Blackhumouristpress's Blog

November 30, 2016

You’ll Get So Tired of Winning…

The Whackers or Little Whackers as they were known, had a Thanksgiving
Day tournament game that had to be played outside at a refrigerated
rink on a perfect late Fall day if you have to play ice hockey
outside- no sun, no rain, no wind and about 41 degrees Fahrenheit or 5
degrees Celsius if you live anywhere else in the world other than the
United States.

Coach Grimm walked in the locker room belonging to the Pee Wee
Whacker team.  Some of the boys were getting dressed, a few were
practicing stickhandling with a ball designed to practice stick work
with a puck when you can’t be on the ice.  A few just sat there cold
in their hoodies, not motivated to move yet because they were tired
and cold.  The regular coach quit after a dozen games after having to
take a job out of town or some bullshit.  Truth be told- the first
coach grew tired of guys not trying, not listening, not passing, not
pushing themselves and complaints by parents.  The Whackers went out
and got a veteran out of mothballs to help save the season.  Things
were looking up.  Coach Grimm showed up with his verbal pregame cattle
prod.  One of the players made the mistake of asking the coach if the
game they were about to play counted in the stats.
“When I wake up early on Thanksgiving morning, put my underwear on,
my pants on, my shoes on and drive to wherever the fuck this place is
to coach a game…  Yes it matters.  It matters to me and it should
always matter to you…  Turn off that ghetto fucking music.”
The one player with yellow tints in his brown hair, glared at the
coach as he turned off his Bluetooth connected to a Bose speaker.
“Sagging pants and bad poetry with a voice modulator will not be
tolerated any longer in the locker room.  It’s not music…  Now you
know…”
Coach paced back and forth looking at the ground and ceiling while
speaking to the players.
“When I joined you merry bunch, you were two wins and eight loses and
you’re now four wins and no losses since I’ve joined you.  Wanna no
the secret?  I don’t take bullshit. I’m not your babysitter or
substitute teacher… Why do you play hockey?  Cause your mom wants to
sleep with Jonathan Toews or your dad never quite made it to juniors,
The A or the show and thinks you got something just a bit more special
than the average beater playing this game?  All parents think too
highly of their kids. Who knows.  What I know after coaching this game
four times longer than you been alive, since your daddy was living in
his daddy’s balls and dinosaurs walked the earth…  You have to want to
fucking win.   Not just hope to win.  You have to decide that you’re
willing to go through a wall if necessary to get the win.  Puck is
loose…  The guy on the other team should be ready to shit himself at
the idea that you might put him through the boards as soon as he
touches that puck.  The opposition should marvel at the fact that you
move the puck like the Harlem Globetrotters passed a basketball and
that every shift, you play like it’s the last shift of game seven of
the Stanley Cup finals.  People who don’t know this sport will tell
you that wins and losses don’t matter.  Ask those people if it matters
to them that the person they voted for in the presidential elections,
lost…  Went down in flames.  Which brings me to this analogy-
elections and hockey are like a tug of war.  It’s momentum and
psychological.  You want to be sure that you’re all pulling together
to get your opposition face down in the muck, the slime, and the shit.
You want them to accept losing before they lose by being tougher.
You’re going to leave here in 90 minutes.  The Turkey will taste
better tonight if you win.  It always does when you win.  If you lose,
lose with your goalie pulled and you bombarding the other team with
seconds to go on the clock.  You should never get your ass kicked if
you’re ready for work on time. “
The kids looked at their coach who was old enough to be a
grandfather, who could still out skate them.  Bald, facial scars and a
chipped tooth from a high stick, which was fixed and then knocked out
again by a high puck to the face.  There was something inspiring in
his off the wall comments.
“Way back in 1973…  Maybe 74, the years all blend together…  There
was a kid from an Indian reservation who was fast and mean.  He would
slash the shit out of players and body them like he wanted to kill
them.  I was intimidated by The Chief.  He was quiet, mean and
determined to win.  The Chief come up the boards and I clipped him
with my hip.  I didn’t see it but others told me he cartwheeled and
had a ribbon of snot that wrapped around his helmet.  Was I bigger
than Chief?  Stronger?  Faster?  Probably not.  I got into his head by
knocking the shit out of him like a truck hit him.  If you gain the
centerline and dump that puck in the corner and then bury the Defense
as soon as they touch that puck in the corner, they’ll be whipping
that puck anywhere not to get clobbered.  You take away time and space
by bearing down on their asses by fore-checking at full speed…  Hands
in the middle.  Take a look at one another.  You need each other to
win.  This isn’t fucking golf; you need each other to do this right.
Why were the Beatles so good?  Because they played together…  The best
way to win a fistfight is to throw the first punch and keep swinging
until they stop moving…  This is a new era about to happen.  You have
a new coach.  You have a new president.  Things are going to be a
little different, a little raw…  If your new president was here
cheering you on today, what he say?
“Big?”
“Huge?”
“Make the Whackers great again?”
“Grab them by the pussy?”
“That’s it boys!  Your president would tell you that you’re going to
win so much that you’ll get tired of winning and he would tell you to
grab them by the pussy.  Let’s win this shit and give thanks that we
live in a country where we can take a day off to play the greatest
game ever invented…  Ice hockey.  Let’s go fucking get them!”

September 28, 2016

The New House of Un-American Activities

In the year 2021 after the national elections that gave Hillary Clinton her second term, a committee was formed within the Democratic Party dominant House of Representatives called The New House of Un-American Activities. The committee was created to prevent racism, xenophobia, misogynistic and Islamicphobic behavior in the private work place.
Rutherford J. Mann, was hauled in after a questionable speech to shareholders. Mann, a former Marine who used the GI bill to get himself through college, excelled in the workplace and became a CFO of a major fortune 500 company. After a few too many drinks on a day when the stock price for his particular company under his watch, shot up, Mr. Mann spoke freely. He never refrained after that day. His candor lead to problems between he and the government. Why the antisocial behavior? Was it the fact that the stock tripled in a short period of time? Was it that this was the third time he laid his hand upon a struggling company and turned it to gold? Was it because he was an old, white male? Probably all of the above. His manic, plain speaking speech landed him in front of the New House of Un-American Activities.

Rep Jefferson- Good afternoon Mr. Mann… Do you understand why you stand before us today?
Mann- I have an idea why but I don’t think anyone who is forced before this tribunal ever knows for sure.
Rep Washington- Please clarify, Mr. Mann.
Mann- There are many agendas out there and something such as this witch hunt is born somewhere for some reason. Where it originates and why is probably unimportant as it is truly Un-American.

A few laughs from the press and the viewing gallery caused the gavel to be hammered by Representative Adams of New York.

Rep. Adams- Mr. Mann are you now or have you ever been subversive?
Mann- Please explain what that would mean exactly.
Rep. Jackson- One who would be unwilling to temporarily allow refugees from war-torn areas, shelter in one of their many secondary residences when the law specifically states that private property that is not of primary residence, must be made available to house refugees. This is a right afforded all refugees under the law who are in the process of becoming naturalized citizens. I believe it has come to light that you paid relatives to occupy your secondary homes in Maine, Florida, Hawaii, California and Aspen to skirt the law… We have emails regarding payments that were made to various relatives… I quote, “I would just as soon burn down these places than let recruits sleep in my beds.” Recruits? What would they have been recruits for exactly?
Mann- Um… The Democrat Party most likely…
Rep. Washington- The sums of money you have donated to what has been determined to be subversive causes is impressive. Racist, xenophobic fronts abound and as a wealthy donor, you must know that giving to these causes makes you a defacto bigot. A lot has been improved an eliminated over the years. Citizen policing boards to ensure no profiling of any sector of the public ever occurs again within the ranks of our police officers. The Common Access Act which provides that anybody of any gender can and must be allowed access to areas formerly reserved for specific genders… Men only. Women only… This is not much different from colored only. Reactionary subversion cannot be tolerated. We are a tolerant and educated people that take equality for all seriously… So with this said we will read off a list of your charges.
Rep. Harrison- “Stand and piss the way god intended men to do. Piss on the seat, the rim and floor. Let them all know a man was there and don’t apologize for being a man…” This was recorded April of 2018 at an airport in Dallas. “Women get all riled up over the word Cunt… You get a bitch hormonally unbalanced due to bleeding monthly or when the tap gets shut down and we should be able to read a situation at all times or we are oblivious… Is it any wonder dad always looked like a defeated veteran of a foreign war most the time? He went to war daily and lost. He couldn’t discuss it with you because you were idolized by the enemy… Where did women like Margret Thatcher go? You have this crazy cunt giving the farm away and letting anyone steal the crops and claims it’s owed to them…” Which crazy cunt would you be referring to, Mr. Mann? This was recorder June of 2020 in an elevator of your company.
Mr. Mann took a sip of water and winced as if it was cheap vodka going down hard. He ran his index finger around his collar and then replied.
Mann- my people were once farmers. I might have meant my grandmother was giving away the farm as the saying goes but I don’t recall the comment and quite possibly it may have been taken out of context. The urination comment was directed at a man who had disc surgery to his back and could not sit and urinate properly. The comment must be noted that the man to whom I was speaking was in great pain and had difficulty sitting and urinating as is now law but a law which is difficult to police for many reasons… Is that all?
Rep. Washington- Not even half done… Comments here which I must refrain from reading because they are so offensive. Comments about different races, religions, over weight people and the government. You believe and have publicly stated that the government is on the wrong track and that we are all being led down a path to destruction. All are very serious… I am going to recommend that Mr. Mann be added to the growing list of subversives that have already been identified and added to the list. Unless we as diligent Americans step forward and cut out these cancers that surround us, we will return to the way it was back in 2008 and I don’t think any of us in good faith could want that for this country.

So what became of Mr. Mann? He took his severance package and went to live out the rest of his days in Argentina. Years later a reporter for a television show in the United States found the former American on his ranch in rural Argentina. He was hunted down like a former Nazi doctor and questioned from the fence of his ranch as he sat upon his horse. “Do you have a comment for Americans at home that wonder what has become of you?” Mann rubbed his scruff, pushed back his silver hair and said, “If I lived in a house with no windows and only two doors leading nowhere… I’d get the fuck out of that house anyway I could.”

September 1, 2016

They Got Your Number

Dirk’s phone rang while he picked his nose and read text message while standing and pissing over the toilet at work. Dirk had to roll up his sleeve and reach into his piss to retrieve the phone. The ring tone of a barking dog was what went off every time Dirk’s wife called. Dirk had the ring tone on high. When it rang, the bark echoed in the large men’s room at work. For others that were in that room at that moment, it sounded like a real German Sheppard in the bathroom. One puzzled pisser looked under the stall to find a guy kneeling and swearing over the toilet bowl. It was 9am and it already had the making of a bad day.
While Dirk was sitting on the red line, elevated train which ran parallel to Lake Michigan on Chicago’s north side towards downtown, he made a few phone calls and paid a bill over the phone.
“1776 1812 1942 911… expiration date 1-21… numbers on the back? 9000… zip code? 60203 and the name on the card should be Dirk P. Eller. E L L E R.”
Sitting next to Dirk was a chubby young man with a bike helmet on, holding a skateboard with a long beard like a relief pitcher in baseball, a post Civil War president or even a religious Jew. The young man had recently been deposed from his city of Chicago job for sleeping on the job. His job was to place the Denver Boot, wheel lock device on automobiles that had collect more than three unpaid tickets to the city of Chicago. The man’s name was Bill. Bill got off of work and played video games all day at home, on his couch until he noticed the sun was gone through the window. Bill got home from work, ate cold cuts and pizza crust that was two days old out of a box resting on the garbage, turned on his X Box and literally played until he had to return to work. Where did the time go Bill wondered to himself. He finished work at 8 am, got home by 10 am, ate, took a shit and then played until 10pm at night. No sleep. Not even a nap and it was time to return to work. A couple of No-Doze pills and a Red Bull gave Bill the runs quick and then he was alert until about 4 am. At about that time, Bill pulled behind a car that he was supposed to be placing the boot on and fell asleep until 9 am. When he opened his eyes, the world was fast at work. Cars everywhere, people walking and the sun was high in the sky. He had 24 missed calls on his phone which was on silent. This was the third time. Bill lost his job. Nobody feels pity for tow truck drivers or those that place the boot on autos or for sheriffs that need to evict people when they lose their jobs. All are well hated. Bill happened to be recording all the information Dirk was giving over the phone. Dirk was well dressed and looked like a smug, rich fuck. Bill was going to have a little fun with his ex-boss and charge it to Dirk’s card. Bill reasoned that the goods would be returned and Dirk wouldn’t actually have to pay anything.
Dirk’s phone in the toilet? Yes, it was Dirk’s wife who discovered a charge of almost $10,000.00 to an online sex toy outlet. A semi truck full of boxes addressed to Bill’s boss who had fired him, arrived at their city office off of Addison street, just west of Wrigley Field. Hundreds, maybe a thousand dildos crafted, pink tips painted with care by hand by genuine Mexicans in Mexico and imported to the United States. Wait until Trump hears about this!
When Bill’s boss went down to shipping and found a room full of boxes addressed to him, he became curious. He cracked open a box and pulled out one of the containers and found a 12 inch black penis. Others were white. Some had huge veins and were wide. circumcised and not. Some were double and triple dongs. Dirk’s wife looked at their statement and found that their was a huge purchase to an online sex merchandise company and jumped to the conclusion that her husband was still a deranged sex fiend and a repeat offender. He had been caught skyping a Russian woman in the past. She was on the bed plowing herself with a cock that looked much like the one Bill’s boss received when Dirk’s wife Dawn woke up one night to find Dirk beating off and moaning in the basement. After marriage counselling and vows to give up such fantasies, the huge purchase put Dawn over the cliff. She jumped to conclusions. How could he spend so much on sex but I can’t get granite counter tops in the kitchen?
By the time Dirk got to the Apple store and replaced his phone, Dirk had received dozens of text messages from his wife.
“YOU SICK PERVERTED CREATURE. YOU BELONG WITH THAT WEINER GUY FROM NEW YORK. YOUR BOTH SICK FUCKS. I TRIED TO REVERSE THE CHARGES AND I CANNOT. THE BANK SAID THAT IT HAS BEEN OVER 24 HOURS SINCE YOU BOUGHT THIS SHIT. THE COMPANY WILL NOT TAKE IT BACK. WHO IS YOUR FRIEND AT THE CITY OF CHICAGO THAT ACCEPTED THIS SHIT FOR YOU? I DON’T NEED TO KNOW. I’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR HOURS AND IT GOES TO VOICE MAIL. THE OFFICE COULDN’T REACH YOU. I AM LEAVING THIS MORNING TO STAY WITH MY MOTHER IN MICHIGAN. I GOT THE NEXT FLIGHT OUT. I THOUGHT YOU TURNED THE CORNER AND THAT YOU LOVED ME AND WANTED TO WORK ON US BUT REALLY YOUR JUST A TWISTED LITTLE MAN. YOU BOUGHT THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS OF SEX TOYS BUT CAN’T EVEN TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER UNLESS YOU HAVE A GROUPON. FUCK YOU! WE’RE DONE!”
I want to tell you that the merchandise was sent back and the culprit was caught. I want to tell you that the money was put back in the Eller account and that Dirk’s wife believed that fraud took place. The bank told Dirk to check with the City of Chicago. Dirk talked to numerous people, explained what had happened only to be hung up on or put on hold. Nobody gave credence to such an outrageous story. The bank held Dirk responsible for the charge since he and his wife failed to contact the bank within 24 hours of the fraud. The bank suggested he go to his local police office and ask for a detective. Dirk went to the local police station next and was further frustrated. Dirk lost his cool with the woman behind the bullet proof glass at the police station after having had to repeat the chain of events several times.
“I’m speaking English to you… I shouldn’t need to repeat myself! Somebody bought $10,000.00 worth of dildos and charged it to my account. The bank won’t reimburse me and they suggested I go see a detective at the police station nearest to my home.”
The indifferent clerk behind the glass asked Dirk the wrong question which set him off.
“Sir… This isn’t a job for detectives… What do you want me to do?”
Dirk suggested to the woman that he would come behind the glass and insert every last dildo up her ass. That prompted cops within an ear shot of the conversation to come out and detain him. He was charged with a misdemeanor offense of threatening an officer of the law. He got out on bail. It really was a bad day for Dirk. And some days are like this.

July 30, 2016

Questions to a White Dad from His Black Daughter

Every dad, everywhere, is bombarded by questions by their young children.  Sometimes the questions are things overlooked by adults like why don’t we fly or why don’t we breathe water?  Are you the smartest man in the world?  Are you the strongest man in the world?  What were you doing in the bedroom when you pulled the covers up on you and momma, really fast?
At a commercial break on a kid’s show, this dad checked the weather, baseball scores and then put on cable news.  The screen flashed a sound bite from Hillary, her vice presidential candidate Tim Kaine and then Donald Trump.  Images of the murderers of a priest in a church in France flashed and then a Black Lives Matter protest.  The daughter got bored with the soup du jour of the political world.
daughter- daddy?
dad- hmm?
daughter- can we watch the Power Puff Girls again?
dad- of course…  I just get scared when you watch commercials.  I find myself going to Toys R Us too often then.
daughter- do you watch anything else except this stuff about Hillary and Donald Trump?
dad- you know I watch baseball and hockey…  I also watch shows on Cartoon Network with you.
daughter- do you like Teen TItans?
dad- they make me laugh.  Do you like politics?
daughter- nope.  Momma says that only an idiot would vote for Donald Trump.  Are you going to vote for him?
dad- if I vote for Trump, are you going to call me an idiot?
daughter- nope.
dad- if momma votes for Hillary, I wouldn’t call her blind.
daughter- blonde?
dad- yes…
daughter- how can momma be blonde?  She’s a black woman.  Black women don’t have blonde hair.
dad- I think there are black women that dye their hair blonde.
daughter- momma wouldn’t do that… daddy?
dad- yes…
daughter- what’s it like to be a man?
dad- wow…  that’s a tough question.  It’s like being a serious boy.  I still feel like a boy but I know I’m not anymore.
daughter- I would say you act like a boy still.
dad- thank you…
daughter- do you like being white?
dad- oh boy…  You got some deep questions today…  I like being who I am and being a man who is white is okay with me.  I like who I am.  I wish I was more handsome and taller.
daughter- the kids at school said that I’m black because I’m tanner than the white kids.
dad- your dad is white and your mom is black.  That makes you both.  People can say whatever they want but you will always be both.  You are one of the prettiest girls in the world.  I’ve seen a lot of girls so I know what I’m talking about.
daughter- some kids at school are mean.
dad- yes they are.  If you were to tell someone who happens to be white that they are ugly, fat or stupid, they’re feelings would be hurt.  You don’t need to say anything though.  You point the ones out to me when I drop you off at school and I can say it for you.  I’ll say, “Hey chubby-ob-avitch!  How many freckles do you have and do you have them on your ass.
daughter- you can’t say ass.
dad- I can say it to anyone who acts like one
daughter- how did I get blue eyes?
dad- someone in my family and your mother’s, had to have had blue eyes.  My parents were both right handed but I came out left handed.  Someone in my mom and dad’s family had to be left handed.
daughter- daddy?
dad- yes…
daughter- do black lives matter to you?
dad- this is like an interview today…  What happened to asking me questions like why a dog’s tail wags?  All lives matter to me.
daughter- I heard ladies at the hair salon say that if any white people say that all lives matter, then they’re racist…  What’s a racist?
dad- um…  a racist is someone who judges others based on the color of their skin, religion or where they are from…  Like all black people are like this or all white people are like that.
daughter- are you racist?
dad- I like to think that I’m not but someone might think that I am.  I can always say that I was once married to a black woman and my daughter is part black…  I could say like a lot of other white people who because I have a black friend, I couldn’t possibly be racist.  Do you get what I’m saying?
daughter- I think so…
dad- if I saw someone drowning or burning in a building, I wouldn’t be more likely to save someone because they were white.  Any life matters.  I wouldn’t want to die in water or by fire and would hope that my life matters to someone if they could help me.
daughter- did you know there used to be slaves and they were black?
dad- yes, I learned about that too.  It was wrong and sad and white people who didn’t agree with slavery, went to war with other white people who did want slavery.  It was a really bad war where lot’s of people died.  Even President Lincoln was killed over not wanting slavery.
daughter- if you could be an animal, which animal would you be?
dad- now that’s the sort of question I’m used to…  Today I would be a hippo.  I would go in the pool and cool off all day, then get up and eat, fart and go to sleep.
daughter- you fart a lot now.
dad- You do too.  You must get it from me.
The daughter got quiet and watched the television but she wasn’t really watching.  She was deep in thought.  She held one of her stuffed animals from the latest Disney movie in her hands and looked out of the window.  The father turned down the television volume and added one last thing.
dad- do you know what I wish?
daughter- what?
dad- I wish you could stay the same age you are now so that I always could keep you safe and know where you are.  I would never let boys try to kiss you and never let anyone try to give you drugs…  I know it isn’t possible to wish for that and have it come true so my wish is that you grow up happy and stay healthy and have a good job one day and find someone who makes you happy if that’s what you want and you come to see me now and then when I’m old.
daughter- you’re already old.
dad- yup… So don’t forget to visit your old man when you grow up.
daughter- I would never forget about you.
dad-  ok good.  Now we understand each other and the world completely.
daughter- yup…
The daughter curled up in the crook of her father’s arm and went back to watching her show.  The dad thought about being tired, what he had to get done during the course of the day, what bills he had to pay and things he needed to get done that day while his daughter reloaded.
daughter- daddy?
dad- yes, baby…
daughter- who are terrorists and where do you find them?
dad- Wow, wow, wow…I think we need to eat first before we answer anymore questions.  Would that be alright with you?
daughter- yes…  Well I am pretty hungry.  I’ll have more questions for you later.
dad- Yes…  More questions…  Of course…  Always.

June 1, 2016

Timebombs

It isn’t possible to send out E-vites before expiring and passing on to heaven, another life or nothing, depending on what you believe.  There are no parties with tears and hugs before getting on to a helicopter and waving goodbye to everyone the way President Nixon did when he resigned.  No smile, wave and peace symbols flashed with your fingers before passing on.  It happens suddenly or it drags on.  It happens peacefully or we agonize and panic.  There really is no good way out.  We really are time bombs and don’t know when it is that we go off.
Andrew Millar received the news that he was going to die from cancerous polyps in his intestine, throughout his colon and into his blood stream.  He felt as he always felt but upon finding blood in his shit quite often, he decided to visit the doctor who sent him for tests.  In the same time in the same town, there was a man name Andrew Miller who was also worried about blood in the stool, saw his doctor and was sent in for testing.  The oncologist that was reading the results of Millar and Miller, mixed the two up.  The doctor told Millar that he should wrap up anything he needed to get done in the next six weeks when actually he just had anal fissures and nothing more and told Miller that he was absolutely fine when in reality, he had about six weeks to live.  It was an honest mistake brought on by the distraction that the FDA and FBI were about to bust the onocologist for prescribing unsanctioned, cheap Canadian drugs that were not approved so that he could make more money than if he purchased the cancer drugs through approved sources in the United States.  Who doesn’t want to save money?
Now Millar was a Jazz guitarist that never quite cracked the fame ceiling and was able to sustain himself just on playing music.  Millar had to teach guitar to young men who wanted to learn Led Zepplin riffs, play Glen Miller ( no pun intended ) songs at nursing homes and Kool and the Gang songs at weddings.  To really pay the bills, Millar was a substitute teacher in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles County.  Millar usually brought his guitar to try to calm the high school age kids.  He would ask them to name songs and he would play them and as time went on, kids no longer listened to much music that required guitar.  They would throw out Ariana Grande, Justin Beiber or other syrupy, bubble gum stuff that really didn’t have guitar in it.  The youngsters were not impressed with his talent.  He was just a dumpy old man who looked like he hated the world.  Millar wore frayed jeans with a collared shirt untucked so as to not accentuate his second trimester belly fat.  He had a receding hair-line and he hated that life seemed to be changing for the worse for people like him- white, male, under employed, baby boomers.  Jazz was his sanctuary.  He would show up for Jazz jams around the city where a couple or two would listen to really great musicians play out of a bible of memorized standards.  It really was the same shit over and over.  It seems that all the Jazz that anyone ever played, was created during a 15 year period which ended with the Bossa Nova fling in the 1960’s.  Other than that, Millar really did not like his life.  Being a substitute teacher is what he loathed the most in life.
Upon receiving the news that he was going to die soon.  Millar was getting ready to sell everything on Craig’s List that he could get rid of and move to Amsterdam until he died.  He was going to smoke hash when the cancer really took hold, fuck prostitutes without protection and play Jazz is some really cool clubs in a very seemingly cool country.  The phone rang early on a Monday morning.
“Listen…  I’m going to die very soon…  You know what I’m saying?  In six weeks or less, it’s taps for me.  I don’t need the sixty bucks a day after taxes just to put up with little fucks who think they have it all figured out.”
“Just this one last time…  I’m absolutely in dire straits right now.  I have illness, births, deaths and not enough people to watch these rooms…  What can I do to sweeten the deal?”
A bottle of Woodford Reserve Bourbon and the day’s pay.  Millar walked into the room to find the students sitting on top of desks, shouting, talking on cell phones and one young black man was dancing in front of a mirror.  The students were part of a “special” class where they were all just incident away from possibly becoming part of true special education environment.  Millar, moved the desks into a circle and then told the students to sit where ever they want.  Millar stood in the middle.  The students quieted down.  They were intrigued by the seating arrangement.  Millar looked down and supported his chin with his thumb and index finger.  He looked both troubled and deep in thought.  A female finally asked him what was going on.
“No bullshit busy work today.  Your regular teacher is dying or giving birth or just blowing this off because she is frazzled.  I have no idea why and it doesn’t matter to me.  I have my own cross to burn today…  I want you each to look at me and tell me one thing that comes to mind about me.  We will go clockwise…  You sir…  You’re first.”
“Old, fat, sloppy, angry, tired, lazy, white, poor, ugly, stupid, racist…”
“Very good…  You’re getting the game.  So let’s back up and guess what I was like as a ninth grader like all of you.  I was a nineth back in 1982!  Before cellphones, graphic porn, PCs, laptops and a slew of other things that have managed to baby sit all of you today…  Sir…  Start again.”
“Nerdy, skinny, small, scared, pasty, introverted, nose picker, masturbator, momma’s boy…”
“Well…  It’s as if you were all right there with me back in 1982…  Okay, now it’s my turn.”
Millar rolled up his sleeves, took out a small bottle of Woodford Reserve from his pocket, took a swig, wiped his mouth like a pirate, exhaled loudly, clapped his hands and then rubbed them together.
“You there…  Art chick.  Tall and blonde, nice brand new body on you.  You may have gone lesbian for shock value or will by the time you enter into a college.  Once the shock of lesbian wares off, you’ll have a black guy.  Not the safe Uncle Tom types that take up ice hockey and if you close your eyes, you’d swear you were talking to a nerdy white guy…  You know what I’m talking about homey, dontcha?”
Millar pointed to the young black man with braids, sitting with his legs spread and his arms crossed, wondering where this was going.  And wondering more- why?
“The oreo type that uses words like awesome after everything.  Maybe calls guys bro or dude.  He likes skiing and salsa dancing with his really white girlfriend.  They’ll take a cooking class together and Lamaze someday when they decide to spawn little zebras…  No not that type of safe black man.  I’m talking about the guy who washes his car daily, with special rims and a special stereo system that sounds like bombs falling on London with the deep bass.  His white gym shoes are a cherrished possession.  Maybe was in a gang or is in a gang.  Lives a rough and tumble life in south central LA but gets bused all the way out to Woodland Hills just so he gets to see where really white whites hide away from the real world.  Tattoos, malt liquor, weed and speaks in mumbling, unintelligible half sentences and could never look the young white art chick’s dad in the eye and say, “pleased to meet you”.  Not pleased to meet you actually…  Dude…  What else do we have here?  Ah yes…  You there.”
A muscular white guy with his team football jersey on who was squinting and picking at his nails.  He was intrigued.
“You young man…  The proverbial boy next door.  You won’t probably make it to division I or II football.  You’re too slow, too white and not meaty enough.  You need to put on about 100 lbs and six inches just so you can stand on a line and bash your helmet into another equally grotesquely large man until someday voices in your head tell you to kill yourself.  No, you won’t go pro but you could wind up a bouncer for a really chic dance club near Hollywood.  You’ll marry some petite shrew, divorce, see your kids two weekends a month, sell cars or real estate and learn that you’re not a salesman…  You’ll have an epiphany at the age of like 28 that you should go back to school to become a PE teacher and get a gig as a…  ready for this?  A high school football coach!  My advice- don’t wait until you cannot sell cars or homes.  Go to college and become a PE teacher right away…  What else have we here?  Ah you…”
A chubby Mexican boy wearing shiny black shoes, dress pants, a plain white T-shirt and a blue flannel shirt buttoned only at the top.  Millar walked by and put his hand on his shoulder before going to the chalk  board and wrote a word in large letters.
ASSIMILATE
“Vato…  What is this word in Spanish?  Someday when I’m long gone and white people go the way of the Dodo Bird, it will be a moot word.  A word not necessary anymore.  Y’see…  Old white fucks like me go home and watch old television reruns and wonder where that America went.  Half the shit in this city is written in Spanish.  The Germans, Dutch, French, Italians all learned English.  The Koreans, Polish and Russians have all muddled along but not the Mexicans.  We need to write polite versions of be smart and don’t run on a wet floor in Spanish.  Why not Dutch or German?  Because they Came here and learned the language and became part of America.  Who created Donald Trump?…  Excuse the expression…  You people by not assimilating.  ASSIMILATE…  The word of the day.  Not because you’re rapists and murderers or taking jobs beneath all other Americans…  None of that shit.  For every white or black or Asian children born, there are three Latinos, Hispanics…  Primarily Mexicans being born.  Blacks don’t realize yet that at 12% of the population, they are the minorities.  Not the Latinos…  And that tag makes me laugh.  What exactly is Latin about Mayans who were conquered by Spaniards and forced to learn a European language…  So you, gordo…  You got a charp Chevy Chort…  Maybe a 1964 Impala lowered to about three inches off the ground.  You hang out in your barrio and try to kill others who are not from your barrio, right, essay…  Who have I left out?  Oh yes…  The Asian.”
A smallish Filipino boy sat with his arms folded and was in awe of what was being spewed by the substitute teacher.
“So you speak like you’re black and love the hip-hop culture.  You drive around in a little noisy Honda all souped up to race around with other smaller Asian lads on weekends.  You have a Spanish surname, sound like you’re black and will wind up going to college to become a nurse.  You’ll marry another Asian and get together with only other Asians and will live happily as can be.  That is provided you don’t get a divorce and decide to return to Manila, dress like a broad and sing bad Madonna covers in lounges as a career…  If you do, things are all set up for you here now.  You can piss wherever you want.  You got a cock but feel like there’s a woman trying to get out of you…  Fucking piss anywhere you want.  In fact, I’d claim to be LBG or T just to get a civil servant job.  That new group will be in the front row for any sort of new affirmative action…  Well I could go on and on really.  I hope that I have reached you all in some small way and let you know how we older people see you.  Know that the best years of your life are right now and that when you have to fend for yourself, it will suck.  Can’t wait to be 21 so you can drink?  You’ll need a drink to deal with life in America…  The greatest, strongest, smartest, most witty nation in the world and that is only our opinion of ourselves… where everyone aspires to be just like us except people like this young lady here with the head scarf.  Maybe she will find the love of her life in a camp in Syria, strap a bomb to her chest and take out the French or holiday workers in San Bernardino.  You say that is racist and unfair?  How many Hindus or Buddhists are beheading westerners in the name of their religion?  So unfair to think that way…  I know, I know.  They come here to wear blue jeans and drink Starbucks just like the rest of us.  Maybe they’re just trying to keep us from being more miserable and fucking things up more than we already are.  Picture this as a commencement speech from an angry old man that is dying.  I’m dying and will be dead long before all of you provided you don’t keep your heads up your asses.  Stereotypes aside- you are what makes America what it is.  Love it or go fuck yourself…  I think the bell will ring soon.  Whatever you do, just try to be happy.  Life is short and one day you get to be my age and look at the youth and want to just slap them into reality.  I hope I’ve done that today…  Either way, you won’t forget me for a while…  Class dismissed.”
Millar got home and saw the number 2 blinking on his answering machine that he purchased back in 1988 that was linked to his landline telephone.  Millar had a suspicion about one of the calls and he was right.  It was the school principal and he sounded like he was going to have a heart attack or stroke.
“What the fuck did you do today?  You are not getting paid for today. You are not getting any Scotch. You are not coming back to this school.  You will probably get sued and wind up on the news.  I guess if there is any saving grace to any of this shit is that you didn’t show up with a gun and just kill us all.  You may have killed my job and any chance of becoming a superintendent someday and for that I have to say fuck you, you fucking dick.  You twisted fuck.”
Millar poured himself a drink turned on the computer and checked email.  There was a bunch of junk from the Mayo Clinic, invites to play gigs for twenty dollars here or there and then one from one of the students.  Millar read it and then re-read it.  He turned off his computer and then turned it back on and re-read it one more time.
“Dear Mr. Millar,
I won’t let you know who I am.  I don’t want to be categorized further.  I just want to let you know that maybe we were wrong about you and maybe you were wrong about us.  You are right that we won’t soon forget you.  I cliqued on the link to your music page and you are a great guitarist.  I’m not a Jazz fan but liked what you play.  We all would have liked to hear you play instead of try to stereotype us.  Whatever…  It’s done now.  Just thought you should know that just because you’ve lived longer, it doesn’t mean you have it all figured out and you certainly don’t have all the answers.  That’s all.
 Millar forgot to play the second message on his answering machine.  He went back and hit play several times.
“Mr. Millar, I would like a call back from you but in the interim, I have some good news for you.  You are not going to die in six weeks from cancer.  You results were mixed up with another man with a very similar name to you.  You are absolutely fine and should live a long and happy life.  Call me if you wish to discuss this further.  Please let me know that you received this message.”
Message received.  All of them.

May 13, 2016

Hamsters and Half Families

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,suburbia,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 12:47 am
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Doug divorced Daphne and found a woman named Dawn. Dawn was married to a guy named Dwayne. Daphne met a guy named Don who was divorced from a woman named Doris… All parties concerned had children of their own that either lived with them full-time or part-time.

Daphne bought her eleven year old daughter an I-Phone Six for her birthday. After being beaten up and wore down by hearing that all her friends were on Instagram and all her friends had really nice phones, Daphne relented and spent the money for her daughter to have a really nice phone. This purchase left Doug wondering what he could buy his child that would not seem cheap and insignificant. A spa day? A new bike? Clothes and maybe a trip to Claire’s at the mall? No, those things would all seem sad in comparison to a phone. Doug decided on a hamster.

In the past, when Doug was still married to Daphne, Doug went out and bought a guinea pig. Doug had a great amount of disdain for the animal. It shit often and constantly made baby pig sounds after being over fed by the children. When Daphne took the children to see their grandparents out-of-town, Doug put the guinea pig in the backyard. Doug reasoned that it was summer and that fresh air would be good for the little fucker and then he wouldn’t need to hear its crying out for food every few minutes and smell it’s shit all over the house. Doug was asleep on the couch when Daphne came home early and unexpected. There was a sink full of dishes, dirty clothes all over the floor, half empty beer cans, a spent bottle of scotch and the guinea pig was dead in the backyard. His young daughter stood crying, holding her pet that was missing it’s head.

“I LEAVE FOR THREE FUCKING DAYS AND THIS PLACE LOOKS LIKE A FRAT HOUSE. GET THE FUCK OUTSIDE AND CONSOLE YOUR DAUGHTER! HER PET IS MISSING IT’S FUCKING HEAD… YOU ARE SUCH A GODDAMN CHILD, DOUGLAS!”

Verbal beat downs like that were common and then one day Doug decided to leave Daphne and the kids. He met another woman with children who was disgruntled with her current husband and so she left him and so this goes on everywhere today. Doug got to thinking that a guinea pig would really suck even though his daughter really loved the animal. He thought about ferrets, a chinchilla and then decided on a hamster. He went on Craig’s List and found an animal and its little biosphere to live in for $25.00. Not only would his daughter love the gift nearly as much as a phone but it cost almost nothing. Deirdre, their daughter loved the little animal. Daphne hated it.

“It looks like a baby rat without a tail. Why did you get an all black rodent? Couldn’t you find a multi-colored one or just a white one?”

The deal was that when Deirdre was with Daphne, the hamster lived at Daphne’s house. When it was Doug’s turn to have the kids, the rodent would travel with them. The arrangement worked well for weeks until one particular Wednesday.

HEY- I’M STUCK IN TRAFFIC. i NEED TO DROP OFF ONE OF DAWN’S KIDS FROM DANCE AND GET THE OTHER ONE TO LITTLE LEAGUE. CAN YOU MEET ME AT THE MALL AND I WILL GET THE KIDS?

ummm what about the hamster?

WOULD IT BE TOO MUCH FOR YOU TO JUST HOLD ONTO THE HAMSTER FOR THE NIGHT? BY THE TIME WE GET TO MY PLACE, THEY WILL SHOWER AND GO TO BED.

sure. i had a feeling this was going to happen.

Daphne woke up to make a coffee early and watch the news. It was nearly six in the morning. She curled up on the couch and watched the latest about Hilary, Trump, Bernie, tornadoes, wild fires in Canada and the freak du jour who attacked dozens of people with a knife in a mall in some other state when out of the corner of her eye, she saw something take off across the floor. Daphne put on a pair of her black trendy Hunter boots that looked perfect for walking through horse shit in a stable and began looking for the thing that caught her attention. Daphne went into Deirdre’s room to rule out the hamster and noticed a hole in the tube that led from one part of the home for the animal, to a treadmill. The hole was covered with gray duct tape that had been gnawed through. The thing that caught Daphne’s attention was the hamster. Daphne ran downstairs, grabbed the round top that covered cakes and walked around looking for the pet. She moved couches, books on the floor, chairs until she found the little bastard cowering in a corner. She was afraid that it would run across the heat register on the floor and fall into the heating duct work. The animal was in the corner. The round cake cover would not work. Daphne needed to think quickly. She grabbed her son’s shiny/floor hockey net and threw it on top of the animal and then put a pot over him. Her next order of business was to call Doug.

“You bought this fucking animal. You never discussed it with me first and I have to house and feed this thing that looks like something I’m trying to catch in mouse traps. You said you would take this thing when the kids are with you and now I have this fucking thing running around the house because you bought a cheap, used piece of shit that was covered with duct tape. You never cease to amaze me with how fucking cheap you are. Are you this fucking cheap with Dawn and her kids? I bet you’re not… Not yet at least. You get over here right now and get this fucking animal and put it back in its cage!”

Doug woke Deirdre on a school day and hustled her over to her mother’s house in her pajamas. Daphne was wearing her thick glasses and a pair of bacon flannel pajamas and a Michigan State pull over. Oh and the Hunter boots.

Doug was a big, strong man but he didn’t like to handle fish or lizards or snakes or rodents. It was going to be his job to reach in a grab the terrified hamster so that it would not take off to another part of the living room. Doug lifted the pot just enough to reach his arm in and feel around for the hamster. Doug felt it in his hand but was afraid he might crush the small animal and loosely tried to remove it. The hamster ran up Doug’s long sleeve shirt and clung to his forearm. Doug screamed like a little girl and shook his arm like it was on fire. The hamster went flying across the room and landed on it’s back on top of a glue board that Daphne had set up for the potential of any mice. Deirdre tried to pry her animal from the glue board. The animal squeaked loudly and moved all four of its legs fiercely in an attempt to get free. Doug had Dawn at home in bed with the other children- the rest of his and all of her’s. Doug had a meeting in a few hours and still needed to get clean clothes for the kids out of the dryer, feed them, make lunches and get them all to school. Deidra screamed as if she was being killed.

“Daddy, do something! President Sanders is stuck to the glue board!”

Doug looked at Daphne with his hands on his hips and pursed lips.

“How could you be so negligent as to leave glue boards on the floor with an animal like this? Now this thing is going to die and I’m going to need to replace it.”

Deirdre screamed louder and cried harder.

“Way to go, Ace… You had to say this in front of your daughter while she’s already stressed. You are a piece of work.”

Doug responded. Daphne rebutted. Deirdre cried more. Daphne hugged Deidra and told her that she would save the hamster. She said she would take him to the vet and make it all better. So how did things get fixed?

At about noon time, Daphne took a picture with a black hamster with a strip of fur shaved off of it’s back and sent it to Doug with a text message.

this animal cost me fifty dollars. a secure home for it cost me another fifty. you can add that to the money you already owe me. going forward, do not buy an animal as a gift. when this thing dies, think of something else.

Doug responded

HOW DID YOU GET THE HAMSTER OFF OF THE GLUE BOARD?

Umm, I called the tooth fairy and santa and begged for a new one that looked like the old one and he arrived under my pillow an hour ago. The little fucker had a heart attack and died right after you left. I bought a new, black, rat looking animal so that our daughter doesn’t need to go for counselling.

COOL. KK.

 

April 21, 2016

Hockey On Monday’s Only

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:19 pm
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“This is a new era…  There are many things you can’t say no more.  I grew up with 30 different names just for black people.  Then you had the Jews, Asians, Hispanics and then the gays.  Gay could have meant actually gay or it could have meant stupid, wimpy or retarded back then.  We can’t use retarded today either.  The day is coming when we won’t be able to call another man a pussy and maybe it’s good and maybe it’s not…  I dunno.  All I do know for sure is that people, some people, want your head on a stick today…  The gays are season ticket holders in this small town.  We could have been stuck in minor league hockey half way up the arctic circle in towns where they only want to see guys get their brains bashed in out in the fucking tundra.  It’s a nice town here.  We’re in Florida for fuck’s sake.  The league wants us to come down hard on you.  Like they want us to get rid of you.  This is the fourth time.  Fines, suspensions and sensitivity training and you’re still calling people names like homos, faggots, queers, gayrods…   What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Byron pulled his long hair back and took a sip of his coffee.  The nerve was still alive in one of his teeth that was cracked in half from a puck to the face from the night before.  He had stitches in his chin and his left eye watered for years involuntarily from a stick to the eye.  Byron was a low-level warrior born in a town near Sudbury, Ontario.  He played two levels below the NHL, earned $32,000.00 a year and lived in a trailer park outside of Fort Myers, Florida.  When Lord Byron as he was known wasn’t playing ice hockey, we was sitting outside his double wide trailer, drinking beer with the neighbors, having lot’s of sex and riding his motorcycle.  Byron didn’t care about being a fourth liner on an NHL team.  In Florida, he was a star in the community.  He did local commercials for Mexican restaurants, car dealerships and bail bonds.  He started a summer camp strictly for obese children that didn’t have the money to go to fat camps.  Byron loved his life.  Slowly, the town to the west, nearest the ocean, became a hot spot for older gay couples from the northern part of the United States as well as Quebec.  There were a lot of French-speaking gay couples too.  Byron grew up thinking that all French speaking Canadians were gay.

So here’s what happened- A team from Macon, Georgia had a player from Byron’s childhood area that was a native Canadian.  Indian, indigenous whatever you prefer.  The player had crossed checked Byron years ago when they were in youth hockey.  The player got Byron in front of the net and crossed checked his kidneys so hard that he wound up pissing blood for a few days.  It was hard for Byron to move but he finished the game and vowed to seek retribution someday.  The day came for Byron.  The player wound up getting picked up in the southern states by an opposing team.  Byron waited until the player made a pass from the boards in front of his own team’s bench.  He hit the guy who had once made his kidneys bleed from the inside and dumped him head first over the boards.  Then he dropped his gloves and waited for the player to get up, get back on the ice and face him.  The guy wouldn’t fight Byron.  It could have been that Byron had blindsided him and he was winded, dazed from landing on his head or knew Byron was a fighter and that he had thirty pounds on him.

“You fucking faggot…  You’d rather have a cock in your mouth or ass than play hockey, wouldn’t you?  Remember giving me a stick to the back in midgets, you fucking asshole.  I almost had to go on dialysis because of you.  Let’s go, you fucking faggot ass pussy motherfucker.  I’m gonna make you piss blood tonight.”

Byron forgot that he was wired for sound.  To try to build interest in ice hockey in a part of the country that only had ice in little glasses pool side,  the team made all players take turns wearing a camera.  It was Byron’s turn to wear the camera.  Families at home on the internet got to hear Byron in real-time.  Byron killed a lot of interest that day.  Local families watched and heard, everything that went on in a local game that day from Byron’s perspective.  Byron had two fights and a hat trick.  One of his goals was the game winner.  Byron forgot about the camera until the press conference when he was asked how he felt about homosexuals.

“How do I feel about what?  Did you say homosexuals?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“What kind of question is that?”

“As you know, you were outfitted with a camera that recorded everything that went on in the game from the top of your helmet.  Fans got to really be a part of your goals and fights.  You used a homophobic slur while challenging an opposing player to a fight for an incident that occurred at a previous game when you were a youth.  The fans of south Florida will want to know your thoughts.  We want to be the first to carry it.”

“Well …  You got to understand that certain things are said sometimes but that they don’t mean anything bad towards anyone other than the person it is directed at, eh?  It’s part of the job to occasionally fight and before the fight…  Occasionally there are negotiations and discussions.”

The response made some laugh because they loved the gladiator nature of the sport and others it did not.  Some season ticket holders threatened to cancel their season tickets if Byron was not released from the team.  On local talk radio, it was a mixed bag.  Some liked the way Byron talked and others thought it was not good for children to hear graphic profanity and slams towards the gay community.  After it looked like Byron might be released over the fourth offense, Byron took to the airwaves again and offered an olive branch.

“I’m very sorry about the language I used that was broadcast locally.  I forgot that I had the camera on and well…  There is no excuse for what I said.  When I was a boy, my mother would have stuffed soap in my mouth for using profanity.  I wasn’t raised to swear.  I was raised in a town where I don’t think we had any gays.  We just got used to using that term but we didn’t mean nothing by it.  I understand that I could use other words and terms and so if I hurt anyone’s feelings by my language, I am truly sorry.  I don’t want anyone to feel badly about being gay.  It’s like being left-handed…  I’m left handed.  I often wondered why god made me a lefty when the whole world is righty.  Being gay has to be a little like that.  I dunno exactly but I’m sorry if I made anyone feel bad.  I don’t ever wish to make people feel bad…  If the community will accept my apology, I would like to start a youth and adult hockey program here in south Florida just for the gays.  If you’re gay and a man or a woman, or your a man but you feel like you might be a woman actually or whatever.  I don’t know how it all works…  What I’m offering is a chance for all of you who are gay, to come and learn the game.  Learn to skate, learn to play and have fun.  No charge…  It’s on me.”

Byron thought to call his clinics/camp, Lord Byron’s Hockey School for the Gays or South Florida’s Gay Hockey instead it was given the name a simple name- Lord Byron Hockey.  Games and clinics were on Monday nights.  A web site for it was set up.  The first four words after the name was- Hockey on Monday’s only.  Byron was not to blame for this one.  People laughed it off.  Byron’s camp was a success.  Everyone in the area wanted to learn to play hockey.  Men, women, children, blacks, Hispanics, Asians and homosexuals.  Hockey is actually for everyone.

 

 

 

 

April 16, 2016

Nothing To Fear Except a Lack of Fear Itself

                Mr. Illych, showed up as he always did.  That wasn’t really his name but his boss gave him that name because he was a little man who was completely bald up the middle and had sharp marsupial features.  Mr. Illych received that name because he resembled the George Washington of the USSR, Vladimir Lenin.  Illych’s name was something ordinary like Smith or Thomas. 

                                Citizen A, whose name was Alan, was an angry young man who collected baseball cards and listened to right wing radio shows until he wanted to kill people.  How could anyone want to ban people from a country?  How could anyone want to build a Berlin style wall on our southern border?  How could anyone want to punish women for sexual mistakes which took place whilst in the throes of passion?  Alan became militant upon stumbling upon a “progressive” radio program but saw an angle to make money.  Seeing that he was unemployed, living in his mother’s basement watching Mets games and listening to political radio shows, Alan devised a way to make a living. 

                Alan would write one liners on Facebook where he had thousands of followers and he would receive hundreds of thumbs up.  It was addicting to him.  He needed the adulation of his friends.  The silent thumbs up was like a thunderous ovation while giving a speech in the mind of Alan.

                “ANYONE WHO CREDIBLY THINKS TRUMP IS THE ANSWER, SHOULD BE GIVEN A LABOTOMY BY NURSE RACHET AND LEFT IN THE GOP LOONY BIN OF RIGHT WING, REACTIONARY FUCKS THAT WANT US ALL TO BE PROTESTANT AND ANGLO AGAIN.”

                “TED CRUZ IS A TELEVANGELIST IN SHEEPS CLOTHING.  READY FOR SEPARATE BUT EQUAL WATER FOUNTAINS, CLOTHES HANGER ABORTIONS AND SODOMY LAWS?  IT’S NOT JUST FOR THE SOUTH ANYMORE, Y’ALL.”

                “KASICH…  BY THE TIME I GET TO CLEVELAND, THEY’LL LOVE ME… 17 PEOPLE WANTED TO TAKE YOU TO THE PROM.  14 COULDN’T TAKE THE PAIN OF HEARING NO.  YOUR DADDY WON’T LET YOU GO TO THE DANCE WITH THE OTHER TWO…  I’LL BE WAITING IN THE CAR WHEN YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND.  YOU’LL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO DANCE WITH ME…  IN BEAUTIFUL CLEVELAND.”

                Maybe a dozen posts a day with hundreds and sometimes thousands of thumbs up, re-posted sharing of his wit and occasionally personal messages came to him on Facebook.

                “YOU SHOULD BE A COMEDIAN.”

                “YOU SHOULD RUN FOR OFFICE.”

                “YOU SHOULD PLAY A FLUTE.  PEOPLE WOULD FOLLOW YOU LIKE MICE.”

                “PLEASE LIKE MY COLLECTION OF POEMS FROM WHEN I WAS IN PRISON THAT I AM SELLING ON AMAZON.COM.”

                Alan thought that maybe people would follow him.  Maybe he did actually have leadership skills even though his dead father said that he would never be anything but a deadbeat sucking off his mother’s tit for the rest of his days.  One day a light went on in the attic of Alan’s mind- I could be an activist and an entrepreneur.

  Business was not going well for Alan’s enterprise.  It seemed nobody wanted to hire mercenary protesters until Mr.  Illych ran across his ad while looking through Craig’s List.  Mr. Illych met with Alan and things took off from there.

                “Listen…  There is a whole culture of bust outs who hate their parents for giving them a really good place to live, anything they ever asked for, fed them, kept them safe and then cast them into college just to get brainwashed by some fuck with a PHD who never even owned a car in his life, can’t find a wife, can’t accept hygiene and deodorant and only has possibly one friend who is equally marginally functional that feels Karl Marx was completely right and that the whole experiment was just a bit premature for the Victorian times.  These people protested when they were young against the establishment and now they’ve planted the seeds into young blank slates.  Maybe my parents are racist…  After all, we lived in an all-white subdivision except for the one Asian family but they were Baptist in the end.  My parents were relieved that I wasn’t gay…  They must be homophobes.  My parents think those people in the head scarves and beards might have bombs strapped to their person under all those shrouds…  Are you following me, Alan?  I get the feeling you’re of that mindset.  You believe in a liberal agenda, right?  We live in a republic, not a democracy, my young idealist.  Would a democracy have super delegates and unbound delegates pledged to a losing candidate even though the citizens voted for something else?  No, my friend, this happens in republics.  Republic of China, banana republics and these United States.  Think of yourself as the overseer.  Think of yourself as the middle man.  Think of yourself as delegator, puppet master or the pied piper…  Are you with me Alan?  We could wind up in bed together on this one and wind up very happy…  Here is what you have to do.”

                It started with a few dozen and then there were a lot more.  Maybe hundreds and soon to be thousands.  The word was out.  There is a rich dude named Citizen A, who pays people to express their anger at the right wingers.  All you have to do is be angry, unruly, and belligerent, fight the police and anyone who does not agree with the progressive agenda.  You follow your heart and if you find yourself arrested, Citizen A, will come to the rescue to bail you out and you will receive compensation either way for your time but a bonus for being arrested.  Butch looking lesbians, pasty looking white kids with dreadlocks covered in tattoos, angry outspoken young black and Latino people all showed up to Trump rallies around the country to extinguish, bully and belittle anyone thinking of entering a Trump rally or gathering.  Alan became rich as the middle man and what was there in it for Mr.  Ilych?  More money than you could imagine if everything pans out in the end.  Mr. Illych’s boss was a bit skeptical.  It was Mr. Illych’s job to make sure his boss stayed the course.  Hardly did he meet face to face with his boss.  Phone conversations daily were their briefings.

                “Boss…  Listen to me…  Have I been wrong yet?  This might seem like a negative thing and it is but trust me when I say this…  There is a silent majority sitting dormant in their easy chairs, watching this all on television, shaking their heads wondering what the world is coming to.  These people are now wondering if they turned the other cheek too much, have they softened up to the point where anything goes socially and guess what?  They’re about to be handed a bill for all the things they could care less about while the nation gets softer and more oblivious to the threats around the world.  They see these young people protesting and it makes them want to vote even more for you…  Steady as she goes, boss.  We have nothing to fear except a lack of fear itself…  Trust me on this.”

March 8, 2016

Donald Does Detroit or Let Them Eat Fluff

                One of the board of education members happened to be at a golf outing that was attended by Donald Trump.  It was at the Trump golf Mecca in Florida and Trump was going to join a friend, a friend of a friend and a Chinese dignitary that couldn’t speak English.  Trump didn’t have time for 18 holes but he said he could do 9 holes.  The friend of a friend put up the challenge that he could beat the quartet and if he did, rather than bet money, Trump would have to give a speech while in Detroit to high school students who showed signs of promise but were struggling to stay in school.  Trump told the friend of a friend to fuck himself, nobody beats Trump on his own course, and I will beat all of you and still speak to your kids.  Trump won but may have cheated.

                After the debate at the Fox Theater in Detroit, Trump took a motorcade tour of the city of Detroit.  He took out his phone and began to tweet.

                “Detroit will be great again.  The United States will be great again.  I just might buy up half of this town and see to it myself.  Travesty what has happened to a once great city.”

                Early the next day, the Fox Theater was filled with thousands of students picked by Deans and principals of various inner city Detroit high schools to receive a verbal pep talk, a bitch slap, a verbal dunking in the water tank of life.  Rumors swirled that JZ, Beyoncé, Kanye West and Cam Newton might be at the event to speak to chosen students.  After twenty extra minutes of waiting, secret service agents walked in ahead of Donald Trump.  There he stood with his thinning helmet of hair, orange face, a squint like Clint Eastwood and famous scowl.

                “I love this damn town so much that I decided to stay an extra night.  I told your school superintendents that I want to speak to the future of Detroit.  I want to try and reach them in some way.  I don’t know that I can, but I’m going to try…  Now who here is rich?  Let me see a show of hands.”

                A few hands went up and some laughter.  This triggered the inner Trump in the Donald.  They were all about being Trumpled.

                “You might misunderstand me.  I don’t mean wealthy enough to buy a used Buick and put a sound system that would blow out your hearing faster than if you were blowing off mortars in a battle field without ear protection.  I don’t mean having enough money to buy dope and sell it in an neighborhood the way say an Arab party store owner sells you a forty ounce and some blunts and maybe a box of Pampers…  I don’t know exactly what your immediate needs could be.  I’m talking could any of you here walk out and let’s say, buy a house, buy up a block, buy up the downtown and turn into something you think is positive for this town…  I could.  I could move every piece of property that I own worldwide and fill up the city of Detroit with what I own…  That my pupils is what it means to be truly rich.  Anything else is wannabe…  I could move everything I own right here in Detroit but that would take too much time…  I have a better idea, how bout I just buy up this town and turn it around myself…  This country is a lot like Detroit- a once great nation that built things and sold things to the world.  Detroit used to sell the lion’s share and I do mean Detroit Lion’s share of cars to the entire world.  Was JFK killed in a Toyota?  No, kids…  It was a Lincoln Continental made right here in Detroit.  When I’m president, we are going to make so many GM, Fords and Chryslers here that it will make your head spin.  Cars will be made here in Detroit.  Flint will get Detroit water again…  You’ll see.  Now all of you can do something to change your lives, better your lives so that you don’t die prematurely.  Die dealing drugs, die at the hand of the police who I love and are really treated quite poorly by the press who are not allowed to cover this meeting here today…  Die from eating really bad food and getting really fat because you can’t afford good food because you’re too poor to buy good food that won’t make you suffer.  You should want to be responsible, prosperous people who don’t try to sue each other on Judge Judy or figure out whose baby is whose on Morrie Povich.  Everyone here would like to visit Jamaica one day for a vacation… maybe Hawaii, am I right?  Sure, sure… but if you’re sitting in the state pen in Taylor, you’re not going to see anything but some of the worst people in the world, going nowhere and doing nothing with a wasted life.  Who wants to get pinched one day by the cops who I love dearly and end up in jail?  Who wants to do time and wind up on all fours in front of some big lifer staring at a prison wall and wonder how did I get here and how can I get out.  Don’t get there…  Let me say it plainly…  Are there any evangelicals in the crowd who I love so much?  I love the Evangelicals but don’t want to offend them.  They’re easily offended by profanity but it is a dialect I know all of you understand all too well so let me sum this up fast because I don’t want to lose you…

STAY IN SCHOOL AND PROVE TO THE WORLD THAT YOU CAN GET A DEGREE AND WHETHER YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT DEGREE OR WIPE YOUR ASS WITH IT, PROVE TO THOSE ABOVE YOU THAT YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE GIVEN A CHANCE TO RISE IN THIS CRUEL WORLD.  DRUGS ONLY MASK THE FACT THAT YOU HATE YOUR LIFE AND WANT TO GO TO A BETTER PLACE IN YOUR OWN FUCKING HEAD IF ONLY TEMPORARILY…  WHO WANTS TO BE SOMEONE’S BITCH IN PRISON?  WHO WANTS TO GET SHOT UP ON THE STREET?  I DON’T MEAN TO YELL BUT I WANT YOU TO KNOW I MEAN WHAT I SAY.”

                It got quiet.  Nobody clapped, nobody booed or murmured.  It was a strange moment for Donald.  He shrugged his shoulders, took a drink and went on.

                “People are gonna get offended in life.  That’s just how it is.  I can’t help that.  You make a comment about homosexuals, men who used to be women and women who used to be men, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Eskimos…  I actually might lose Alaska because I called someone an Eskimo.  You wanna know what?  Unless you came on the Mayflower, you came as an immigrant.  It’s just that simple.  Some of your people were brought on slave ships, some crossed the border illegally but you’re here now and you’re American.  For those who don’t follow rules and order, you will be sent back.  We will have a country, we will have borders, and we will be great again…  Detroit will rise again.  I love Detroit.  I love Detroiters.  I might just come back and buy this town and put the best minds on the job of bringing jobs back and bring them back first to right here in Detroit.  People want to sneer at Detroit?  When I leave office, you won’t be able to afford to live in this town.  They’re will be a Starbucks on every corner, gluten-free, lesbian safe grocery stores, boutiques with stuff so damn expensive, you’ll think you’re in Paris.  You stand with me and I’ll stand with you.  You do the right thing and I will do the right thing for this city, for this country and we’ll be great again…”

                Donald raised his right arm up.  It was more like a papal wave than a Nazi salute.  A few students rose to their feet and clapped.  Then before long everyone stood and clapped.  Stunned teachers and administrators clapped and they didn’t even know why exactly.  Where they bullied into clapping?  Where they inspired to clap?  Nobody could quite put a finger on it and really, it didn’t matter.  Trump was off to another town to inspire others to vote for him just like a half dozen other presidential candidates were doing across the land and why exactly?  To have old music played every time you walk into a room?  To be treated like a king and hated like a king on the way to the guillotine, oblivious to the plight of the commoners.  The messages and words vary from candidate to candidate but it all comes out the same- Let them eat fluff.  Nothing of substance.

February 3, 2016

La Vie Noir

I knew when I opened the door and saw Raymond’s eyes, I had to accept things like a man.  Nowhere to hide, nothing to say except maybe to explain that it was all on me.  I keep this diary with me and I’m not really sure who is ever going to read this.  Some copper and then he’ll pass it along to my mother.  Who knows about those things.  When you’re gone, you’re just gone.  I’m getting cold and things are getting distant and fuzzy.  It’s hard to focus.  I’ll try to get this out while I can.

                I came in the joint as I always did.  You know the place- dark with the piano music going.  Some couples whisper to one another, others sit there with that look like they don’t want to be approached but yet are itching for conversation.  That night, Benny was playing Mona Lisa by Nat King Cole.  Benny plays a little piano and sings and then takes out his trumpet with the mute and softly solos over a few chords held by his left hand on the piano.  Benny has a talent for music and a knack for making people feel at ease.  A nice voice, a nice smile and everyone’s best friend.  I dropped a five in Benny’s jar and asked what he thought.

                “She ain’t like most, boss.  Something different bout this one…  You land this one and I think you really got something…  But I could be wrong.”

                Benny was never wrong.  A man sitting at a piano captures certain nuances in the way a person looks, how they sit, what they drink and the look on their faces.  Benny is there for their entertainment but really he’s studying human nature nightly and gets paid for it.  I sat a few stools over from her and made like I was really interested in Curling.  She looked engrossed.  At a commercial, she took a sip of her red wine and asked me what I knew about Curling.

                “It’s something that some people do and …  Well, everyone has got to do something.  Some people go to piano bars in the dark so that nobody really sees them or see what they’re thinking.  There is some comfort in darkness.  Everything doesn’t need to have the light cast on it…  You know what I mean?”

                She smiled a sly smile and looked at me with those sad eyes.  She was everything a man could ever want in a woman.  She was a rare beauty, calm and refined.  She had the type of body that sculptors hope to sculpt. 

                “That’s a profound answer regarding a really obscure sport…  I like it though.”

                I bought her a drink and had another.  I learned her name was Gretchen and that she spent a lot of time drawing things that she felt and then wrote things to go with the drawings.  She would sell her creations through an art dealer.  She never let me know how she made her money.  She asked me what I did.  I told her that I was in to research and development.  I used round about ways of getting to the point and she rather enjoyed analogies and philosophies.  I wanted so much to move over one more seat.  I was drawn in and could not stop it.  Dames don’t usually do this to me.  I like them and some times love them a bit but then things develop that complicates things and then things just change.  When they become routine and predictable, you have nothing.  People force themselves to slug along knowing that they’re going against the grain because they are conditioned to find someone, marry that someone, have some kids, form a family and feel like they belong to something and maybe have something but then like ole Raymond, what do you have in the end?  I’m getting ahead of myself.

                Gretchen asked if I would be interested in seeing her artwork.  How could I resist.  What do I know about art?  Nothing, but then again I was taken in.  We left the club and went up an elevator to a penthouse that overlooked the whole city of Detroit.  A bunch of lights along the river and then a lot of darkness and that’s just how it is in Detroit.  She showed me easels of gray, sad but beautiful sketches of a profile of a girl in a field, on a swing, at the beach.  I was tempted to ask if the girl was her.  I didn’t want to be so simple.  I think she liked that I was abstract and you can’t be abstract and obvious. 

                Gretchen put on an Edith Piaf record on her hi-fi and poured us each a drink.  She put the drink up to my lips and then set it down on a table beside us.  She gently took my hand and put it on the small of her back and leaned into me.  In an instant it all felt as though it was meant to be.  The smell of her, the feel of her.  I was drawn in so strong. 

                I left some time during the middle of the night.  I didn’t think it would be right to be there in the light of day. Nobody wants regret or the awkwardness of having to say something, to force something.  There’s a right way the first time.  You hope to plant a seed and see if it grows. Things change when you put light on it.  I left my name and number on a piece of paper.  I sketched a boy sitting near a pond on the paper with a few words.

                “It’s rare you meet someone that fits so well, so much so that you can’t use words.  I enjoyed the evening and believe I would enjoy other evenings just as much.”

                I slept on the couch and woke to the sound of my phone ringing.  It was Raymond.  Raymond had questions for me.  There was hesitation in my voice and I felt I sounded insincere to him.  He offered to pay me for my time and I told him there was no charge.  Maybe that was the red flag.  I didn’t give it much thought and why should I when I had Gretchen on my mind.  Whenever my mind went blank or had time to rest, my thoughts went back to Gretchen.  I thought about the feel of her body against mine, her smile, her voice and her touch.  I wanted badly to see her and then I heard from her.

                “I make the best food a man could ever hope to eat.  I make the food, you bring the wine.”

                Gretchen wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her.  Beginnings are always good and fresh and unpredictable.  The loving was above average, the companionship was everything a man could hope for and yet in the back of my mind, I knew this all couldn’t last.

                The older I get, the more I realize that things are transitory.  Things come and go and you take them for what they are and go on.  Gretchen wasn’t fading in my heart and I didn’t want it to end.  Men say they know what love is and I can’t say I do.  I could no more explain love than I could air.  I just know the two are things you need and when everything is good, you don’t have to worry about them.

                Gretchen suspected that the cleaners were at the door delivering her clothes.  She was getting ready to go out.  We were taking a boat ride on the Detroit River late night.  I opened the door to find a sweating Raymond with his tie twisted.  His teeth were gritted and he panted as he walked towards me.  He called for Gretchen to come out of the bedroom.  She emerged from the room wide eyed at Raymond who stood in front of her with a gun.

                “Raymond…  Why are you doing this?  There’s no reason for this.”          

                Gretchen was wrong.  There’s always a reason for everything and things like a jealous ex-husband with a gun, can be explained.  Raymond hired me and I couldn’t take the job.  I told him that there was nothing for him to worry about and so Raymond hired a detective to expose a detective.  Raymond’s lifeless body lays a few feet from me and there is Gretchen in my lap while I lean against the wall as I scribble into my notebook.  Should I call for an ambulance?  Will life ever get better than what it has been lately since I met Gretchen?  Probably not.  In fact I know it won’t.  If this is as good as it gets, then why go on?  I reached the top of the mountain and it’s beautiful.  Maybe it’s time to just let go and jump…  Give my best to mother.  That’s all.

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