It was a thirty two ounce bat, which is to say that it had some weight to it. It was supposedly signed by Bo Jackson, who once played baseball for the Chicago White Sox and football for the Oakland Raiders. Ajesh held the bat up as if he were playing Cricket, which he was once very good at back in India. Ajesh was not a small man and was not afraid of black men who tried to intimidate him. In fact Ajesh was secretly hoping that one of them would cross the line so that he could brain them with his bat and then tell the police that he was being threatened with death by some transient.
“Who’s the mother fucker now? Mother fucker… Try some stupid shit, bro. I vill charm your fucking snake…”

With that, the transient man walked off and Hector and Sylvia went up to their
room. The room was musty as if mold was growing somewhere and the toilet smelled of urine like an outhouse. The bed had nothing but sheets on it and every spring on the bed
could be felt. Hector turned on the television to find two Indian men having sex with an Indian woman in a garden while sitar music played softly behind her feigned moans. Sylvia fell asleep talking to her birds, Hector fell asleep watching the Indian manage a trois. They too were good looking Indian people, this time with their clothes off.

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