Blackhumouristpress's Blog

November 4, 2014

Sheep, Rugby and Wide Open Space

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:54 am
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Nate was one of those guys that you see at a gas station or mini-market who spends his hard earned money on lottery tickets. You know the guy- scratching something with a coin and asking the Indian proprietor to put twenty here and twenty there while you stand waiting to put twenty on gas, coffee and a pastry.

One day Nate won enough money to change his life. He didn’t want to buy a car or a house in the United States.  He decided being divorced and without children, he was going to do something big- move to New Zealand.  On the last day of work for the state highway, Nate decided to post whatever came to mind on the message boards over the highway that people read near big cities while driving turnpikes, expressways, tollways and freeways before anyone could stop him.  This is what he posted.

734 PEOPLE HAVE DIED DRIVING VEHICLES IN THIS STATE IN JUST FIVE MONTHS. LESS SOLDIERS WILL DIE THIS YEAR AFGHANISTAN THAN ON THE ROADS OF OUR STATE IN LESS THAN A HALF YEAR.

52 MINUTES TO DOWNTOWN. 54 IF YOU KEEP CHANGING LANES THINKING YOU WILL GET AHEAD BUT REALLY YOU WON’T.  TRUST ME ON THIS ONE.

THERE IS AN ACCIDENT UP AHEAD…  NOBODY INJURED OR DIED…  EVERYONE WILL STOP TO SEE NOTHING ON THE OTHERSIDE…  SORT OF POETIC, WASN’T IT?

THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH TRAFFIC… SOME OF YOU ARE GOING TO VOTE TODAY. YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES.  THE SAME TWO CHOICES THAT YOUR DADDY HAD AND HIS DADDY AND HIS DADDY HAD TOO…  THIS JUST IN- NOTHING WILL FUCKING CHANGE OR AMELIORATE.  I USED THAT WORD BECAUSE IT WAS IN A CROSSWORD PUZZLE TODAY…  AMERLIORATE- NOT THE WORD FUCKING.

ASSHOLE ALERT- THE GUY TRYING TO PASS YOU ON THE RIGHT AT 80 MILES PER HOUR WITH STICK FIGURE FAMILY ON HIS SUV WINDOW, ALSO HAS THE 26.2 STICKER, THE STICKER WHERE HE VACATIONS AND THE COLLEGE HE ATTENDED. IF THE VEHICLE IS YELLOW, HE IS AN EXCEPTIONAL ASSHOLE.

SAY… DOESN’T IT SUCK TO KNOW ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TRAVEL TEN MILES AND IT’S GOING TO TAKE OVER AN HOUR?  RED LIGHTS FOR AS FAR AS YOU CAN SEE.  JUST IMAGINE HOLLAND AND NEW ORLEANS UNDERWATER ONE DAY LIKE ATLANTIS WHEN EVERYONE IN CHINA AND BRAZIL BUYS A CAR TOO.  WE WILL THEN ALL HAVE THE FREEDOM TO GET NOWHERE FAST.  SURROUNDED BY WATER.

THIS IS MY LAST DAY OF WORK AND MY SECOND TO LAST DAY IN THIS COUNTRY. I WILL BE MOVING TO NEW ZEALAND.  WHY?  BECAUSE OTHER THAN THE MOON, THERE IS NOWHERE FURTHER FROM THIS PLACE.  SHEEP, RUGBY AND WIDE OPEN SPACE.

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?”

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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