Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 18, 2017


Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:14 am
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Some days you just want to kick the dog. You know what I mean?  You’re frustrated and the damn dog gets in your way.  You kick it and then you feel badly and wish you could change things.  I never kicked the dog though.  I don’t have a dog.  I got nothing against dogs.  When I was younger I had a dog.  It got sick and old and died and then I felt badly and so I never bought another dog.  If I had one, I wouldn’t kick it.  At least I don’t think so.

So how did I wind up in prison?  I’ll tell you because I got nothing but time now.  I’m not joining the born again prayer group or the Aryan Brothers meeting, so I got time to explain it all.

I have horrible insomnia.  I fall dead asleep and then I’m wide awake.  I walk around like a zombie and eat shit that I shouldn’t eat.  I’ll watch Spanish soap operas and I don’t speak Spanish.  I worry that I won’t get enough sleep and that I’ll be wiped out all day long.  I hate the feeling of being at my desk falling asleep and unable to keep my eyes open.  Happens all the time.  So I had a shitty night sleep.  Slept maybe three hours, got up and shaved in the shower, I had baggy eyes like a blood hound.  My suit was wrinkled like I had slept in it and my t shirt smelled like mold because I forgot to dry the clothes in the dryer for two days.  I get in the car and I notice that I forgot to shave one whole side of my face.  I’m running late.  I won’t have time to park at a drug store, stand in line and make the meeting on time.  Why?  Because I already went to the coffee shop and stood in line for almost fifteen minutes because some jag off bought vente lattes for everyone at work.  I’m not kidding.  This fucker made four trips to the car with four cups in the cup holders.  Then he’s on the phone and struggling to hit the prompts on the visa swipe box because he cannot talk and read and follow directions at the same time.  The barista or whatever the fuck you call those marginally employed bust outs who fuck up orders.  He ruined my day.  I paid almost six dollars to get soy in my damn drink.   I should have known when the tool with the bone in his lip and saucers in his ears like and African Pygmy cooking a white devil in a hot pot, did not make eye contact- my order was going to get fucked up.  He even said said to me, “wait… what?”  I hate that almost as much as when black people prompt you to repeat what you said by saying “who?”

I wanted an extra shot of espresso and got fucking soy.  It tasted like shit and now I’m probably growing tits.  I don’t know.  I get so mad that I decide to roll my window down but it won’t go down.  My air conditioning died last year and it’s hot as fuck and I can’t get air or even throw my drink in anger.  I wanted to go back to the cafe and pull the saucer from his ear and break the plate under his lip.  I wanted to pull his beard and tighten his skinny jeans.  Fuck!  I’m tired, I’m late, half shaven, look like I slept in my suit and then something crazy happens unlike all the other shit.  I drop my keys, the only key I have to my car and apartment and it goes down the crack in the elevator shaft.  I go to find the door man who is trained just to say good morning and good bye.  I present him with an issue and it was as if I was speaking fucking Dutch.  The maintenance men look at me like they don’t understand.  After telling the head janitor, the one making union wages, three times, he finally begins to understand and tells me that doing such a thing is like throwing you keys into the ocean.  It will go into a pit of oil and nobody will crawl under an elevator car to fetch keys with the prospect of having the car crush the fool trying to save the keys.  I walk into the meeting late.  I get that feeling I used to get in school when I overslept.  Everyone looked at me.  Wrinkled suit, eyes like a bloodhound, half shaven and fucking late.  I was supposed to give a report on sales.  That was my raison d’être and I forgot the print outs that everyone was to get.  They were on my desk.  I could have excused myself and left everyone feeling uncomfortable and questioning my professionalism for thirty seconds while I ran to and from my office.  Instead I give a plausible lie.  The printer wasn’t printing so alas- no fucking print outs.  I stutter, I stammer, I fuck up common words, my hands tremble.  It’s a mess.  I look out and everyone seems to be looking at me like I’m naked.  I get a text from my boss who is watching my melt down and his text unglues me more.  It reads, “May Day!  May Day!  I’m going down in flames…”. It mercifully ends and I sit down.  Within minutes, nobody is looking at me any longer.  I only have my boss to deal with and I know he is upset already.  Fuck it.  I can get another job.  People come and go.  You divorce this company or that one and keep moving and nobody misses you or gives a fuck so fuck you and the meeting.  I go to lunch at a fake Mexican restaurant.  I sit at the bar.  The bartender doesn’t make eye contact with me either.  I order tacos on corn tortilla and get a burrito with flour tortilla.  My gin is vodka and the tonic is flat, very little ice and a brown shriveled lime.  I quietly reach into my waist band and pull out my gun.  I shoot up every bottle on the shelf, reload and throw my plate of food up in the air like a clay pigeon and shoot the plate.  The bar area looks like a bomb hit it.  I put on my aviator shades and calmly ask the bartender if I could just have a beer…. No lime.  I drank my beer in silence until the sirens got closer.

They got me on a medicine to relax.  Then I got one to help with anxiety.  I have one to help me sleep and another for high blood pressure and another for diabetes.  I go to classes to discuss anger.  I think I might want to take a cooking class too while I’m here.  I think cooking my own food might help me lose weight.  I don’t know exactly and really nobody does know.  Things line up now and then and things happen and then we wonder how people snap.  Life is a crazy place.  Life in America, in a big angry city is even crazier.  I’m just a cog in it’s giant wheel.  Doing my time.  Slowly.  Peacefully.  And that’s all I got to say right now.

July 5, 2015

The Other Other Prison

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:38 am
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It started in California and then jumped to Massachusetts, New York, Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire and then a bunch of Midwestern states and then finally the last to get on board were the same states that fought slavery over 150 years ago. Many of those who failed to get on board and accept change, cited the beginning of the end in prophesies in Revelations. They pointed their fingers at all that appeared to be wrong with American society- legal abortions, same sex marriage, AIDS, SARS, Ebola, MRSA and anything that could be of interest to people who watch the E Channel. End times were coming, the signs were evident and is it any wonder that terrorists want to put Americans out of their misery? Rhetorical question, with no clear answer.

Those that had a difficult time with a plethora of social changes that became set in concrete via the Supreme Court, felt that things this time had really gone too far- a separate jail system for those who believed that although they were born one particular sex, identified with the opposite sex. Texas finally got on board and could no longer legally inject their murderous criminals AND had to provide not only female and male but also that other category for criminals who they felt should live in a third penal institution for those who were caught somewhere in the middle. A lot of good god fearing folk asked themselves, “What in the hell is this dog gone world coming to?”

Purvis Davis was a slight built man who was doing three life sentences for killing a lot of people. A mass murderer who put fear into people on every last Thursday of every month. On every last Thursday of every month, someone, somewhere in the state of Texas was murdered. When they finally caught up with Purvis, they found him servicing a copier machine near Dallas. DNA, finger prints, semen, hair, socks- they had them all and it was forensically all tied to Purvis. Purvis understood that at five feet five inches and 135lbs, he was going to have a boat load of suitors in prison. Purvis knew his run couldn’t last forever and so with the law closing in on him, Purvis began to pound estrogen. When the detectives began to question the dozens of murders and reasons why, they noticed Purvis’ voice got higher and his breasts became bigger until one day Purvis demanded that he be addressed as Bernice. The first detective to interview Bernice for the first time was taken back by the transformation. Bernice was a nervous female that demanded her lawyer be by her side. Bernice adopted a Jewish New York City accent. She rambled on and on about the Bill of Rights and the rights of transgender people.

“So yesterday I interviewed a man in your skin and today I’m interviewing a woman in your skin?”

“Absolutely… And these things happen. I have always been a woman on the inside and I fully believe that the crux of my issues stem from the fact that I am indeed a woman trapped in a body that really wants to become a woman but is still battling to lose any evidence of a male within… What! You don’t believe me? You want to challenge this and wind up with Bill Kurtis here? Do you wanna fuck with my attorney? I don’t think you know what you’re doing here. I have every right to be placed in the transgender penal institution and you people continue to leave me in the male population where upon I’ve been preyed upon. I refuse to shower any longer and have stomach issues from holding my feces in for fear of what awaits me. There better be a change real soon or all of your jobs will most definitely be in jeopardy.”

The state brought in a champ on this sort of niche thing. A wild hared small man with a permanent furrowed brow and loose whiskers coming out of his ears, nose and cheek bones. He was intrigued with Bernice. Helmut asked a slew of questions and then dazzled Bernice with his command of the English Language which was his third language. Sort of like Joseph Conrad.

“Now zen… You believe you identify with zee opposite sex which in this case is clearly male to female. You believe you identify with zee sex you have not been assigned at birth and now desire to be accepted. It is possible zat zee state could put in for you as a transsexual person, to undergo gender transition so that you could better align your actual sex with your presentation so zat you can completely identify with zee women. Which brings up an interesting question- if you become a woman then are you in fact not eligible with zee transgender prison? This process of transition may require a gender reassignment and reassignment surgery. We have to take into account your mental gender identity.”

Bernice was mesmerized by the little man who had a nervous habit of pushing back his greasy hair and removing the collected balls of saliva in the corners of his mouth and twinning them like boogers and then placing them on a plain piece of paper that he was not actually writing upon.

“While many might identify or self-identify as self-gender, zee family of transgender is not so clear. Transsexual, transvestite, transvestite cross dressing gender queer, transvetic fetishists, drag queens or those who do this sort of thing as an entertainer. Have you ever been in zee entertainment business?”

“I was a copier repair person…”

“Upon examination of your genitalia, I am going to put into my report that you are indeed one who fits into the intersex category. You are what they call a Trans woman. I respectfully unlike “transsexual”, the word “transgender” should be used as an adjective rather than a noun — for example, “Bernice is transgender” or “Bernice is a transgender woman” rather than “Bernice is a transgender.”

Bernice pulled out a cigarette and could not find a light. Helmut lit the cigarette for Bernice. Smoking was not allowed but really what did that matter? A smoke and a strong drink would have been most fitting.

“A transgender person may have all zee mannerisms and characteristics normally associated with a gender identity on a continuum or exist as either a gender, gender-neutral, genderqueer, third gender, bigender or pangender… It is not so cut and dry as it might seem. Zee state of Texas wishes to get this right for you and all the people of Texas who care about… Doing zee right thing.”

Bernice smiled a coy smile. Helmut was actually attracted to Bernice and what he liked most was that he was a little male and a little female. The two never became romantic but Helmut being an expert on such complex things, suggested that Bernice was in fact, the right person for the new transgender prison.

Bernice in the years since being incarcerated in the first transgender prison jail in Texas, has written several books, one about cooking and the other about becoming a woman. It was an instant best seller. The proceeds go to help stop discrimination of transgender people. Pedal a story and you’re some anonymous Joe and nobody wants to see your manuscript. Kill dozens of people, take estrogen to become a woman or somewhat like one and people want to know the best way to grill Zucchini. And that’s just how stuff works.

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