Blackhumouristpress's Blog

November 11, 2016

When Barack Met Donald

Barack extended his hand to president-elect Trump as he entered the oval office. Mr. Trump put his hands across his chest, closed his eyes and took a deep breath and held it.
“I took my first Pilates class today. I promised my wife that I would work on my flexibility and thought Pilates would be the place to begin. My wife is always saying I gotta be more flexible… What? I’m the most flexible man you ever met. I came to learn that this Pilates guy was put in an internment camp in England during World War I and he came up with this stuff while in a jail cell… Maybe that will be my first profound message to those locked up for all sorts of illegal and wholly subversive behavior… Ask not what the government can provide for me in the form of entertainment but what can I do to pass the time and become more… Flexible. Yes, yes, yes… I do feel more flexible today and a bit taller. All that flexibility makes you feel taller…”
Donald took Barack’s hand and shook it firmly. He then patted his right shoulder and looked around the room and smiled.
“I want to make this as unakward as possible, Mr. Trump. I want to prove to the nation that acrimony is not what we’re about. We’re above all that. This is what makes us who we are… The ability to accept the results and ensure that the greatest democracy the world has ever known, continues and continues to flourish.”
Mr. Trump clapped his hands and wiped imaginary tears from the corners of his eyes and then put his right hand on his heart.
“That is a beautifully heart-felt speech… It’s a shame the press isn’t here to hear this. I only wish the bust outs around my home could have heard this last night. People around the country had to reassure their crying children that I’m not coming into their home to deport or jail them, say crude things and grab their mom by the pussy… Meanwhile, I gotta explain to my son that the paid political activists aren’t going to drag us out and do us like the Romanovs. A bunch of Bolshevik, bewildered Bernie supporters and their inability to think like you and me, Mr. President. They just don’t get the whole bit about accepting results and this is not who we are… Is this room bugged? I betcha it is. TMZ, Wikileaks, Richard Nixon? I bet there’s planted Nixon bugs in this place you’re still finding like World War I landmines in Belgium.”
President Obama gripped his chin with his thumb and index finger, closed his eyes and shook his head. Was the moment of incredulity because of the things being said by Mr. Trump? Was it the fact that half the nation voted for this modern-day carnival barker who beat the odds and won or that the next president was going to piss on his legacy with the help of the senate and house? The correct answer- all of the above.
The current president shuddered to think about the potential abuse of power by his successor. Undoing transgender bathrooms, Obamacare, institutionalization of misogyny… the grabbing of the nation by the genitalia.
“Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Trump?”
“Yes… When did you decide the election was over and that I had won? I’m thinking after Florida… Maybe North Carolina. I always knew… CNN, NBC, ABC… The whole lot of them. It was like watching someone die… so when was it?”
” After you finally admitted that I was born in the United states…”
“Very quick, Mr. President… I can only hope that when Air Force 1 takes you towards Chicago, that you don’t hijack the plane to Ottawa. I’m thinking the Canadians got a really big wall to build to keep you and half of Hollywood out.”
“sarcasm is a sign of inferior intelligence, Mr. Trump.”
The zingers flew rapid fire from man to man for the better part of an hour before The thought came to Trump- I won this. I fucking won this thing. I beat Hillary, Obama, the Democratic Party and the Republican Party. I told the establishment to get fucked and enough people backed me. I don’t need to keep this shit going any longer. I won. I can walk out of this fucking door the way an Italian does from a balcony after popping a virgin on his wedding night- hang the bloody sheets over the railing to a cheering crowd and let everyone know that the deed was done. I can put on my smoking jacket and just relax now.
“We gotta go out there and face the press… How’s this gonna go? We lay the bullshit thick and get through this or we can verbally spar. I think the nation needs a day off from that sort of thing, right Mr. President?”
“Yes… We can have our own armistice day… I’m warning you though- any crap from you and this can go a totally different direction… You ready to do this?”
The two men emerged to a huge gathering of the press. Photos clicked furiously as the present and future presidents emerged from behind closed doors. President Obama spoke first.

PRESIDENT OBAMA: Well, I just had the opportunity to have an excellent conversation with President-elect Trump. It was wide-ranging. We talked about some of the organizational issues in setting up the White House. We talked about foreign policy. We talked about domestic policy. And as I said last night, my number-one priority in the coming two months is to try to facilitate a transition that ensures our President-elect is successful.

And I have been very encouraged by the, I think, interest in President-elect Trump’s wanting to work with my team around many of the issues that this great country faces. And I believe that it is important for all of us, regardless of party and regardless of political preferences, to now come together, work together, to deal with the many challenges that we face.
It was Mr. Trump’s turn to speak. Was he going to be a loud mouth, trash talking winner and turn the press conference into some sort of WWF event? President Obama held his breath as the president-elect began to speak. This was going to go well or become a food fight. Which would it be?
PRESIDENT-ELECT TRUMP: Well, thank you very much, President Obama. This was a meeting that was going to last for maybe 10 or 15 minutes, and we were just going to get to know each other. We had never met each other. I have great respect. The meeting lasted for almost an hour and a half. And it could have — as far as I’m concerned, it could have gone on for a lot longer.
We really — we discussed a lot of different situations, some wonderful and some difficulties. I very much look forward to dealing with the President in the future, including counsel. He explained some of the difficulties, some of the high-flying assets and some of the really great things that have been achieved.
So, Mr. President, it was a great honor being with you, and I look forward to being with you many, many more times in the future.

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January 26, 2011

Soccer is Life

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:20 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

            Guillermo or Mo as he was known to all his friends was a simple man.  Mo loved to play the bass guitar, watch Italian soccer and smoke Marijuana.

            Guillermo was born in Rome, Italy and lived there until the age of four when his father was enticed to move to suburban Detroit and buy a shoe repair shop.  Mo’s father cornered the market on shoe repair in northwest Detroit and so Mo and his family lived rather well.

            Mo didn’t want to be fixing shoes, boots, suitcases, hockey gloves and so on.  Mo realized that his dream to return home and play for S.S. Lazio in Rome, was probably just a remote dream and so Mo played men’s league soccer and learned to play the bass guitar.  Mo was a solid bass player that was sought after by many local bands.  They liked that Mo could lay down a groove and sit in the pocket without mistakes or fluxing the rhythm at all.  Mo decided around the time of graduation from high school that he would learn to be a sound technician or a recording engineer.  He accumulated some of the best recording equipment around and recorded local bands to make a living.  Musicians liked that Mo had the technical expertise to understand what each part needed and a song could be pulled apart piece by piece, instrument by instrument and then put back together to make a song and a sound that pleased the ear.  Mo could fix pitch and rhythm and could make the most mediocre musicians sound as if they were good and most who used his services understood he was a magician among sound men.  He also was a great bass player and always had good weed.

            Now Mo would talk anyone’s ear off about Italian soccer and S.S. Lazio in particular.  The team logo looked not unlike the Nazi eagle, holding a blue and white shield.  Most musicians knew and cared little about sports and even less about soccer but the passion that Mo felt about the game drew interest from the most indifferent to have ever sat in his recording studio.

            “The year 1900 is when the team came into being…  You cannot begin to comprehend the pride among those that follow that team to this day.  It was Mussolini’s team.  Il Duce built their stadium.  Everyone knocks Il Duce because he was allied with Hitler.  Most don’t know that he improved jobs and public transportation…  That’s exactly what Obama is trying to do with construction on every goddamn street and freeway in Michigan.  Somebody has got to be working, right?  So picture Obama being totally in love with a team like the Chicago White Sox, right?  He’s from Chicago by way of Hawaii or Indonesia or something.  I don’t give a fuck really cause I was born in Italy myself.  I couldn’t be president and wouldn’t want the fucking mess…  But anyway, picture Obama loving a team so much that he would build a stadium.  Could you imagine Obama telling the White Sox that they had better win or fucking die?  Shit…  Now that’s some motherfucking shit right there man.  Mussolini told the national team that they had to win or die and so they won  the World Cup twice in 1934 and 1938.  The man ruled the land and promoted the greatest sport to have ever been played by a human.  Go anywhere and they play and you can take that shit to the bank…  You wanna hit of this stuff?  It’s some good ass shit.”

            Mo had joked with his soccer mates, band mates and clients that for him, the final frontier was to sleep with a black woman.  Mo claimed to have been with every other race and ethnicity except black women. It could be that because he idolized Robert de Niro loved black woman that Mo considered it in the first place.

 It was at a rib restaurant that a Reggae band had asked him to fill in on bass for a party held by the fifth Missionary Baptist convention.  Everyone in the place was black except Mo.  If Mo was ever going to find a black woman, it was going to be that night.  Trying to sell a black woman on the importance of Italian soccer and weed, might be a hard sale for a woman that was raised among black people who loved basketball and gospel music.

            It did not take long before an attractive young black woman with a pretty face, large breasts and voluptuous backside approached Mo.  Before the night was over, she laid naked in Mo’s bed hearing stories about riding a Vespa through the streets of Rome, drinking red wine in the afternoon and the thrill of watching soccer.  Theresa had never heard of Mussolini but found him to be an interesting man.  Before long Theresa had moved into Mo’s house and brought her Pug/Beagle or Puggle with her to live with Mo and his Great Dane.  Theresa commandeered nearly every closet in the house and owned more shoes than Imelda Marcos.  If Theresa had one flaw it was that she could not stop herself from shopping.  Checks were good as long as she still had checks, irregardless if there was money in the bank to back the checks.  Theresa was maxed out on her cards and usually spent her check the first day she received it.  Initially Mo was so taken in by his ebony queen that he was willing to keep throwing his money in the hole.  Mo reasoned that all women have something that will drive a man crazy and so Theresa’s thing was being irresponsible with money.  It all came to a head one day when Mo went to buy gasoline for his Fiat and his card was rejected.  Not only did Theresa go right up to the limit with her own cards, she had borrowed Mo’s too without discussing it with him.  When Mo walked in to his house to find his girlfriend trying on clothes that she had just purchased on his card, after he had walked five miles when his car ran out of gas, a pretty face, nice breasts and ass could not quell a smoldering fire.

            “I had bout enough of you buying shit you don’t got the money for” said Mo, as he slammed the front door.

            Mo exaggerated his frown and squinted like Robert de Niro as he held up his index finger.  Mo had not smoked any pot in hours.  He was hot and dehydrated and truly wondering where he was going to find money to buy gas.  And Marijuana.

            “Things are going to fucking change starting today…  You are going to learn that if you make one fucking dollar, you don’t try and spend three.  I ain’t got a fucking tree in the backyard to pick dollar bills off of it so you can run around buying fucking shoes.  How many pairs of fucking shoes does one person need?  Huh?  I got four fucking pairs and one of them I only use to play soccer in.  What does that tell you?”

            Theresa put one hand on her round hip and the other hand gestured wildly with the index finger straight up and the thumb out to the side.  Her nostrils were flared and her lips became thin.  Theresa wasn’t backing down.

            “Y’all always cursin and smoking.  Cursin and smokin and kickin a soccer ball in the basement and when you ain’t doin that, you watching games from Italy.  You live in Dee-troit…  Ain’t another damn person in this state who care bout Italian Soccer.  I don’t wanna hear bout Mussolini and wine and Vespas.  And you wanna know something?  I Googled Mussolini and he was not a good man by nobody’s standards.  You say you wanna have kids?  Shoot, you ain’t grown up yet, baby.  How much money you spend on smoke?  Y’all should buy you a farm so you cain grow your own.  You done smoke bout an acre and all my stuff stank like weed…  You wanna point fingers?  Imma point a finger too…”

            It was at that moment that Theresa saw Mo’s Great Dane come into the living room, raise his leg and piss a good solid stream on the boxes of shoes she just bought.  Theresa squealed and slapped the Great Dane with the palm of her hand.  The dog got spooked and took off running as the urine streamed all over the hallway carpeting.  Mo opened the front door and threw the shoe boxes on the front lawn along with the bags of clothes.  Theresa then went to the basement and grabbed a bottle of bleach and poured it into a bag of Mo’s weed.  That ended the tit for tat.  Mo was devastated.  Not only did he have no money for weed or gas, he no longer had a stash.  Smoking bleached weed would not be possible.

            Things deteriorated and Mo and Theresa stopped talking for weeks that turned to months.  After close to eight weeks, Theresa told Mo that she would be moving from his house and going to live with a friend.  Mo was adding spice to a marinara sauce and grating cheese that came from Italy when Theresa told Mo the news.  Mo no longer cared until Theresa stated that she would be selling the television that she gave him for his birthday with a dish so that he could see soccer from all over Italy.  Mo would usually pass out for a few hours during the night and then get up at about five in the morning and put on his Lazio scarf that was light blue and white with a ball cap with the same logo.  He would yell at the television in Italian, smoke a bit and have some red wine.  Theresa decided that if she were going to go, she would have to punish Mo in some way and taking the television was her recourse.

            “The fuck you’re taking my television.  That’s my fucking television.  You gave it to me and so its mine.  You can take everything including that stupid yapping dog and get the hell out of my life but you are not touching the television or that dish…  Do you fucking got me?”

            Mo was frowning and squinting like de Niro again.  Theresa didn’t care.  She had worked it out that she would sell the television to her cousin Reggie for $100.00.  It was a forty inch flat screen that she had purchased for $500.00.  Reggie was on his way up from Detroit to their home in Sterling Heights to pick up the television.  No sooner had Theresa told Mo of her plans when Reggie rang the bell.

            “Dude, my cousin say you gone split an she wanna sell the television.  Shit…  I done seen the picture on dat bitch an I say to myself Imma buy dat.  I’ll tell you what…  I won two hunred bucks at the casino today.  Imma gone give you fitty extra cause I’m havin a good ass day,” said Cousin Reggie.

            Mo went to the basement and got his little league bat that he saved since the fifth grade.  It was a Louisville Slugger that was signed by Al Kaline of the Detroit Tigers.  Mo came up from the basement with the bat on his shoulders.

            “Reg, the picture on this thing ain’t as good as you might imagine.  Let me show you the problem…”

            Mo swung the bat about a dozen times until the television fell from the wall and broke into several pieces.  The Great Dane pissed out of fear on the suede couch and soaked one whole cushion.  Theresa called Mo an animal, ran to their bedroom and locked the door.  Reggie moved his toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right, raised his eye brows and said a few words before departing.

            “Damn…  Ain’t that but a bitch…  That was a good television.  Damn shame.”

            Mo walked down the hall still in a rage with a deranged smile on his face like Jack Nicholson from the movie, The Shining.  Mo checked the door and it was locked.  Theresa yelled at Mo to leave her alone or she would call the police.

            “I ain’t playin wid you no more…  You crazy, you know that?”

            With two kicks, Mo was in what had been their bedroom up until two months ago.  His bed had been the living room couch where the dog had urinated out of fear.  Mo dropped the bat and came towards Theresa as he literally ripped the t-shirt off of himself.  Theresa didn’t know what to do.  She backed up towards the headboard as Mo approached her.

            “I know what our fucking problem is.  We don’t need a therapist or fucking Oprah to tell us what is necessary here.”

            With that he grabbed Theresa by the back of the neck and began to kiss her passionately.  He kissed her neck and licked her chin as he ripped the clothes off of her.  They fucked, had sex or made love for over an hour.  It culminated with Theresa having the strongest orgasm of her life while she was on top.  Theresa screamed like she was being killed as sweat streamed down her face.  She balled up her right fist and punched Mo squarely in the left eye while pumping her hips furiously and then collapsed on top of him, digging her long nails into the side of his face as she banged her teeth against his trying to get her tongue as deep as she could into his mouth.

            Mo and Theresa lay in bed out of breath and sweating.  Mo’s left eye was almost swollen shut.  Each of their dogs sat next to them wondering what had happened and what might happen next.  Theresa had money that her parents had given her to help her move.  It was $500.00.  Theresa took Mo out to the nearest Coney Island restaurant for dinner and then to Wal-Mart to buy a new television.  They went home and made love some more and drank red wine while Louis Primo played on the stereo.  When Theresa fell deeply asleep, Mo hooked up the new television in the living room in time to see Lazio defeat AC Milan.  Mo finished the bottle of red wine straight from the bottle as he pet his dog and Theresa’s.  He thought about what might be necessary to avert disaster in the future and couldn’t come up with a good answer.  At that moment it didn’t matter.  It had been sixty seven days since he had sex with his woman and suddenly he felt better about life and their chances of making it for the moment.  Mo thought as he took a swig straight from the bottle as the Lazio team ran around the field after their win: life could not really get much better than it was.

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