Blackhumouristpress's Blog

June 10, 2017

Covfefe

It’s a noun.  It’s an adjective.  This is my objective and subjective
covert midnight objective.  For those who think they know me- Covfefe.

In Pennsylvania I’m the steel, coal in West Virginia, in Michigan I’m
the wheel, in Wisconsin the cheese and the real deal. Rushing to try
to stop me or Russian to try and block me.  I’d like to say fuck you.
Instead I’ll say Covfefe.

Yes I’m the commander, the chief and El Jefe I can tweet-
lasejfldkfjalsd and tell you it’s Icelandic.  Anyone who tweets this
late is manic but I have plans for you so…  Covfefe.

Homey- You don’t know me or own me.  Trying to stop me by building a
wall with James Comey.  It won’t slow me on my way to infamy. What’s
the conclusion?  No collusion.  Democratic arsonists smell smoke and I
think it’s a joke.  They want to break me, bend me, ABC, CBS and CNN
me…  Bitch, get out the way- Covfefe

Paris ain’t Pittsburg, London or Hamburg.  I got news for the French,
Dutch and Merkle…  You’ll find I’m a little tougher than former
President Urkel.  I sleep well and what you think of me matters very little
to me…  So now you know… Covfefe.

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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.

July 4, 2016

240 and Counting

Independence- 240 years and the descendants celebrate with wings, malt liquor and parades.  Bill of Rights and the rights of the dead, a bullet piercing the side of the head somewhere on the west side, south side, Chicago’s apartheid red line zone where the tourists never go.  But I digress- this is a process of processed food, entertainment and education.  Back when we were all English and white, on paper the ideas seemed right- Liberty and justice for all… or maybe some or none.  Manifest destiny, all for you and me from sea to shining sea.  You’re free above this line and slave below this one.  A war between brothers and in the end freedom with an asterisk- there was a fix.  You give us the presidency and we’ll look the other way for nearly a 100 years til someone refuses to give up a seat, sit where they want when they choose to eat, vote, protest and integrate, separate but equal became the Civil War sequel.  Well I’ve jumped ahead again.  The Kaiser, Sarajevo, trench warfare, mustard gas the rise of the working class.  Comrades in a sea of red, the Czar was dead.  The treaty left them angry and needy after reparations of Versailles a charismatic character, a director, a rector sold the scape goat- many die and why?  A bomb to stop a war and within a few years a little more and a truce that lasts til this day.

Unbridled growth and prosperity, suburbs and the interstate, sock hops and roller skates.  We liked Ike and then came JFK, Bay of Pigs, assassins and then LBJ and the KKK.  Just advisors to advise those who love and cherish democracy, imperial imposition of freedom for Vietnam.  Baby killers, draft dodgers, free love, and women’s lib.  Drugs and Nixon, the fix was in.  Watergate, oil crisis, a cancer on the presidency, end the war with dignity.  Ford, Carter Reagan- morning again in America.  This aggression will not stand- draw a line in the sand, new world order, Perot, Clinton, stained dress, Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill congressional hearings on the hill.  W, 9-11, weapons of mass destruction, mission accomplished, quagmire, Afghanistan/Taliban=Vietnam, Obama, Osama, Arab spring, ISIS, crisis of confidence, we’ll build a wall for our defense, terrorists, xenophobia, first woman presidential candidate, with shadows of doubt…  Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot… Wait!  This just in…  Citizen Trump

January 14, 2016

Yelping the 2016 Presidential Candidates

Republican presidential candidates -***** – I give the current cast of candidates five stars. I believe it is about time to think outside the box and outside the beltway. Career politicians- you’ve been served. Somebody has to stand up properly to the Iranians, North Koreans, Chinese and work with Russia for sane solutions. I think Vlad understands what deposing another dictator in the middle east will get us and it isn’t democracy. Trump is saying the things that many in this country think but do not dare say for fear of being labelled a backwards racist. We need to bring in throngs of Syrians just so our women can be fondled, robbed and raped at the Superbowl? Build a wall to keep us safe from everything. It’s a scary world and we had all better start taking notice. Would it be wrong to have morals and scrupples again?

1/2*- Unbelievable everyday that the media reports on the ridiculous things Trump says and does. Is this how Hitler made it? It’s like having your racist, drunk uncle show up to a family party and everyone is amused by the shocking things he will inevitably say. Maybe you’re not for Trump. Oh but there are others nearly as ludicrous. And starring Grandpa Munster as Ted Cruz. I say send him back to Canada and let him read nursery ryhmes to the Parliment in lieu of getting anything passed. Uncle Ben Carson, seeking to become the house Negro for the overseer Republican establishment. Marco! Rubio! Sorry, I can’t see you because I’m swimming with my eyes shut through this sea of blind reactionism. I know there are others still hanging on to the idea that they will be discovered and suddenly surge fifty points and become the front runner. Not even their spouses take them seriously. I ran a fortune 500 company, I was the governor of a state that was happy to get rid of me, my dad ran for president therefore I should do the same, yes but my brother and dad we’re presidents! We are a nation of shallow, short attention span people who get their news in sound bites and bullshit via the internet but really who is taking these idiots seriously other than ancient white people who remember the good old days when everyone was white who was somebody and gosh golly- all the presidents were men and white. Most Episcopalian too.

Democratic presidential candidates- *****- I’m not sure at this moment how I will vote but it is certainly a breath of fresh air to have sane, intelligent and civilized candidates who understand that our enemy is not a religion and that people who live in this country are not going anywhere. The elephant in the room is race relations and how the police target people of color on a daily basis. We have more to worry about within our borders than outside of them. Does anyone want to go back to the good ole Bush days? I think not. We are still recovering from the near collapse of our system under Republicans who were lead around by banks and Wall Street on all fours with ball gags in their mouthes. Bernie is not their slave and I think that speaks to the numbers of people out there that are ready for someone who is more of a third party candidate than the run-of-the-mill Democrats. Unemployment at 5%, low interest rates. Things were not this good in 2008. Whether we ultimately elect Hillary or Bernie, America will be in good hands. I’m waiting to see how things go in Iowa and New Hampshire before making a choice. Like the president said last night- we are the most powerful nation in the world and the state of the union is good!

1/2*- I kept trying to give the current list of Democratic presidential candidates no stars or less than that and this damn site won’t let me. Rome is burning and Bernie is playing the violin while Hillary plays cello. So your husband was president and you opted to look the other way on a slew of his indescretions that would get a raised eye brow from the other Bill- Bill Cosby. Benghazi, classified documents floating unsecured and Nixon had to resign? Pinocchio lies so much and so often she doesn’t even know when she’s lying. As long as we get more imbedded potential terrorists into this country in the form of refugees, I’ll go to bed feeling safe that the Iranians won’t make a bomb and use it against us so they can continue to fight proxy wars and terrorize the west. Don’t really care if your president is woman? Think that maybe she is not necessarily the heir to the throne exactly? Maybe you’d like an old time hippy communist who wants to dig deeper into your pockets to tax further and redistribute any wealth this nation might have. Yes comrade, there is a Vermont and if you let him, Bernie will turn the nation into one big Vermont- neo hippy, tree hugging, no deoderant wearing, gluten free, lesbian safe world where we are all use the same gender neutral bathrooms but men would have to sit when they piss so as to not be mysoginistic pigs. Yes everything and everyone equal but maybe some just a tad bit more equal as we will need some among us to run the new politburo. Eight more years of this silliness and we will be practicing Sharia Law and have a St. Lous style arch at the Mexican border that reads, ” Work makes you Free”. That’s if we haven’t been bombed out of our misery first. If Trump isn’t the answer, the right questions are not being posed. Come on!

December 16, 2015

And Justice For All

Filed under: america,poem,trump,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:42 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

                Hang the flags perpetually at half-mast- every day a crisis

                NRA Card member or those among us who join Isis

                The reactionary fears arms closed, the liberal embraces eyes blind

                What we find in the quagmire is a desire for someone to come and lead

                Feed the electorate a new poll, detract away from the hole of

                Economics gives way to Islamics, tactics of the feckless and the reckless

                The new red scare finding fanatics everywhere that the radical facts are

                empirical

                Isolation resuscitation cooperation dissemination to save a nation

                Refuge or not to refuge refuse the nuclear centrifuge

                Weather or whether- it’s all huge and looms like a mushroom cloud

November 25, 2015

Between Calais et Marseille

Seth knew he was an atheist at a young age.  Being half Jewish and half Muslim left him no choice but to be an atheist out of fear that he might have developed two personalities, each a different religion and wind up attacking himself.  It was upon the death of his father around the age of ten that Seth’s mother dropped the bomb of his life on him.

“Chaim was a very good man and he loved you like a son…”

“Mom?  Wouldn’t he love me like a son if he was my dad?”

“If he was your dad…  But he wasn’t.”

It was with that conversation that Seth learned that his real father was a handsome Algerian man who spoke perfect French, owned a restaurant and had a thing for Seth’s mother.  Soon after conception, Seth biological father sold his restaurant and moved to France, leaving Seth’s mother with an issue- a pregnancy from an affair.  Seth’s mother led her husband Chaim to believe that Seth was his son and so everyone lived happily ever after.  For about 10 years.

Seth learned to play the guitar and he liked to write poetry.  As he grew older he became aware of the world around him and became more and more socially and politically aware.  Seth had a job at an independent coffee shop where he strummed his songs and read his poetry and held meetings of like- minded people.  These like-minded people protested things like the World Trade Organization, police brutality, gay rights, transgender rights, rights of prisoners and most recently, rights of refugees to live democratically free with all the rights bestowed upon born Americans at birth.  Seth was approached by a French student who happened to be at the coffee shop the night that Seth was performing some of his acoustic songs about bringing refugees home to their home away from home in America.  It was all set up for Seth.  The French student contacted someone who knew someone who was putting together a peace rally to raise money for Syrian refugees living in tents near Calais, France.  Seth was to be flown, fed, paid and put up for a weekend in France for a festival.  Seth would be given a 30 minute acoustic set on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, get paid and return to the United States.  It was a dream come true for pretty much a closet musician who wrote songs that almost nobody ever heard.

Seth arrived in Paris with his acoustic guitar and a back pack.  He wore a pork pie hat and loose clothing.  Seth wanted to try Absinthe while in Paris since he was a huge Hemingway fan.  After several drinks of Absinthe and a discussion with the English-speaking bartender on what life might have been like for Hemingway, Seth was as they say- fucked up.  Seth staggered to the train station and boarded a train for what he thought was headed to Calais on the far north of France near the Belgium border where battles to defeat fascism took place.  Instead Seth boarded a train headed for the far south city of Marseille.  Unbeknownst to Seth, while there was a huge peace rally designed to raise money for refugees fleeing Syria, there was a huge neo-Nazi, skinhead, National Front rally being held in Marseille.  It was at about 2:00am that Seth was awoken from a deep sleep by five British skinheads that were headed south in solidarity with their French fellow racists to be part of huge anti-immigration rally.  They grabbed his guitar case out of his hands and took it out of the case.  It took Seth a solid five seconds to figure out where he was, how he got there and what might be potentially going on.  The five bald young men in boots, tight jeans and bomber jackets studied the guitar.  They knew they were in the company of some sort of hippy, peace-loving American and they were going to make his night miserable if they were correct on profiling him.

“Oi mate…  What ave we here?  A guitar, is it?  Where you headed with this instrument, mate?”

Seth remembered getting his ass kicked by jocks over the years and knew a severe ass beating without any chance of anyone coming to his aid in a contained sleeping compartment could mean death.  Seth played it cool.

“I’m headed to the same place as you…”

The skinheads were a bit perplexed.  This thin smelly American in baggy clothes suitable for a street panhandler in Seattle did not quite look like what was going to be at the far right rally.  They studied the stickers on Seth’s guitar case.  There was a hope sticker with a picture of Obama, a rainbow sticker, equality sticker and several other very liberal looking stickers.

“What’s all this on your case, mate?  Looks loike you ave a strong loike for Obama and rainbows and such.  Did you get all this at skin rallies in the states?”

It was a coy question and Seth rolled with it.  Seth could read the looks on the five young men’s faces and knew the cat was going to have to bark like a dog if he wanted to get out of the dog pound safely.

“This case…  I bought this from a music store just before leaving the US.  I went to a pawn shop and bought it for really cheap.  I told the guy I needed a sturdy travel case for my guitar and he came up with this.  I literally bought this thing yesterday to make the trip.  I haven’t had time to take all the bullshit off that was put on by someone who used to own this.”

“No worries, mate.  We ave ands…  We can elp you with that…”

As the young men picked at the stickers with their thumb nails, took drinks from a bottle and became rowdy, one of them demanded Seth play them a song that he was intending to play at the rally.  Seth convinced them that he once was part of a Ska/Reggae band and was now a solo artist from the states who was for Donald Trump, sending Mexicans home, telling gays that they cannot get married and so on.  Seth was pretty convincing and he kind of needed to be.

“Shit…  Look at shit that Obama has got us into…  Trump is the answer to everything that’s fucked up in America right now.  I’m tired of the gays, ghetto rap, illegal immigrants, feminist, Obama loving liberal shit…  Yup, it’s time for a change.”

“Roight, mate…  So play us a li-ool something you came up with that you are thinking of playing in Marseille.”

Seth was quick on his toes to create something out of nothing.  He modified a strummy folk song he wrote called, “Bring Them Home” into a fast Ska tune called, “Send Them Home”.

It’s time to stand up and do the right thing maybe the white thing

They’re fucking here due to the Arab Spring and here’s the next thing- Send them home,

Send them home! We’ve fucking had enough- Send them home.

 

It was catchy and danceable and the English skins loved it.  One of them asked him to play another song.  Seth became nervous.  He blew his load on that one little ditty and didn’t quite have another bullshit song in him.  The thought suddenly came to Seth to sing The Marseillaise, the national anthem of France.  Seth learned it so that he could strum it and get everyone in Calais to sing along and then because they were as close as you could get to Great Britain, the national anthem of France would morph into, God Save the Queen.  Seth busted out another Ska beat and began to sing in French.

 

Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!

God save our gracious Queen Long live our noble Queen God save the Queen Send her victorious Happy and glorious Long to reign over us God Save the Queen!

The skins listened to the recognizable song in French and sang along to their own national anthem with arms around each other, drinking and shouting. When they arrived in Marseille, Seth was whisked up to a stage that Skinhead bands shared for the weekend long festival. The drunk British skins demanded that between sets that Seth be allowed to play his national anthem medleys and his anti-immigrant song. A barstool like seat was set up for him on a stage looking out at thousands of people. Seth was buzzed again from drinking with his new “mates” and played the songs without thought. The crowd of thousands began to gyrate to the song doing a Ska dance called a “skank”. It was surreal. Seth finished and was patted on the back and hugged. He drank with a bald girl with black lipstick at the festival who eventually fed him, shaved his head and fucked him several times in her hotel room. Seth woke early the next morning to find a bunch of skinheads laying around the hotel room on floors and couches. Next to him was the girl who made love to him and then another guy on the other side of her. Seth gathered his things and slipped out without awaking anyone. He bought a ticket for Calais and arrived a day and a half late. Seth was the second to last performer to sing his folk song for the refugees and those supporting the refugees. Seth looked out at the crowd of thousands who had smiles and were attentively waiting to hear his song, “Take Them Home”. Before going into the song, Seth pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and jokingly said a few words first.

“If you’re an American in Paris… Don’t drink Absinthe before departing for Calais… You might find yourself shaved bald on a train headed to Marseille instead… Long story but I’m here now…”

 

January 29, 2013

40 Square Miles and a Mule or Bring the Amish to Detroit

Picture picking up the city of Miami with South Beach, Bayside and its art deco buildings that lazily never change and placing it within the city limits of Detroit’s vacant land.  You would still have space to place the island of Manhattan and San Francisco squarely within the city limits of Detroit too but then again, why would anyone want to do such a thing to vibrant, thriving cities?

City planners had a brainstorm; find the natives who once inhabited the land prior to the French explorers and allow them to open more casinos.  It seemed like a good idea but it came up against a lot of opposition from the established casinos that already existed in downtown Detroit.  One person on the panel to find ways of selling and using vacant land presented an off the cuff, spontaneous solution that found roots quickly.  This is what was said among several men and a bottle of Scotch.

“Forty motherfucking square miles and ain’t nobody want shit to do with it…  What we should do is sell it to farmers and give em vouchers to buy horses or mules or whatever the fuck they need to plow shit…  Then these people set up farmer’s markets and sell vegetables to people within the city.  Ain’t no Arabs selling no damn broccoli at party stores…  They ain’t no other way we going to git somebody to buy up these vacant lots.”

As crazy as the idea sounded, plans were put into motion to find Amish communities and sell them cheap land, provide areas to sell their products and give them vouchers to buy horses or mules to help till the land.  As the saying goes; everything sells eventually.

Cadillac Adams had been in and out of prison for years for small time dealing, theft and robbery.  At the age of twenty-seven, Cadillac found himself back in his grandmother’s home, which was one of two homes that remained on a street that once had thirty homes.  Cadillac learned how to play a trumpet in jail as part of a program to give inmates positive hobbies.  Cadillac’s former cellmate was good at painting and was selling his paintings on Monroe, only feet away from where Cadillac played the themes from the Flintstones, The Munsters and Sammy Davis Jr.’s song called the Candy Man in rotation for pocket change from drunken white patrons of Greek restaurants and the casinos.  Cadillac was willing to give lawful means of trying to earn money without a job.

One warm spring morning, Cadillac saw a white man in a field that had once been two city blocks, he had a mule pulling some strange device that was helping to seed soil.  Cadillac approached the unique looking old white man with a long beard.

“Eh man…  Y’all some hard working folks.  I see y’all out here from sun up til sun down.  People round here cain’t quite figure you people out.  It’s cool and all but look like some Little House on the Prairie shit to us.  We ain’t never seen no farmers and ain’t never seen no corn coming up out the ground…  It’s cool.  So I don’t mean to stop a hard workingman but I come to aks you if there is anything…  Anything at all that you might need help with where I could make some money and be of some assistance to y’all.  I will be on time and never take no time off.  I know when it come to working, you people ain’t playin.”

Wilhelm hired Cadillac to do all sorts of things like feeding animals on farm and cleaning shit.  It might appear like more exploitation of blacks without a skill but it wasn’t.  Cadillac earned more money than he made blowing a trumpet and he was in no danger of being arrested for making money by unlawful means.

Wilhelm’s daughter returned from something called Rumspringa where she went into the world to experience things outside of their Amish community.  Edith went to Toronto to drink, smoke, take drugs, have sex and wear jeans.  Edith bounced around from guy to guy and then she decided to return to her wholesome, quiet, tight-knit community in northwest Detroit.

Edith came home to find a genuine black man working out in her father’s field with his shirt off.  The wiry man had tight muscles and his dark skin seemed to shine with the sweat that ran down his chest.  Edith was drawn to Cadillac immediately. Edith had been with a plethora of white guys, an Asian guy with a racing Honda and an Indian guy with an English accent who promised to take Edith to London the night they met.  The Brit disappeared promptly the next day.  Edith decided to return home to Detroit and join the Amish church, find a husband and get married.  Cadillac is not what the Amish had envisioned.

The Amish community was very clannish, community orientated and opposed too much in the way of change.  The idea of allowing an outsider into the fold was difficult but allowing a son of those enslaved Africans to marry and cross breed with a Germanic child of god, took who needed to approve the idea to do some deep soul searching.  Was it wrong for races to mix?  Could this black man who was immersed in some of the worst things the English world had to offer, give up fried foods, malt liquor, cars, flashy clothes, Direct TV and live a humble and rudimentary life?  Most had argued that from what they knew of the environs of Detroit, the dramatic life change would not be possible.  The need to sneak off and see other women, plant their seed, drink and gamble, would be too overwhelming and then they would have to deal with a broken family within the Amish community.  One man who remained optimistic and open minded, reasoned that if the president of the United States could marry one woman and remain with her, it would be possible for Cadillac to stay with Edith.  The Amish decided to gamble on Cadillac.

If you ever want to buy some vegetables and hand made chairs, there is a black dude who sits on the site of a former Amoco gas station with his blue-eyed daughter with blondish cork screw curls and light caramel skin and sells his products.  He is one to marvel at and is a true curiosity.  What astounds people most about the bearded black man in overalls is that he can speak their language.

“Number one killer of brothas is heart disease.  You want you some corn and lettuce?  You need vitamins and vegetables in your diet, brotha.  This stuff much better foh you than a spicy pickle in a plastic bag, floating round in who knows what.    This stuff here was grown right here in god’s country; Detroit, Michigan.”

January 2, 2013

Yelping Life

Filed under: humor,obama,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:55 am
Tags: , , , ,

As I look around and see that everyone believes that they are a credible critic on everything from restaurants to technicians that did miserable work at doing laser work to crotches, I believe I can adequately guide people through life.  Hiding behind a computer without a voice or a face, makes being bold with my opinions all the more easier.  Such is Yelp.

Youth- not much you can do here.  You’re at the mercy of those who brung you.  I was a product of a gun crazed Vietnam Veteran and a free loving Hippy.  I don’t own a gun but feel as though I have a gun to my head anytime I feel compelled to utter the phrase, “I love you”.  The word “love” was tossed around like a floozy in a flophouse.  From one parent I heard that love is all that is needed and from the other a gun will straighten out the Commie loving, tree, owl and whale hugging, hairy legged, bra and flag burning, anti-establishment, anti-Christ, latent homosexuals who don’t know that they live in the best goddamn country this world has ever known and as long as the blacks, browns and yellows understand their place and don’t try to rock the boat, nobody gets hurt.  Amen…  I love you.

Adolescence- mix a disdain for parents, with a disdain for authority, a lack of consistency, a dash of no hope and the urge to have sex ever fifteen seconds.  High school guidance counselors are always available for those who are on track to score high on the SAT, on student council and yearbook committee.  Those that might drop out or drop under should really find a skill like becoming a repo man, tow truck driver, bouncer or so on.  Your guidance counselor is also the varsity football coach.  Unless you are going out for the team or are a cheerleader, there is very little to discuss.  He could tell you that as an average sized, white child with average athletic ability, you need to spend three to four hours a day kicking a football through a giant tuning fork in a large field.  That large tuning fork could be the key to your success.  You could very well earn a great living at the most cherished thing in Americana until you are in your early forties if you develop into one who can put three points on the board consistently as a field goal kicker.  Your guidance counselor wanted to be a doctor and then settled to be a pharmacist and when he drank too much and had a poor GPA, decided to go into education; to help mold and form the youth into tomorrow’s society.  Or to just earn a paycheck.

Adulthood- For men, Adulthood does not truly begin until the age of thirty and if you are living in your mother’s basement, living off the tit and making college a fifteen-year plan, adulthood begins for you at about thirty-five.  For women it generally begins when binge drinking and random acts of fucking take a back seat to finding a suitable mate to replicate your species with, create a nest and visit Ikea with on weekends.  Like the current work environment, most Americans stay at a job five years or less and then upgrade.  Americans now have starter marriages and are more focused on having a wedding than a marriage.  Men soon learn that a female changes drastically upon becoming a mother and that for the most part; they have fulfilled their biological duty by planting a seed.  Joining groups of other males to detract from the mundane suburban hell treadmill of matrimony, paternity, and monogamy with alcohol and sports, helps to keep hope and sanity on the horizon.  Disenchanted wives and mothers visit children’s museums with other disenchanted women and form play dates and plan women’s nights out in order to vent about the woefully poor job the male species is doing to help maintain a household.  They fawn and flirt with the marginally functional male server who is hot and is juggling four girlfriends and laughs at the thought of banging one of the soccer mom in her minivan after closing with the stick figure sticker silhouettes of the entire family holding hands on the back window of Chrysler.  Oh um…  The mister might be receiving fellatio in the back seat of his Volvo station wagon with a 26.2 sticker and an Obama “Hope” sticker across town.  Hope we all find our way despite it all.

Elderly- The AARP card, discounts to the buffet, free coffee at Mc Donald’s while you’re put out to pasture at the age of fifty for a younger more efficient and pliable model.  Heart disease, hypertension, poor circulation, diabetes and obesity.  Who had time to exercise during the fifty years of work?  Who had time to eat correctly?  Who had time to really take the time to understand and guide their kids during formative years?  Who had the desire to connect to a mate at the end of the day when the cloud of work and debt hung like an ominous storm cloud ready to decimate at a moment’s notice?  B-52, AK-47, M-16, C-3PO, H1N1…  Bingo!

So in conclusion, I give life 1 and ½ stars.  Like everyone else, I blame everything out of my control on the result of life.  With that in mind, I would not trade my life for yours.  I see you in lines at the Starbucks or on the train and thank god or luck of the draw that I am who I am.

November 6, 2012

We Have Black Friends or For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,obama,Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 11:00 am
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The Thames, pronounced “temz” just like the famous river in England, was lying in bed in their bedroom, each watching their own television.  It was like watching television at an appliance store.  One would have to filter out the other sounds in order to focus on their own program.  A marriage counselor recommended that in order to preserve their marriage and spend more time together, that they purchase two televisions and watch television separate but equal…  I heard that term somewhere else.

Tim Thames was watching Monday Night Football while Tammy Thames was watching Dancing With The Stars.  Tim thought the show was stupid and he concluded that if he were coached eight hours a day, he too could prance about like Gene Kelly.  Dancing was for weddings.  Watching men in tight pants writhe around on freezing tundra, was much more to his liking.  Tammy didn’t hate football, in fact she would occasionally peek at this guy or that guy and marvel at how tight and round their asses were.  Some men looked as though they had canned hams strapped to their buttocks, under Lycra.  It never mattered to Tammy who won or who was playing.

Tammy received a text message while lying in bed next to Tim.  It was a commercial break and she had been admiring football player ass when the message came in from their friends The Whites.

William and Hilary White, were black and as much as people wanted to call them Bill and Hilary, William corrected people.  His name was William and not Will, Willy, Bill or Billy.  William was his grandfather’s name who came from Kingston, Jamaica.  William thought of himself as an English gent of the Caribbean, a modern day Sidney Poitier.  Hilary was an attractive black woman with a pretty smile and a fantastic ass.  How they became friends oddly enough was through the sport of ice hockey.  Their two sons who are now in college, played youth hockey together for many years.  For over ten years, they woke up early and drove their boys to practices and games and then drank in hotel hallways and lounges together.  The White’s son was always the one black player on the hockey team.  It made the other whites, not to be confused with The Whites, feel as though they were tolerant and accepting of other races and cultures by the mere fact that they had black friends; The Whites.  Tim and Tammy often threw that out among other whites.

“Our good friends, The Whites…  Who are really black…  I mean African-American, will be at the party too.”

And so on…

Hilary had sent a text inviting Tim and Tammy to their house to watch the election results and sip some red wine that they picked up at a winery in Germany.  The Whites took a vacation and toured wineries near the French border in Germany.  William had whispered to his wife while taste testing Riesling in Germany, “Hitler must be rolling over in his grave.  Two American blacks drinking prized German wine and being served like servants by members of the master race…  It doesn’t get any better than this…”

William and Tim were both very outspoken no-it-alls and alcohol and vast knowledge often led to fights.  William was a supporter of the president and Tim was a supporter of Romney.  Wine with opposing political views pointed towards an interesting evening.

“I see you’ve texted Hilary back.  Have you already committed us to going to their place again?  In 2008, you didn’t tell me that their extended family was going to be sitting around the living room, crying and hugging each other after Obama won.  I had to pretend like I was happy too and I wasn’t,” said Tim.

“Why?  Because it was the symbolic decline of the American white male?  An attractive black man becomes president and white men are threatened,” said Tammy.

“Denzel Washington is an attractive black man.  The president is not.  The president looks like…  A monkey.”  Said Tim.

“Now that is perfect.  Our president is a simian.  How very Klanish of you,” said Tammy.

“If he looked like a fucking aardvark, I would tell you that.  To me, he resembles a monkey.  I’ll agree that he is smooth and self confident but I don’t agree that he is attractive,” said Tim.

Strangely enough, once while having sex with each other for possibly the 10,000 times since the first time in the back seat of a car during college, Tim fantasized about being behind Michelle Obama and Tammy fantasized that the man behind her was the commander-in-chief.  Tim and Tammy were prone to a lot of talking during sex.  It was also the counselor’s opinion that they connect more with each other while having sex in the form of verbally relaying their pleasure with one another.  There would be rhetorical questions such as, “Who owns this pussy? Or who wants this pussy?”.  On a night when neither of them was saying much, they both had thoughts about fucking the first lady and the president while fucking each other.  Both Tim and Tammy had given thought to fucking William and Hilary but never discussed it with each other.  Both had accused the other of being a little too inviting in their body language, tone of voice and smiles with the Whites.

“George Bush was an unattractive man and you never said a word about how he looks.  Why is it that you have yet to come to grips with the fact that our president is black?”  Asked Tammy.

“I don’t care about how white he really is while appearing to be black.  Our president was raised by his grandparents just like most black kids are today.  The difference is that he was raised by white people in Hawaii and he went to Harvard.  He comes off as some native of Chicago and he is about as much a Chicagoan as he is truly black…  Be all that as it is, I don’t want to be around a bunch of gloating black people if Obama wins re-election.  I don’t want to pretend I voted for Obama too just so that I don’t appear racist.  Whites and I don’t mean William and Hilary; still make up 65% of this country.  If whites don’t vote for the president, he isn’t going to be president.  I’m tired of hearing how racist whites still are.  Nobody tried to kill the president and whites overwhelmingly voted for a blackish man,” said Tim.

“Blackish?  Like brackish?  You really are racist and have not come to grips with it.  We live in an all white neighborhood with a smattering of Indians and Koreans and you work with white people in another all white area and people of color make you uncomfortable.  Face it so you can begin to accept it,” said Tammy.

“That sounds like some kind of Oprah-esque brainwashing.  Unless you go out and hold hands with queers and people of all other colors other than your own, you’re racist and homophobic.  I have voted Republican since Reagan when I was a senior in high school.  I voted once for Perot and felt like an asshole after doing it so I will most likely vote Republican until I die.  Not because they are the white party as much as they are not the party to worry and cater to those who don’t wish to do for themselves, don’t care if queers want to fuck up their lives with marriage and hand out money for abortions.  Today if fags want to get abortions, nobody really cares.  People are worried about losing their jobs and homes.  Everything else is not important.  With unemployment still up and the housing market still flat, I don’t see what has happened in the last four years that would make me want to vote for Obama.  Call me racist or call me a realist.  I hope you’re not voting for him because Oprah told you to or because you think he is more attractive than Romney.  I hope you are not fearful of Mormons and for that reason voting for a man who might be a closet Muslim,” said Tim.

“If you don’t want to go, I will simply tell them we are staying home,” said Tammy with folded arms.

“No, we’re going.  They will totally think I made you not go.  I have a gun to my head on this one.  I will go and I will not boast and beat my chest if Romney wins but don’t expect me to cry and bring up Rosa Parks with their relatives if Obama wins.  I don’t want to argue with William either.  I cannot believe he would argue with me over the word fuck.  It most definitely means, for unlawful carnal knowledge and not fornication under consent of the king.  He still believes he is a subject of the queen because he was born in Kingston.  The queen doesn’t give a shit about Jamaica unless she’s looking for a bottle of rum,” said Tim.

Tammy flicked off the light and turned off both televisions.  She turned on her side away from Tim and did not say goodnight.  Tim felt bad and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.  He kissed her softly on the neck and told her that none of that stuff really mattered to him and that finding the person best suited for his life was what really mattered most to him.  Tammy turned towards Tim.  The nice, unsolicited words just put her in the mood.  Tim wrapped his arms around his wife and he began to massage her cold and pimply butt cheeks while kissing her.  They made love as they had many, many times in the past.  Tim then rolled over and immediately began to fall asleep.  A good fucking for Tim was like giving a baby a bottle of milk.  Tim was ready to sleep.  Tammy on the other hand was wide-awake.  She could feel Tim’s hand getting heavy around her waist.  She thought that she should probably say something before Tim truly fell asleep.

“Honey?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Would you say my ass is as nice as Hilary’s or Michelle Obama’s?”

Tim didn’t want to come off as a liar or have his wife think that he was lying even though he was about to lie.  Michelle Obama and Hilary both looked like they had canned hams for buttocks.  Asses that could support drinks and so on.  Tim wanted to sleep and he wanted Tammy to sleep too.  He had to think quickly.  He leaned in and kissed his wife under her ear.

“In this age when men need Viagra.  I never need a boost when it comes to you.  You still give me a full metal jacket after all these years.  I still feel like an admiral of a beautiful ship when I get behind you…  I’d rather have your ass than any others.”

Tammy bought the nice words and Tim fell fast asleep.  They will be watching the election results with the Whites tonight.   How about you?

October 23, 2012

The Final Debate or Lions, Tigers and Da Bears

            The Washington’s, no relations to Harold the former first black mayor of Chicago or George the first white president of the United States that they are aware of but then again you never know, were sitting in their living room after work, school and dinner.

            LincolnWashington, the patriarch got a job at Mc Donald’s as junior in high school.  Lincoln would take a Woodward Avenue bus from a rough section of Detroit and when you are talking about a rougher than average area of Detroit, it would be in the running with some of the most dangerous areas in the world.  Be that as it were, Lincoln found a job in the suburbs and started at $3.35 an hour in 1983 by 2012, Lincoln owned two franchises of his own.  Lincoln drove a Lincoln Navigator and his wife drove a Chrysler 300.  Lincoln set his wife Mi’chelle up with a day spa in downtown Detroit near the casinos, ball parks and Greektown.  One could get their nails done and the stress of American life kneed out of their backs while listening to Kenny G and a waterfall within a small cubical.  The Washington’s were ahead of the American curve and living the American dream.

            Lincoln and Mi’chelle had two children, Tonisha and Dwight.  Tonisha, the eldest, left Detroit and immigrated to South Africa.  She wanted to be part of the transformation in the new South Africa.  While going to school in Capetown, she met a handsome young man who surfed and was an heir to a winery.  So much for bonding with true black Africans and taking up their struggle.  Tonisha married a blond haired blue eyed Afrikaner who surfs for a living and does part time promotional work for his father’s winery.  Their mixed race children run around the beach.  The two boys like to play Rugby and surf and hunt with their grandfather Pieter way out in the bush.

            Dwight, who was named after a former American president, received a scholarship to the University of Chicago and bought a bean pie one day from a clean cut looking young man on StoneyIsland on Chicago’s south side, became his friend and eventually joined the nation of Islam.  Dwight returned to Detroit to try and transform poverty sticken areas and convert hopelessly poor people to the Nation of Islam.

 Tonisha was in bed asleep in Capetown when the final debate started. She fell asleep wondering how she was going to get her hair done, get Fredrich to his Cricket practice and Wilhelm to his Rugby match all at the same time.  The next president of the free world never entered her mind.  Meanwhile in Detroit, Michigan, her family sat glued to the television.

            “I got it right here what Romney actually said about the auto industry.  It’s on the internet for everyone to look up and find.  How can that man bold face lie about something that is in print for everyone to find for themselves?”  Said Lincoln.

            “I wish you’d hush… That man is your president.  Your president went out on a limb and saved this town from going outta business.  He believed in the auto industry and believed in Detroit and you still standing behind a white man who didn’t even believe you were a human being until 1978.” Said Mi’chelle.

            “It’s been 4000 years since white people came from Africa and Africans to go into the world and become the pasty white devils that they are.  Black people are duped and herded by the Jewish agenda.  Jews have us buying into believing that they carry the struggle of the black man with them.  How many poor blacks do you see? Now how many poor Jews do you know?”  Said Dwight.

            “Boy, hush up…  Sammy Davis Jr. was as black as he was Jewish.” Said Lincoln.

            “How can I respond to that sort of a comment?  Where is the logic, dad?  The Candy Man was a black Jew so we should all become Jews?”  Asked Dwight.

            “No, I’m asking you to hold your tongue so we can hear what the men have to say.  Ron Paul ain’t going to be the next president no matter how much you and Farrakhan want him in.  It’s going to be one or the other and you might as well get used to it.” Said Lincoln.

            The president and Mitt Romney went on to sell themselves on the American public on who would be a better man to serve the nation’s interests and needs.  Lincoln sat in his chair strategically in front of the television, Mi’chelle sat on the couch while Dwight leaned with arms folded against the wall of their 4,000 square foot home that was insulated by the fact that at 14 Mile Road and Telegraph Road, they were a great distance from the blight and hopelessness that the average Detroiter lives with day in and day out.  Quiet and desolate streets appearing to be a ghost town among abandoned homes or slabs of concrete where homes used to be where sparsely scattered homes inhabited by trapped people whose plight will not change whether the president is a Republican or Democrat.  At 14 miles from the center of downtown Detroit, there was low unemployment, well kept homes with manicured lawns, nice cars and children playing outside.  The difference between living and surviving could be found within fourteen miles.  The difference between the first world and the third world, the invisible and not invisible, haves and have-nots all within just 14 miles.

  The father, mother and son agreed to disagree.  The father wanted a man who was a good business man to run the country like a prosperous business.  The mother wanted to stay the course and follow a man who inherited a tremendous mess and believed he was doing well considering the hand he was dealt and then there was their son.  Their son was rebelling against his parents who embodied the true essence of the American dream; follow your dreams, work hard and you will prosper.  Like any bored and privileged suburban young man who is underemployed and still living at home, Dwight was raging against the status quo.  Idealism eventually gives way to reality with maturity or when bills need to be paid was what Lincoln quietly concluded to himself about his son.

 The debate ended and Lincoln turned the television on to the football game between The Detroit Lions and the Chicago Bears just in time to see the Lions fail to score.  At the one yard line with less than three feet from the end zone and six points, the Lions fumbled the football.  The family winced collectively and then they were quiet for a moment.  Things appeared to be returning to the way things had been in Detroit for a long time after a great football season the year before.

            “I think we can all agree on one thing…  The Lions are still the same old Lions.  Thank god for the Tigers.”

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