Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 1, 2013

Voices Carry

Filed under: Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:58 am
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Charles sometimes Chuck, Chucky or even Chas, made it through the 1980s level headed and drug-free. Nancy Reagan told him to say no and Chas listened. Except for a year or two when he took steroids to bulk up so as to not get messed with as young Marine recruit near San Diego, Chuck was not into drugs. Other than steroids, Chuck was drug free. Charles drug was his perfect body.
It was sometime in the 1980’s, the late 80’s that Charles was jogging in a pair of silky shorts with his shirt off and no socks in Minot, North Dakota. All he wore was a knit hat that had a smiling priest/friar swinging a baseball bat- San Diego Padres. Emily watched in awe as the young military man jogged almost naked on a night when the air temperature was about 5 degrees Fahrenheit. She stepped outside her parent’s home where her future was becoming a wife to some local slob who might drive a truck or a miner who was into wrestling and monster truck rallies. An Adonis jogged by in frigid temps and suddenly stopped to marvel at what he thought was the Northern Lights. The strange colors in the sky was a Chinook taking place. The frigid air gave way to a sudden rise in temperatures and hurricane force winds. Chas stood looking at the strange sky and inhaled the crisp air that was becoming warmer by the minute. Emily opened the door to her house and walked up to Chas without saying a word and took his hand. Charles took it to be a gift from god and an answer to prayer. You decide.
Charlie and Emily had been placed in places all over the world and all over the United States. The Marines had sent one of their top recruiters to live in Los Angeles. Charlie hated LA. To Chas, it was New York with palm trees. It was nothing more than an over-populated metropolis and what god had in mind when he was getting ready to destroy Gomorra. Or was it Sodom?
Emily and Charlie only had one child, a boy that they named Cliff. Cliff grew up in the San Fernando Valley. He played ice hockey and liked to sing. Cliff through inheritance had a very nice body for a young man. Cliff dyed his hair blond and cut it into a tall flattop. Cliff listened to early eighties New Wave music and watched every John Hughes movie that was ever made, tried to look like Billy Idol and was part of the Til Tuesday fan club, a band that was known in the eighties for a song entitled, Voices Carry. Cliff liked musicals and dancing and really wanted to be an entertainer, not a military man.
“Well sir, we stopped your son for crossing lanes twice on the 405 near Sherman Way before Roscoe without a signal. We have it on film if you care to see. We found eight individuals crammed into a vehicle that could fit four comfortably and then we discovered contraband, which brings a class two felony. Bond is set at $10,000.00. You can post bond or let your son face the judge on Monday.”
Charlie’s sharp jaw line grew tight as he spread out a stack of hundred dollar bills collected from an ATM. Cliff emerged from the holding pen in Van Nuys with his collared shirt unbuttoned and his lip slightly curled just like Billy Idol and Elvis Presley before him. Charles said nothing to Cliff on the ride home. Once inside their yellow stucco home in Granada Hills, Chas quietly began to ransack Cliff’s bedroom in search of drugs. Cliff asked his father rhetorical questions.
“What the fuck are you doing? What right do you have to go through my shit?”
“This is my home and I have a right to do what ever I wish. You have drugs in my house and I am going to find them. When the fucking ruby heads hid guns in their goddamn homes, I found them. That was my job to find hidden shit. I will find what you have hidden tonight without a doubt.”
It took a solid five minutes before Charlie overturned his son’s bed to find that he had cut a hole in the hardwood floor and had a stash of weed, cocaine and dildos in a box. There was a ten inch black cock with veins sticking out, an off-white one about six inches long and then a double dong. Charlie was paralyzed by his findings. Cliff spoke first.
“I confiscated things I found in this house so that when the day came when you would intrude on my privacy, I could then ask you what the fuck this shit is for. Is this going up your ass, some other dude or mom? You tell me. You tell me what this shit is used for and I will tell you what you want to know. The wholesome Marine loving god and country and rubber cocks… I’m ready when you are, dad.”
“Keep your fucking voice down. I don’t need the neighbors to hear what we’re discussing.”
Emily was reading Oprah’s O magazine about how Oprah trained for marathons. Emily was thinking about running a marathon too. Emily heard things falling earlier but never got out of bed to find out what the noise was about. Chas came into their bedroom with furrowed brow, looking distracted and disturbed. Emily put her hand on her husband’s and kissed his naked shoulder. Charles said nothing. Emily turned off the light on her side of the bed on a nightstand and settled in to fall asleep. She could sense that her husband was unsettled. Charles was famous for never showing emotion or discussing things. Charles nervously asked two questions at once just before Emily had drifted off to sleep.
“I have two things I have to ask you and I want the truth. Have you ever been with a black man?”
“Okay… What’s the second question?”
“Is a two headed dildo used for your ass and vagina or would you use something like that with an other woman?”
Emily chose to not answer. Charles acted as if the question was never posed. Other things came up again with their son and they lived mostly happily ever after. Or as good as could be given all the things that could happen in life in America.

I’m in the dark, I’d like to read his mind
But I’m frightened of the things I might find
Oh, there must be something he’s thinking of
To tear him away-a-ay
When I tell him that I’m falling in love
Why does he say

Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry

October 16, 2012

Between Auckland and Oakland or Why Get Married?

Filed under: Detroit,humor,obama,Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:33 am
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Uncle Boog sat at the bar waiting for his nephew, the youngest son of his older sister.  Boog was a drill sergeant in the Army who after five tours of duty, was sent to North Carolina to whip future recruits into soldiers.  Boog sat watching the debate between Mitt Romney and President Obama with aviator shades on, uniform and drill sergeant hat.  People in the establishment looked at the bizarre character and wondered who he was and why he was there.  Boog was waiting for his nephew.  The youngest son of his older sister.  I think I mentioned that already.

Boogard went by the name Boog because Clarence was just not tough enough and so, since the age of six, Clarence was called Boog.  If you want a fight with a tough man, call Boog by his birth given name.

Joe walked in to see his uncle starring intently at the television.  Joe patted Boog on the back.  Boog turned quickly and grabbed the wrist of his nephew and twisted it.  Upon recognizing his nephew, he released his hand and pulled a stool out for him to sit.  Boog slid an envelope with $1,000.00 in it to Joe and explained that he could not bring himself to attend his wedding but wanted to give him a boost in the form of money instead of a gift.

“Your mom mentioned a registry…  I had never heard of a registry.  I came to find out you picked all your stuff at Crate and Barrel.  I stood in line with a list of stuff that your girl picked out behind two queers that wanted to return a Dutch oven.  I suddenly looked around and noticed all the people in the place were queer.  Messy fucking hair like rodents ran around on top of their heads, horn-rimmed glasses and tight pants.  A man should sound like a man even if he fancies another man.  You were born a man, act like a man.”

The bartender brought an orange colored beer to Joe as Boog drank a glass of red wine.  Joe laughed at the hard man drinking red wine.  For as macho as Boog was, holding a glass daintily, swirling the glass and sniffing it seemed almost surreal to Joe.

“Wine?  I got hooked on it in Germany.  I was seeing a fraulein who got me on the stuff.  She wanted to marry and have me take over her father’s farm near Bavaria.  I’m no marriage material.  I look at people and they think they’re going to be happy legally chaining themselves together until they realize that guys are lazy and chicks are borderline nuts at any given time.  You got a guy getting fat and soft, watching athletes in their prime going at it like gladiators for their enjoyment which detracts from their boring lives.  Getting fat and soft in a lazy-boy and the old lady is disenchanted with the fact that he doesn’t want to do nothing or go anywhere.  She gets upset and eats, he gets tired and eats.  They have less sex and then it becomes nearly impossible for him to have sex so he gets Viagra so that he can have sex again after getting a membership to a gym.  He’ll put his fat ass on a treadmill and walk for a few weeks and get despondent over the fact that he still looks like a sack of shit.  So he says fuck it…  I’m going to have wings and beer and watch sports and she can just go fuck herself.  Well she’s not fucking herself.  She goes out and gets in shape.  She sees that Oprah ran a marathon and so she does a 5k then a 10k and has confidence to go out and have a chocolate-tini with her less than satisfied suburban soccer mom friends who are also angry about their less than favorable marriages that has come way under there vision and expectations that go back to the days when Ken and Barbie met and married in their bedrooms on rainy days…  I’m not trying to dissuade you.  You might be just fine.”

Boog ordered another Carmenere that cost $12.00 a glass.  He studied the bottle and decided that if he got the chance, he would have to visit Chile.  He had admired Pinochet and the days when the CIA could depose a head of state and prop up a puppet for national interest.  Boog hated the way the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were handled.  Boog was part of the group that had to replace the crew at Abu Graib.  One of the female American soldiers was caught trying to sexually service the inmates that were trying to kill her.  Boog hated people.  Discovering something so perverse just solidified his ill view of humanity.

“So he’s getting out of shape and she’s running races and before you know it, some dude at a bar from New Zealand is buying her drinks and talking about how wholesome his life was raising fucking sheep in a town near Auckland.  She loves his accent and doesn’t care that his wife misunderstands him and that he lives in Oakland.  She doesn’t know the difference between Oakland and Auckland and that New Zealand is not Australia and that the suave motherfucker with the Geico accent is hoping to land her like an aircraft on autopilot.  Her old man is watching Rutgers playing some fucking school you never heard of or ever considered going to at home in a chair and the Kiwi is trying to sell her cock and his cleaning products that he peddles for a living all at the same time.  She never questions why he is living in Detroit if New Zealand is paradise and why he walked away from a million acres of land looking over the Pacific Ocean.  He came to America to sell industrial cleaning supplies while looking at the Detroit River?  My advice to you, son is to stay off the lazy boy.  You may have to go to Ikea and take Salsa Dancing lessons.  You have to try to follow the vision she has in her head of what marriage is supposed to be.  After you spawn a few kids, her attention will turn to the kids.  You then dedicate your lives to raising a spoiled little fuck that will sass you and claim you ruined their lives one day while sitting at a bar talking to someone.  Who do you know that doesn’t hate their parents or feel their parents came up woefully short?  We all have expectations of things and how they should be.  We feel short changed and then go and watch sports or drink in lounges like this one.  I married and I shouldn’t have.  I took this bad job and really I have always wanted to be a nude scientist or what have you.  We work until we aren’t functional and then we get senior discounts for shit just for living long enough to not be worth anything to people younger than us.  We then gloss over days gone by and how things were so much better and how the youth are going to kill this country…  You look at these two assholes wanting to be president of this country and for what?  So they can be on a coin or dollar bill some day?  So fat children can have the day off from school to sit cooped up in an apartment and watch television and eat partially hydrogenated shit causes it’s too dangerous to go outside and celebrate that old dead president’s life…  So where you going for your honeymoon?”

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