Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 14, 2014

When Terry Met Terrance or Death by Viagra

“Is this a sick joke? Did you do this on purpose? Take this away from here this instant! This cannot stay in our cell another moment!”
Terrance never really knew the details of his cellmate and fiancé’s offenses. Terry shared a cell with Terrance at Statesville prison in the state of Illinois, in United States. Terrance, a large man among men, was what slave owners and NFL football owners alike looked for in a man. Terrance was wrongly accused of killing a police officer on the south side of Chicago. Terrance has served five years and he will eventually be exonerated but things such as murder and wrongful conviction take some time to sort out. You understand.
Terry arrived a little over two years ago and became not only a cellmate of Terrance, but also his girlfriend and fiancé. Terry spends a lot of time trying to get a judge to marry him to Terrance. The prison officials have told him repeatedly that such a thing in prison is not possible. Terry has written to the governor several times and the governor has read the letters and thought to himself; why not? A Democratic governor running against a well to-do Republican challenger, does not need to hand cannon fodder to his opponent and so the idea of a marriage between men in prison will have to be entertained after the election. You understand.
Terrance knew that Terry was responsible for killing a rich elderly man by forcing him to swallow three Viagra pills at gun point while having his 25 year old girlfriend ride him until he had a heart attack. What Terrance wasn’t aware of was that the rich elderly man, made a fortune making fur coats. Mink to be exact. Terry could not wrap his head around people killing such cute little animals for coats and coats for rich people to be more precise. Terry worked hard to be hired to cook for the rich elderly man in his home and when the time was right, Terry chose death by Viagra.
“Fucking swallow all three pills, you goddamn killer… All three or I’ll blow your fucking head off, so help me!”
Before long, the elderly man was as stiff as a board. At that time, Terry ordered the young gold digging girlfriend to mount the old man in a reverse cowboy so that she would have to face Terry with a cocked revolver. Within an hour, the mink killer had passed. And so it goes.
Terrance being a black man had always wanted a white woman. He never quite got around to finding one to his liking. Terrance was not willing to settle for an obese, slovenly white chick with a bad dye job. With the prospect of being in prison for the rest of his life, the idea of being with an attractive white male who was effeminate and truly a woman trapped in a man’s skin was not so bad. Terrance never fancied men but over time, the idea was not repulsive to him.
Like any couple, Terrance and Terry had their problems and differences. Terry was overly interested in the lives of the Kardashians and liked gardening while Terrance liked watching violent movies and MMA and boxing matches. Terry liked to be kissed and caressed before penetration and Terrance wasn’t much for foreplay. Terry would lay in Terrance’s arms after love making and eventually doze off to the sound of Terrance snoring in his ear. When you take away the differences, Terry loved that Terrance was strong and protective and Terrance liked Terry’s feminine tendencies and delicate manner except for when Terry would get angry.
“Look… You my baby and I got to take care of you. When I was on the outside, buying a fur for the one you love was a good thing. I know you cold most the time and I thought that having a fur, a good and expensive article of motherfucking clothing, would be something good. You don’t want it, then don’t wear it. I’ll git my money back. You an ungrateful bitch. You never went without ya whole life and so when you git something nice and good, you don’t give a shit.”
Terry was shaking and crying and trying to think of what he would say in response. It was obvious that Terrance was not understanding the evil in killing a harmless little animal for prestige.
“You could have given me anything else for an anniversary present and I would have loved it but this is a spit in my face… You are either stupid or insensitive but either way, you are oblivious to my feelings and that hurts more.”
Terrance lifted weights later that day, hurt and angry while Terry weeded in his garden. At meals, they ate separate and went to bed in separate beds quiet and angry at one another. Terrance couldn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned and thought about apologizing several times but couldn’t bring himself to do it for hours. Terrance didn’t believe he intentionally did anything wrong but knew that the only way out of it was to kiss ass. At 1:07am, Terrance whispered to Terry.
“I apologize for whatever you think I did wrong…”
That did not go over very well. You understand.

December 5, 2010

I Love You, Dude or The Hockey Marriage

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:23 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

The Ronnies are what Ron Taylor and Ron Fitzgibbons were called by everyone from grade school on who knew the two best friends.  The Ronnies spent nights at each other’s house as little boys and played on the same hockey teams all the way through high school.  They were voted the most likely to go Columbine on their own high school by their classmates.

            Ron T. never finished college.  He was a freshman for four years at a junior college and was fortunate to pass the drug test that UPS gave him before he got a job loading panel trucks in the middle of the night.  Ron T. sort of liked his job.  It was mindless and secure.

            Ron F. sold beer in the summers at Wrigley Field which was sort of funny since he hated the Cubs and thought baseball in general was sort of an out dated sport.  Most of the year he worked for a Korean man who owned an independent video store.  In the store on the shelves were the entire first rate Hollywood blockbusters like Iron Man 9, Spiderman 7, and The Flintstones meet Yogi Bear at the Phantom Ranch with The Globetrotters and Scooby Doo and so on.  Behind a wall of the store was the world of debauchery that 90% of the customers came in for but even those customers were getting most of their stuff off the internet.  Ron F. was able to talk his boss into buying the Center Ice package so that he could watch all the NHL games from work during the baseball off season.  And so between selling and renting DVDs to lonely men, Ron T. would sit behind the counter, glued to any number of NHL games. 

            Ron T. and Ron F. would play ice hockey every morning somewhere around the city of Chicago.  Sometimes it was at Johnny’s Ice House on Madison Avenue, some times Mc Fetridge on the north side of the city, sometimes Franklin Park by O’Hare and so on.  Usually the boys played everyday except Saturdays.  Saturday nights were reserved for going out to clubs to try and find love for the night with any women that would have them.

            Both Ronnies played juniors for a few years after high school and then hung it up when they realized that being third liners on a junior B team in the middle of nowhere, was a sign that they were not going to be scouted by the NHL.  They both came back to Chicago and became men’s league all-stars.  Any night of the week, they could both find a late night game with a team that needed a player and usually they did that in addition to playing pick up hockey each morning.  Days went as follows: Ron F. picks up Ron T. after he takes a quick nap after work.  They hit the 7-11 to get a Monster energy drink and donuts though most recently; Ron T. began to grow up a bit at 28 years age and began to drink coffee.  The clerk whom they called Habib yelled at the Ronnies almost daily for making a mess. They would then show up at a rink early and watch whatever was on television which was usually The View.  They would criticize the women and guests without listening to anything they were talking about while putting tape on their sticks and checking the blades of their skates for nicks.

            “Dude…  That one dude from Cheers was fucking Whoopie Goldberg until he found out she was a fucking bull dyke and was fucking around with Ellen degenerate…” said Ron F. in his pseudo surfer boy/burnout voice that he still maintained from high school.

            “That’s fucking bullshit, dude.  They just fucking broke up.  She’s as ugly as your asshole but she ain’t a dyke.  She’s fucking old and knows that she’s not fuckable anymore.  Most white dudes wanna fuck a black chick like Beyonce.  When they can’t, they go home and beat a woman that looks like Whoopie.” Said Ron T. while taping his $200.00 Easton one piece stick with 5.5 lie and a slight heel curve. 

            “Fuck it, dude.  I hope we get two goalies.  I don’t care if it’s a fucking St. Bernard or your fucking mother just as long as we have something to shoot at,” said Ron F.

            In the pick up games, the Ronnies always wore the same color.  It was a gray which was not white and not dark.  On the front was the name of one of their men’s league teams that they had pledge alliance to called The Pigs.  Their jerseys said in big letters, “The Pigs” and underneath that was a pig with a flat top hair cut holding a hockey stick in one hand and his penis in the other.  At the age of twenty eight, the Ronnies thought that was still hilarious.

            Ron T. was the passer and Ron F. was the scorer.  Ron T. was geared towards being defensive and Ron F. was most concerned with scoring and so they worked well together.  One day Ron T. took a slap shot from the blue line. It rode up the blade of someone’s stick and took out six of Ron F.’s front teeth.  The teeth exploded and left shards of porcelain throughout Ron F.’s mouth.  The Ronnies were sent to Cook County Hospital where they sat for close to six hours because Ron F. did not have health insurance and after six hours the duo grew tired of waiting for the free health care and went home. The bleeding had stopped but Ron Fitzgibbon’s mouth was a mess as was his swollen face.

            The cost to replace the three upper and three lower teeth for Ron F. was going to be over $10,000.00.  There was no way either of the boys had that sort of money.  Luckily for the boys, there was a way and a loop hole.  Since civil marriages between men and men and women and women were going to be legal in Illinois, Ron F. popped the question to Ron T.

            “Look man, you hit me in the fucking mouth.  I can’t talk or even smile cause I look like a fucking golf ball went through my fucking teeth.  We get this thing done and I get my fucking teeth fixed after you can claim me on your insurance and then we get a divorce or annulment or whatever it is you need so that you can still get married in a Catholic Church when you find the right person,” said Ron F.

            “Are you fucking cracked?!  You want me to marry you so you can get insurance?!  I’m not fucking doing it, dude.  I’ll find a way to get the $10,000.00,” said Ron T.

            “What the fuck do you care?  Being a fag is in style now, dude.  Nobody is going to say shit.  They’ll say those two dudes got married.  Who the fuck cares anymore?  Fucking Magic Johnson got AIDS, got rid of it and got fat and nobody cares that he’s probably fucking dudes.  We don’t gotta have a party and invite friends.  We just do this and I get my shit fixed and then we get this shit undone.  I think you owe me this much, fucker…” said Ron F.

            Ron T. thought about the idea and decided it was the fairest thing he could do considering he was the reason his friend was missing a mouthful of teeth.  Both Ronnies were too manly to wear a cage or a visor on their helmets.  They grew up idolizing Chris Chelios and Tony Amonte from the Chicago Blackhawks and decided after high school that they would never use facial protection again.  Both received a few stitches here and there as well as a black eye now and then but never a need for a dental overhaul. 

            Ron F. did all the leg work.  He got the marriage license and filed all the paper work so that on the first day of legal same sex unions, he could get legally married to Ron T. so that he could then add him to his insurance and get Ron F.’s teeth fixed. 

            The spring day happened and both men dressed in dark suits nervously sat waiting for their chance to approach the judge as they looked at honest to goodness same sex couples that were ecstatic that their day had finally arrived.  An older white man with a close kept gray beard and a young black man, young enough to be his son, held hands, giggled and snuck kisses as they sat next to the Ronnies who looked more like they were going to jail than to be united in matrimonial bliss.  The flamboyant young black man asked the Ronnies if they had plans to go on a honeymoon to celebrate.  Ron F. was disgusted and gave the most deranged answer he could muster.

            “I got a can of fucking Crisco, a gerbil and some PVC in the trunk of the car.  My fiance lost a bet we had on who would win Dancing with the Stars and so he will be the happy recipient of the rodent at the closest fuck palace we can find near this place.  We don’t have the time for Cancun…” said Ron F.

            The two Ronnies looked somber and embarrassed as they said their vows in front of the judge.  When the ceremony concluded, they hugged each other like two Soviet era diplomats and then walked out without any further contact.  They emerged from the court house with cameras and microphones in their face.  Ron T. was ready to just run on foot but Ron F. punched a camera man in the face who put the camera too close to him.  For that he landed in jail and in the paper and it soon became known to all who ever knew the two Ronnies that they were joined together in matrimony.  Some were genuinely surprised but most who remembered the inseparable pair said that they knew it all along. 

            If you go to open hockey some morning somewhere in Chicago, you may run into the Ronnies. Don’t mention the marriage if you can help it.  It makes them both angry. They most likely will be wearing Pig jerseys.  And full metal cages.

March 17, 2010

The Handsome Kiwi or Passionate for the Fruit

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:22 pm
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            It wasn’t often if never that anyone could ever remember ever meeting a “Kiwi”.  In fact none of the stay at home moms knew that a New Zealander was called a Kiwi.  What they did know was that there was a remarkably good looking man with blond hair, chiseled jaw and clef chin, who came to collect his children every afternoon about three in the afternoon. 

            Dan’s wife took a job with an American company and they sent them to Chicago for two years.  Dan’s wife was a vice president of a medium sized international company that had a satellite in Auckland.  The CEO felt that all VPs from around the world should come to their world headquarters to learn how the Yanks do it.  Martha had done a fair amount of studying on the internet prior to moving to the states and found that she could take a train from Oak Park, right into downtown Chicago in almost a damn near straight line.  They bought a home on Oak Park Avenue, down the street from where Frank Lloyd Wright designed and where Ernest Hemingway was born. 

            While Martha was learning the ways of the “Yanks” as they called them, Dan stayed at home perfecting his comedy routine.  Dan gave it some thought and knew that his modified Cockney accent that was derived from England some two hundred years ago would be a novelty.  Dan’s frank way of speaking with his folksy use of the English language was a novelty that he felt he could tap into and so he did.

            By day, Dan spent his time riding his bike, jogging and lifting weights.  The man resembled an underwear model or one of those smiling men, sitting around a campfire in a J. Crew or LL Bean catalog.  When the women who gathered their children after school first caught sight of Dan, he was the topic of all conversation.

Three friends and stay at home mothers commented on the handsome man amongst themselves before Jane decided to approach him.  Jane was short and cute the way a Chihuahua is cute and had the energy level of a frisky pup.  For a woman of forty, Jane was in very good shape.  Jane’s husband worked with computers and made enough for Jane to concentrate on looking good and feeling good.  She sold sex toys to other moms in the neighborhood at parties hosted by various other stay at home moms.

 Saraphine or Sarah was the dumpy Italian woman who was raised not more than five miles away in Elmwood Park.  She married a dentist and elevated themselves from the blue collar, teamster, plumber, mechanic, police officer, fireman neighbors to those that ate cheese and wine and listened to Jazz and bought art and all voted for Obama.  Sarah was the daughter of a second generation pipe fitter who hated the hoity-toity atmosphere of Oak Park.  Sarah felt they had arrived at the height of culture in Oak Park.

Alison was the quiet moody listener of the trio who loved to paint, garden, play the piano and write really obscure poetry about finding a soul mate; a man who was in tuned to her true essence, what ever that was, was not clear to Alison either.  What was clear was that her husband was a super fan of all televised sports and she was not being “serviced” anywhere nearly as much as was required for a woman entering the pre-menopause era of heightened sexuality.  All three envisioned themselves in a harlequin way with the blondish man with a nice physique, blond hair and a big off white wool sweater like an Irish Spring commercial.  Jane was the trailblazer.

“Hello…  I’m Jane and these are my two dear friends Sarah and Alison…  We noticed a new face and thought we would welcome you to Oak Park…”

Dan shook all their hands and cast a smile much akin to Kirk Douglas a la Spartacus.  When they heard the accent, they all melted and assumed he was British.

“Ah wish ah add pound for every time someone thought I was British…  Ave you girls ever eered of a place call New Zealand?”

The women all giggled like little school girls.  Before long, Dan was like one of the girls.  They would meet him at 2:00pm at the Café on Lake Street to chat.  They all liked that Dan always ordered tea.  One day, Dan handed them all tickets to his comedy show that was taking place at a small club in the city of Chicago.  There was no doubt that the enamored trio might not attend.  They road together to the club in Alison’s minivan and had a chance to discuss Dan on the way to the club.

“Okay…  So I have to tell you guys something.  When Dan handed us the invites, it was pretty clear he looked at me when he asked if we would come.  It might not be necessary to bring this up but he didn’t once look at either of you two.  If that man would just say the word, I would soil me knickers at light speed.  I got waxed for this event tonight.  I ain’t saying that anything could happen but you always want to keep house in case you have guests over” said Jane.

“So I wasn’t going to tell you two this but I had a dream last night.  I had a dream that all three of us were in bed with Dan.  I swear to god in my dream, he was asking Alison in that accent if he could slip it into her bum.  He said all suave… Love could I slip it into your bum?  Well I woke up and rubbed out a good one while my hairy dago slept like a brown bear next to me.  Honest to god, sawing wood like a lumberjack and making the China chatter in the cabinet in the hall with that damn snoring…  I think I was just watching in the dream.  He was rubbing Jane’s tits and getting ready to bum rush Alison…  I woke up in cold sweat,” said Sarah.

“Did you guys ever stop to think that maybe he’s just a really nice man who happens to just be good looking?  I mean he is so thoughtful and respectful with us and the way he crosses his legs while tea bagging his tea and those argyle socks… I better stop,” said Alison.

Dan’s skit was entitled, I’m gonna tell you how it f@&cking is.  The girls were shocked by the transformation of their quiet friend that they met every week day afternoon.  None of what was said was expected by the trio.  They sipped their red wine and listened intently.

“Thank you kindly for coming out tonight.  Ma name is Dan and I’m not from England or Australia or Boston.  I come from an island where we are referred to as Kiwis.  A fucking ugly fruit and uglier little bird…  I say fuckall to thaat. 

I was wearing me Rugby shirt while taking ma little ones to Mc Donald’s…  Fucking Mc Donald’s.  Ma two boys are asking me what the fuck eess on the menu like we don’t all conduct business in English, eh?.  Ma son Clive, bless the little bugger’s soul…  He says, Daad… I would loike a fizzy daad…  You bloody well said I could ave one the last bleedin time we went to Mac’s.  I want a fizzy and I bloody well beh-er get chips with number 3 this time…  I had to translate for this African American lad with his li-oole aat cocked to the side and barely moving ees lips like a fucking marionette puppet.  I waas like is E practicing to be a ventriloquist?  Come again, mate?  E said…  You git the Frog Princess wid dat meal…  You want that or what?  So I ask…  Aren’t there some sort of cars or guns or somefing suitable for boys thaat you could give us with the Happy Meal?  He looks at me and says, the who?  I di-n’t know how to respond to that.  In New Zealand, things such as autos or cycles or even a dildo is a what not a who and so I tell eem that eets not a who thaat ma boys would like, eets a what.  You could probably guess what he responded with… Who?  Well now there is a queue building behind me of grotesquely obese Americans, bent on ordering all the fat and sodium necessary for human consumption for a week, een one bleeding meal.  I’m in awe at some of you Americans really.  I’m finking owe et ees thaat anyone gets eet up ear een the states naturally.  Then Ah see the Viagra commercial every two minutes… Of course, Viagra…  Hire an attorney to clear your fucking debt, go buy Viagra and then go buy those fucking devises where you swivel your fucking arse on some sort of a device while on your bloody knees.  On your fucking knees!  You’re going to eat Mc Donald’s, drive to the mailbox at the corner of your street and swivel for ten minutes a day and look like the smiling woman with 2% body fat on the tel-lee?  I think fucking not, mate… Not a fucking ope of a cat’s fucking whisker on thaat one.

 Anyway, what beats the band ees a diet soda pop accompanied by 1200 grams of pure shit…  I caan almost ear them squealing behind me now like fucking pigs and am worried for me life.  A more dignified African man with a moustache and broad shoulders explains to me in a more refined dialect that the boys toys are all gone…  Ah jokingly say…  Well ah suppose the Chinese saved em for all those boys they’re aving while they drown the females, eh?  Man never cracked a smile.  Then ees staring at me Rugby shirt that says, All Blacks.  Now I know ees wondering what een the fuck that ees supposed to mean…  A white man with some sort of a Martian fucking accent wearing a shirt thaat says, All Blacks…  Well E was bold enough to inquire… Ah thought ah would try me and again at comedy…  Well mate, ah joined the million man march and they were shocked to fuck to find one lone white man from New Zealand walking with one million, angry black men.  When ah waas about to be pummeled, ah spoke up, they loved me accent an gave me a commemorative t shirt to mark me bravery…  One large bloke said to meh… eh, cain’t you see that we all black?  And then he said… Homey you okay with us.  Crazy as you is, you git a free shirt…  So ear ah think the stern faced, mustachioed captain of Mc Donald’s number 4,542,331 is going to bite me ed off.  Instead he tells me to wait a moment.  E comes back with a Happy Meal deluxe with two bloody Spongebobs…  Ah said to eem, good on ya, mate…  and you know what he replied?  Can ya guess?  E said who…  Fucking incredible…

Now this processed horse shit ees a bit dodgy for me.  Ah ate some-fing of a square fucking, breaded fish which just about ruined me intestines…  All in all, ah cain’t complain.  Eets a nice place ear…  Ah learned quickly that me tangerine colored togs cannot be worn on the beach… Unless you’re hunting another man.  Nobody wears baggy shorts back home.  We play a really mean, manly sport called Rugby een tight, short shorts.  No bloody pads, no bloody helmets and our team ees called The All Blacks.  I’m watching a football game ear in the states and all the boys are wearing trousers skin fucking tight with a bloke weeth ees ands way up the other bloke’s bum, waiting for eem to pass the ball between his legs and I fink, am I missing som-fing?  I go to the beach in me Speedos and I’m a poofter but you kin wear skin tight trousers with your fingers up an other man’s bum and nobody gives eet a second thought.”

“Well me mum asked me ow ah could sum up America een a few words…  Ears me quick word association; obese, Obama, Osama, Pakistan, Afghanistan, congested, development arrested, congress detested, no jobs, no health care, fake breasts, tattoos, tongue rings, text messaging, Facebooking, video game playing, pill taking, step brothers, step sisters, step fathers, step mothers, 12 step, pro life, pro choice, pro gay, bi-polar, bisexual, gun loving, car driven, flag waiving, leaders of the post Soviet free world where everything ees made een China… I say to me mum, God Bless, America…  Me mum’s a bit hard of earring and after all thaat, you know what she says?  You won’t fucking believe it…  She says… Who?  Ah say… Mum, you’d fit right een ear like a fucking glove…  Come for a holiday.”

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