Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 25, 2018

Coexist…

It was some time after 9-11 that Lars Bjornson left his home in Stockholm to discover America. He wanted to eat hot dogs, see sporting events of sports he knew nothing about. He wanted to be in the audience of a Jerry Springer show. He wanted to see where Michael Jordan played basketball and where Al Capone once ran around. Lars wanted to see the tall buildings of Chicago and he also wanted to see the ghetto.

Lars rented a car and asked the doorman of the posh hotel he was staying at on Michigan Avenue, where he could go to see the real ghetto. You know… Poor people. The doorman thought Lars was a bit nuts but then again he felt that all of those really white, white people of Northern European countries, were truly different than your run of the mill American whites. In reality, it was not unlike going on a safari in Africa or visiting a zoo. Lars wanted to see blight, hopelessness, drug addicts and the mentally ill hanging around on street corners. The doorman spoke frankly with him.
“Hey man, there’s shit in life you just should not do. You puttin your life in yo own hands…. It ain’t like round here, dude…. Shit…. It’s yo life. Tell you watchu do…. Take any one of these streets named after old dead white dudes that was once president. Madison, Washington, Adams…. Randolph…. I don’t remember no President Randolph in school but it coulda been one them dudes who was president fo like a day and then got shot. You might wind up like them but you welcome to go. Four miles that way. You cain’t git lost.”
Lars was excited in a sick way not unlike when people go online to view people getting beheaded or shot and watching the life drain out of them. Lars wanted to visit the most dangerous city in an area where the most people get killed every year in the richest most prosperous country in the world. Lars was hoping to actually see a shooting happen in the streets. He slowly drove up and down streets that were strewn with debris, high weeds, barber shops with men hanging out in front of them, boarded up storefronts and liquor stores on almost every corner. People looked back at Lars not unlike when animals make eye contact with humans at the zoo.

Lars saw a beautiful young black woman at a bus stop, eating something carefully out of a bag. Her young, perfect body and model like face attracted Lars. He parked the car and strangely pitched the idea of the woman getting into his car to go to dinner, talk to him and then later have sex with him. For $1,000.00. Asha ( pronounced ASIA ) thought about all the things she could do with $1,000.00 and hopped into the car of the tall blond man from Sweden. Asha went to an expensive seafood restaurant and then back to Lars hotel room to do the deed. Asha marveled at her strange day as she put her clothes back on in front of a floor to ceiling window that looked out at Lake Michigan and the high rises that lined the downtown. It was a glimpse into a life she had only seen on television. She concluded that to be white was truly a boost up the tree of life that black people rarely get unless they have some redeeming value to white people. Lars thought to himself while he showered with all his jewelry, cash and credit cards where he could see it in the locked bathroom, that it was a really cool experience and that having sex with someone of a different color was something that everyone should experience once. Sometimes weird moments and actions lead to something surreal. Well… It did.
Two presidents and sixteen years later, Asha’s son Lars was about to play in the state championship basketball game. Picture a tall caucasian looking child with a tint to his skin with sort of yellow hair with large rotini like curls. Around his ankle was a tracking device for those that should probably be in prison but are allowed back out in society. Lars was arrested for carjacking. Several times in the past, Lars had successfully secured a car, drove it around, smashed it up and abandoned it. In Chicago, things such as that are sport for underprivileged inner city kids who see the disparity between those that have and those that have not. The last carjacking backfired when Lars and his buddies tried to carjack the car of an off duty cop who had a vintage 1970 Plymouth Challenger. Upon pulling a gun on the officer and hopping in, they found that the car was manual transmission and none of the trio knew how to drive a car with a stick shift. Lars looked up to find a gun back in his face. Lars’ two friends had no redeeming value to society at this point in their lives- high school drop outs, gangbangers with criminal history but Lars intrigued the judge. The judge listened to the tall boy speak who looked like he could be white but also could be black, looked at his African American mother and asked the boy rhetorical questions. Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to die young? Do you want your life to amount to nothing? Do you want to become something? Asha told the judge that her son was a very good basketball player and that 6’ 7, he had a good chance of getting a college scholarship and possibly professional basketball. Asha handed a handful letters of intent from division one universities from around the country that were interested in having young Lars play basketball. The judge saw a letter from his alma mater and grew excited. The stern looking white judge looked at Lars and said that he wanted to see him, his mother and his attorney in his office. Once in the judge’s quarters, the judge picked up his phone on his desk and made a call to the president of his alma mater who happened to be a friend, a golf buddy, a drinking buddy to let him know that he should send someone from the athletics department to come to the championship game in Quincy, Illinois to sign Lars to their university. Asha and Lars were stunned by how the serious looking judge was talking so casually to them.
“You’re going to love this school. It is one of the greatest schools in the country. You’ll get a great education in a good environment and you could really help the school by being on the team. They came so close this year! Sweet sixteen! Hopefully you can help them win a national championship…. So listen. Lars will have to wear an ankle monitor for a while. You’ll come back in a few weeks and I’ll clear him. No record. You have to stop fooling around, Lars. You have a promising life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up…. Tell you what…. I think I can make that game in Quincy. I have nothing on my calendar. I will be there with your mom.”
Somewhere in Europe, there is a man with an American son that he knows nothing about. Lars Sr. would be so proud to know that he helped create hope for a woman who was destined to live a dismal, mundane life. Stories such as this make white people feel really good when they know their own kind are helping in some small an indirect way to create prosperity and equality. Even if they didn’t mean to.

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January 17, 2018

Looking For Love

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:12 am
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Male late 30’s seeks compatible female under 30 for a relationship and
possibly more   Somebody that is hot but no so hot that I can’t deal
with you.  If you’re not into sex for whatever hang up or reason,
you’re not for me.  If you have to have Indian food, please do not do
it too often cause the smell of curry makes me ill.  You have to have
been born a woman and always considered yourself female.  I don’t want
anyone who was once a dude… Sorry, guys. No bi or tri, group sexers,
swappers or twisted types that want to put shit up my ass.  Please no
stupid tattoos or weirdo piercings.  I do have video game night with
my buds on Tuesdays, I like country music and do occasionally watch
wrestiling. I like long walks on the beach but I hope you don’t mind
if my dogs come with.  I don’t mind chick flicks if you’ll
occasionally see a good war movie with me.  I have a thing about going
down on a woman unless she is completely shaved and pristine.  If you
are- I’m amazing.  A true vagitarian ☺. Please don’t respond if you’re
taking medication for anxiety or depression. I don’t do crazy. I can
live with the basic monthly mood swings. If you have kids or are
“kinda” in a relationship, you can skip me.  I don’t want militant,
overly political or someone who lives their life on social media.  You
put down your phone to talk to me and I promise to look right into
your eyes ☺.

So let me tell you about me. I’m fit, good looking, intelligent, have
a good job, two good cars, a nice home and a timeshare in Mexico.  I
work out daily and never have less than 25,000 steps on my Fit Bit and
under 10% body fat.   I like to eat out.  If you’re caught up on
vegetarian, vegan or are a gluten Nazi,  I’m probably not your guy.
If you saw me out, you would look at me twice. I’m not religious but
consider myself Christian.  I love football- college, pro and
lingerie. I love craft beer and margaritas, the color red and know how
to swing dance if you’re into that.  I can play the guitar a little
and have 1970 Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine in cherry condition. I
know there’s a lot here but I don’t want to waste your time and please
don’t waste mine.  I think I offer something special to the right
person of interest.  Okay? Cool.

December 29, 2017

A little Different Than Detroit

Bill was a bad ass.  He was one of those sixty-year-old men that could
still kick your ass or make love all night without the aid of pills.
He could lift heavy weights and run many miles.  After receiving a
severance package and retiring early from General Motors in suburban
Detroit, Bill decided to take up his daughter Lulu’s invitation to
visit her in Seattle.
Bill liked Seattle but found it a whole other world different than
Detroit.  Bill liked Detroit and when he inherited his parent’s home
east of Telegraph at about 5 Mile, he stayed living in the city.  Bill
had his bar that he would frequent to watch Tiger’s games in the
summer and Red Wing games in the winter.  He had his ten-dollar a
month gym that played ghetto Rap on the Musak and Bill was fine.  In
Seattle, everyone was fit and trim but a little too waif like in that
they all were Vegan, had odd piercings and were militantly opposed to
the president.  Bill voted for Trump and was proud of it.  Bill
surmised early on that there probably was not one person within the
city limits of Seattle that voted for Trump and so he stayed in the
closet about his admiration for his president.
Christmas came and Bill gave Lulu cash and some gift cards to
Starbucks.  Lulu bought her dad a raincoat and told him he could ditch
the umbrella and then she handed him a certificate.  Bill looked at it
and thanked Lulu.  Lulu explained what it was.
“Daddy…  I have a really good friend who is a life coach and I think
the things he helps people with could really help you when you go back
to Detroit.  Try to keep an open mind to this.  It is for sure
something new for you and at your age, new things help you to keep
your mind fresh.  Your body is in great shape but I wonder if your
routine leaves your mind without a challenge sometimes.  Tomorrow my
friend Rolf will be here to begin to work with you.”
Bill was intrigued and so he graciously thanked his daughter and
awaited what was in store for him.  It came at 7 am the following day.
Standing at the door was a wide-eyed gay man with two dimples.  The
expression on his face made the person looking at him open their eyes
wide also.  Bill tried not to be wide eyed too but he couldn’t keep it
up.
“William…  Mondays for the next month, we will not be carnivores.  We
will eat things like lentils and tofu…  Have you had an exam
recently?”
“It’s been a few years…”
“Exactly what I mean.  You probably are eating steak for breakfast in
Detroit… Okay so no meat today.  Tomorrow and the rest of the week,
you will have a choice between rainbow trout, salmon and maybe tuna.
Lu has given me carte blanche to take over the kitchen and create what
you will need…  We will be having green tea with our steamed veggies,
soup and lentil pasta…  Okay next…  We will not be drinking our water
out of plastic bottles.  We do not do that here in Seattle.  The
amount of oil and water needed to make a disposable water bottle is
ridiculous.  Lu already has a purifier and we will be using glass
bottles and being really careful with them…  Okay next …  you probably
are used to eating chips and the like back home for snacks.  I will
provide you with the proper snacks.  I make great Kale chips that we
can have with nut butter and fruit…  All that I provide for you will
be come from fair trade farmers.  We do not need pesticides or to help
anyone looking to kill forests and little creatures that live in
forests just to farm.  We will be visiting the market together and I
am giving you this really awesome reusable sack with containers that
you can clean and reuse at the salad bar…  Okay…  So…  Any organic
waste, we can put in these bags and I have my own compost heap going
where I live in Redmond… And now for the exercising regiment…  Lu
tells me you’re relatively fit for an old timer.”
Bill followed all the things Rolf threw at him regarding saving the
planet and good nutrition.  When it came to exercise, Bill turned the
tables.  Bill could not be tired out by the things Rolf gave him to
do.  Rolf was a bit stymied by Bill.  Usually older men complained and
huffed and puffed.  Bill was barely winded.  Finally after a few
weeks, Bill proposed a change for Rolf.  Bill asked if Rolf would be
game to let Bill run a day from beginning to end.  Rolf smirked and
went along with it.
Bill picked up Rolf in Lulu’s yellow Smart car.  They stopped at a
Starbucks and had lattes with pastries and then drove to the gym.
Bill and Rolf ran two miles at an 8% grade, bench pressed 245 lbs, did
five sets of pull-ups, leg lifts with a 15 lbs. dumbbell and then swam
two miles.  They then drove to a Mexican restaurant outside of town.
Instead of listening to the weird space music with the sound of the
ocean waves crashing in the background, Bill had on the Rush Limbaugh
radio show.  Rush was talking about Trumps achievements and the
collusion between Mueller, Comey, and the former president Obama,
Hillary and a slew of others.  Rolf looked at Bill horrified and
demanded that Bill change the channel.  When Bill wouldn’t do it, Rolf
reached to do it.  Bill grabbed his hand before he changed the
channel.
“If you believe we still live in a democracy, there should always be
the things out there that you don’t agree with that must be accepted
regardless if you agree with the point of view or not.  For a month, I
listened to what you wanted, I ate what you made me eat, I drank what
you made me drink and I kept an open mind to it all.  Now today, it’s
your turn…  You don’t have to agree but you should permit it if you
truly believe in a free society…  Now with that said…  I found a
restaurant way out east with the NHL channel that will have the Red
Wing’s game on and has strippers.  We will be eating Mexican food,
drinking a pitcher of Margaritas and watching ice hockey and some big
tits…  Are we understanding each other?”
Rolf sat with his arms folded on the way to the restaurant.  Once
there, Bill ordered a steak with beans and rice and Rolf had vegetable
fajitas.  Rolf watched his first hockey game on television and
actually liked it as he got liquored up on tequila and watched women
spinning around poles attached to the ceiling.  Bill dropped Rolf off
at his home east of the city.  In the front yard was Rolf’s wife
gardening.  Rolf’s wife was a smallish man who was trying to keep the
bark inside the liner that went around a tree.  He stood to kiss Rolf
and could smell booze and cigar on his glassy eyed husband and
demanded to know what happened.
“Well darling…  I made a deal with a client from out east that I
would put aside the training for a day and live life the way he does.
It consisted of steak, Rush Limbaugh, breasts, ice hockey, tequila and
cigars after lifting weights, running and swimming with a right winged
geriatric hetero…”
“And I’m supposed to be cool with it all?’
Rolf giggled and kissed his wife on the neck, breathing nasty cigar
breath on him as he lead him inside their home.
“Lovely…  I learned today that we don’t need to agree but we should
tolerate…  Or something like that.  So you don’t have to agree with my
day but it would be really awesome if you just took it for what it is,
shut the fuck up and get into that bedroom because for one day only…
There’s a little bit of Detroit going on in daddy.”

December 15, 2017

The Bully Problem…

Filed under: america,bullying,humor,humour,Ice hockey,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:32 am
Tags: , , , ,

Dedicated to my Nephew Brendan…

Otto played pick-up, drop-in, shinny hockey every afternoon with a group of guys that were third shifters, unemployed, underemployed or lucky enough to have a woman who didn’t care if they worked.  Otto kept looking at the clock on the wall during his 15-minute marathon shift and decided that unless he wanted to smell like ass, he needed to get off the ice and shower before retrieving his children from school.  Otto pulled up and his two children were about the only two students left.  All others had been picked up.  Otto’s cute little first grade daughter raced to the minivan first and whispered a breathy secret to her dad.

            “A big boy in the eighth grade knocked Clint down and shoved his face in the snow…  He was crying really bad.  If you had come on time, you would have saw him.”

            “Okay…  Don’t repeat that to your mom about me being a few minutes late.”

            Otto knew that if his wife got wind of the fact that the kids were waiting in front of the school and everyone was already gone, she would be really pissed that ice hockey, pick-up ice hockey was the reason for tardiness.  Otto’s little daughter Adelaide was as cute as a button but a horrible ratfink.  All Otto could do was hope that Adelaide would forget.  Sometimes little kids forget things.  Otto looked at his fourth grade son who did not like fighting and wondered if next year when body checking begins, if his son Clint would quit the sport.  The thought scared Otto.  What would he do come September?  Take his son to-everyone-gets-a-trophy-soccer-and-we-don’t-keep-score out in a field?  Maybe basketball or football both of which he knew nothing about.  Otto decided it was time to step up and prevent his son from becoming a pussy.  If something happens on the ice and a referee fails to catch it, a fight occurs.  It is the unwritten law of ice hockey and this offense was the unwritten law of life.  Otto drove up and down the streets until little Adelaide yelled into Otto’s ear from the back seat and pointed… “That’s the boy there!”

            Otto exited the minivan with gritted teeth.  The eighth grader was Otto’s height but as formidable as Bambi.  Otto got close enough for the thirteen year old boy to taste his breath.  Spittle hit the boy’s face as Otto yelled at him like a drill sergeant.

            “Did you fucking push my kid face down in the snow?”

            “Yes…”

            “I’m gonna tell you what…  You better fucking stand there and not move…  Like a fucking statue.  If you do move, I will beat your ass…  Do you understand me?”

            The boy nodded.  Otto yelled for Clint to exit the minivan, make a tight ice ball and smash it in the face of the aggressor.  Clint got a running start and jumped a bit to ensure he reached the 8th graders face.  With ice dripping down the boys face, Otto gave his parting warning.

            “If you ever touch my kid again, I will come over to your house and beat the shit out of you and then beat the shit out of your pussy dad and you, you little pussy…  Do you fucking get me?  Don’t fucking forget because I won’t.”

            Later that evening, Otto met his wife with the children for dinner.  Remarkably his blabbermouth daughter only spoke about her day at school.  There was no mention of Otto being late to pick them up, an eighth grade boy pushing Clint face down in the snow or the sentence imposed by Otto.  As they entered the house after dinner, the game plan was to get the kids to bed early, pour the wine, start the music and be ready for love.  Otto put away some groceries his wife had purchased after work and had not noticed the flashing button on their antiquated answering machine that was connected to the landline that nobody used except to order pizza.

“MESSAGE ONE  TUESDAY 4:14 PM…  Mrs. Calhoun…  This is principal Smith from Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering…  I need to talk to you about an incident between your husband and an eighth grade boy at the school.  It is a serious matter and I ask that your husband not be anywhere near the school property until we’ve had a chance to speak with you and the family of the boy.  Please call me at your convenience.”

            Mary looked at her husband who put away peanut butter and bread and did almost anything not to turn around and look at his wife.  She asked what happened and little Adelaide gave her account of the whole event.

            “Okay…  So after school, this big boy knocked down Clint and rubbed his face in the snow until Clint cried and then the boy left…  And then all the people left and we were the last to be picked up.  Cars drove by slow but we didn’t talk to any strangers or get in their cars.  Like a half hour later or maybe just ten minutes, daddy came and then we went looking for the boy and then we found him and then daddy told Clint to push snow in his face and then daddy told the boy that he would beat his ass and his dad’s ass and called him a pussy for beating up a little boy…  And that’s what happened…  Daddy?  What’s a pussy?”

            Mary pushed her young daughter towards the bathroom to start her bath and responded to the question in a way that she couldn’t understand but that her husband could hear.

            “A pussy is something your dad will not be able to have tonight because he was a naughty boy and naughty boys do not get treats.”

            “Will daddy have to go to his room and go to bed?”

            “No…  Mommy will be doing that instead.  Make sure you wash everything well.”

            And eventually, they lived happily as a family could live given these angry times… The end.

November 26, 2017

Breaking the Man Code

Jake loves hockey as much as a person could love something that does
not breathe and live.  Jake sold hockey equipment by day and broke
away from his sales job to play hockey and then at night he played
league hockey and coached youth hockey.  When he wasn’t doing all of
that, he was watching NHL hockey on television.  He also loves his
pit-bull named Daisy and to play acoustic guitar and sing in Brazilian
Portuguese even though he could only speak English.  Jake learned at a
young age that Portuguese and guitar gets women in the mood fast.

Jake loved meeting new girls.  The thrill of hello, how do you do?
What do you like to do?  Where have you gone? Would you like to come
home with me?  The life span of a female in Jake’s life was about 6o
days.  The end was near whenever he began to hear, “where do I fit
into your plans?”

One day Jake walked from the parking lot of the ice rink towards the
front entrance; standing in front of the doors was Jan’s mom.  She was
a tall Polish woman who wore skin tight Yoga pants and had a beautiful
face.  Beata smiled at Jake and asked if she could talk to him a
moment.  First thing Jake thought was that she was going to ask if Jan
could play defense.  The defensive position was the prize for Jake.
The best, fastest, most capable players went to defense.  Jan was slow
and had stone hands.  Jake wondered what the pretty woman was going to
ask.
“I wanted to know if maybe you might want to go out for a drink some time.”
In Jake’s head he heard, “I wanted to know if you might want to go
out for a drink some time and then fuck the shit out of me…”
Of course Jake said yes.  They went to a Polynesian bar where eastern
European women dressed in Hawaiian skirts.  Jake and Beata had a
Zombie and then Scorpions and then a mai tai each before returning to
Beata’s apartment.   Jan was spending the weekend with his father.
Things followed the course that they were following and before long,
Jake was spending many nights with Beata and Jan.  People on the team
began to notice that the coach was bringing Jan to games and practices
when Beata was busy.  They began to notice that Jan was on the power
play and the penalty kill and centering between two really good wings.
Parents smelled something not right in the woodpile.

Jake is a good coach.  He fundamentally teaches the kids to play well
together.  Jake also had the good fortune of having several really
good players that played well together.  How well?  Undefeated with
only a few goals against them.  Their goalie had to stay focused by
watching the game in between making snow castles with his goalie
stick.  Oh sure the goalie would raise his arms every now and then for
an icing but their zone was a lonely place.  Rather than make the kids
work harder when it came to off ice training, Jake introduced a game
to them that they had never heard of before called Cricket.  Unless
you’re from a country with the Queen on the money, drive on the left
with the wheel on the right and stop for afternoon tea, you’re not
familiar with the sport.  It is a lot like baseball but then again it
is not.  Right outside the ice rink was a large field with artificial
turf.  Jake had learned to play the game with Jamaicans and
Indian/Pakistanis and so the kids played for 3o minutes after they’re
on ice practices.  All the players took it for what it was except Jan.
On the first bowl or pitch as they say in baseball, the large center
creamed a boundary or a home run and got six runs!  Think of a home
run with the same amount of points as a touch down.  Jake was the
official bowler for both sides.
“This game blows and the sides totally suck.  Jack promised money to
his brother to pick all the worst players on our side.  We’re gonna
get creamed,” whined Jan to Jake.
Jake looked at Jan and wondered if he was for real.  Baseball and
football was too competitive among the players so Jake chose Cricket.
Who could get mad about Cricket?  Jan did.  The score was 42-0 since
the side in the field had not come to bat yet.  They would bat after
next practice.  In the car ride home, Jan critiqued the hockey players
Cricket skills.
“Scott is afraid to catch the ball with his hands for sure…  We all
kind of are.  Why don’t we use mitts?  Its cold out and that ball
hurts to catch.”
“Cricket isn’t played with a mitt.”
“It’s a dumb game and nobody likes it or plays it.  I think you just
made the whole thing up”
“Really?  They were all fighting over who bats first.  Tell you what…
I will let you be one of the captains next time and you can pick who
you want and there should be no problems…  How does that sound?”
“Fine…”
Jake put his gear and Jan’s around the radiator in the room that
nobody uses and closed the door.  In one hour everything would be dry.
Jake ate dinner with Jan and Beata.  Beata said nothing and Jake was
watching the Montreal Canadians playing the Boston Bruins without
blinking while stuffing pasta and chicken into his mouth.  Beata asked
Jan about homework and told him to take a shower and go to bed.  Later
that night, Jake was horny.  Jake was often horny and since Jan was in
bed and it was not too late and it looked like there was no rain outs
due to menstruation or headaches, Jake took a good shower and slipped
into bed next to Beata.  Her shirt barely covered her ass and her
tight under pants made Jake’s John Thomas stand erect and at attention
without even so much as a kiss.  Jake brushed his stiffness against
Beata as she read something on her tablet while lying on her side,
faced away from Jake.  Jake pressed himself against Beata and kissed
her neck.  She turned around and straight armed Jake, looked into his
eyes and said the words no man wishes to hear before attempting to
throw himself into the throes of passion.
“We need to talk…”
The talk left Beata with a cold shoulder and Jake with blue balls.
The next afternoon, it was Jake’s job to pick up Jan from school, get
him a snack and take him to hockey.  Jan walked towards the car glued
to a little electronic tablet.  He threw his pack back in the back
seat, got in the front without ever taking his eyes from the screen.
Jan said nothing to Jake and Jake said nothing to Jan.  At a red
light, Jan asked Jake what they were going to do at hockey practice.
“I have new things I want to work on…”
Later that night at the ice rink, Jake quietly but sternly spoke to
all the boys getting ready in the locker room.  They stopped talking
to listen to him.
“How many of you have seen a naked woman on the internet?”
A few raised their hands and looked at one another and laughed.
“I bet most all of you have Googled some strong shit…  Am I right?
I’m sure you all have seen things I’ve never done.  I would be willing
to bet my whole kingdom on that and I’ll bet that if you haven’t been
caught whacking off to the stuff by your mom who innocently entered
your room to collect your dirty clothes… Unless you’ve been caught,
your mom would have no idea.  At the end of the night, I don’t see any
of you telling your mom that you had a great day, learned a lot of
shit at school and just happened to find a website featuring goats and
blonde chicks.  I’m sure that doesn’t come up…  Am I right?  With that
in mind, there is a man code.  Things that happen in this locker room
are not discussed with momma at the end of the night.  I should never
hear things that I am saying being repeated back to me.  There should
be no complaints about Cricket teams or who is on the power play or on
what line or at what position or anything.  If I cared what your
parents thought, I would ask them.  I don’t ask them because if I do,
I elevate them up to my level…  in their minds… And…  I really don’t
give a fuck what they think.  I don’t ever tell them how to work at
their jobs and they should not feel free to tell me how to coach… So I
can’t say who it is but one of you is a leaker.  A tattletale.  A
fink.  A stool pigeon.  A blabbermouth… We will for go the usual
practice and exercise out of you like a poltergeist, the desire to
discuss private things with your parents.  After today, I don’t think
we will have this problem any longer…  I dunno… We’ll see”
Jake set up a trashcan in the middle of the ice as all the skaters
stood on the goal line.
“If you feel the need to vomit, you are free to use this garbage can
here.  If you hurl chunks of oatmeal on the ice, you will be cleaning
that up and then going back to skating…  Do we understand each other?”
The boys skated until their faces were red and they looked as if they
might collapse or vomit.  A few fought back tears.  A couple grabbed
their asthma inhalers but none of them complained or got off the ice
early.  When ice was finished, they all did sprints, push-ups and
sit-ups rather than the jolly old game of Cricket.
Upon returning home, Beata put Jan to bed after dinner and came down
stairs with a glass of wine for her and Jake.  Beata turned off the
Vancouver/Los Angeles game with two minutes to go in the second
period.  Beata wore a skimpy outfit, lit some candles, put on  Bossa
Nova Music, put the dog in the other room and right there on the
imitation bear rug, Jake and Beata made love, if you believe in love.
If you don’t, they fucked and then lay against one another on the
couch.  After leaning against one another for a few minutes, Beata
turned the television back on.  The third period was about to begin
(talk about rhythm method).  Beata nuzzled Jake’s neck as he watched
the game.  Beata asked if she could tell him something.  Jake said
yes.
“I really appreciate you coaching Jan.  It really is a special thing
that you share with him.  He loves hockey as much as you and that’s so
cool…”
“Hmm…  Well thanks for that…”
“I don’t know what happened at practice today but he told me that it
was probably the best practice he ever had and that it was so much
fun.  He specifically asked me to tell you…  Is that cute that he
wanted me to tell you or what?”
Jake smiled, took a sip of his wine, kissed Beata on the forehead and
agreed that it was very cute.  Jake kept smiling and agreed with
himself that devising a plan for the power play at home and scoring is
a really good thing too.  Like a Gordie Howe hat trick- a goal, an
assist and a fight.

November 2, 2017

The New Halloween

Terry and Terry met in college.  Terry was from suburban Milwaukee and
Terry was from suburban Chicago.  One was male and the other female.
When they became a couple, everyone thought it was so cute.  The
Terry’s were cheerleaders at Marquette University.  The female Terry
became a dietician and the male Terry became a dentist.

The couple moved to an insulated burg north of Chicago where the
Republican Party is strong despite being mired in a county dominated
by crooked machine politics.  Where as many areas of Chicago and the
suburbs struggled with obesity, cookie cutter strip malls filled with
mattress shops and fast food, the small town they lived in had very
little of that.  Families had large Land Rovers or Suburbans with
magnets or stickers of the hockey, soccer, Lacrosse and baseball teams
that their children belonged to.  Nobody had fewer than three children
and everyone appeared to attend the Episcopal Church in town.  Mothers
were fit and trim and had personal trainers and au pairs that usually
spoke Spanish but occasionally Polish and they drank protein smoothies
out of paper straws at the local café/wine bar and life was very nice.
This kids all looked nice and very fit and the dads looked very Ivy
League like they might be posing for an LL Bean catalog.  You get the
idea.

Now Terry and Terry felt that processed anything was bad for them and
their children, ten-year-old twins- the boy Nixon and the daughter
Reagan.  At Halloween, they would panic about the twins awakening to
sugar.  They had an awakening at the age of nine.  They learned about
sex and that there was no Santa Claus all at the same time.  While
wrapping presents on Christmas Eve, Terry had a tongue in Terry’s ass
while the other continued to wrap presents.  Both had their pants
around their ankles while listening to a Bing Crosby CD.  Imagine how
the children felt to learn that there was no Santa and that
occasionally even Republicans will lick each other’s ass.  Horrid.
Ever year they took their twins to pick apples or do a hayride and
finish by eating kale chips and free range chicken at a very healthy
local restaurant near home.

The twins came to their parents and demanded that they be allowed to
go around the neighborhood with their friends.  The Terry’s tried to
talk the neighborhood into having a block party with a bonfire and
only bring out healthy snacks but the interest was not there.  The
parents nixed the idea of the twins roaming the neighborhood without
explanation and sent their children off to their private school where
candy was not exchanged for fear of allergies.  The Polish au pair
named Agnieska or Agnes as the kids called her could not find the
children after school.  Agnieska didn’t panic at first.  She went to
the school office to see if possibly they were bobbing for organic
apples in a vat of La Croix or something similar but the school was
empty.  At about 4pm, Agnieska had to make the call she hoped she
would never have to make.
“Meesees Terry…  I am having some bad news.  Thee tweens deed not
come out of the school like usuable.  I am not knowing where they are
being right now.”
Within an hour, Terry left his dental office in high pursuit in his
four-door family Porsche and Terry left her Pilates class in her GMC
Suburban and with Agnieska in the minivan. The three of them went up
and down the streets.  They searched until dark and began to truly
worry.  They took their Nextel walkie-talkies out of mothballs during
the hunt.
“Terr?  Do you read me?”
“Yes Terr…  I read you…  What’s your 20?”
“I am at Eisenhower Park right around the corner from Goldwater
School…  What did they dress as today?”
There they were, Nixon dressed as Bernie Sanders and Reagan dressed
as Hilary Clinton.  They sat under a light in the park drinking a cola
each, throwing back Pop rocks and miniature Heath bars.  This was
something they had never tasted before.  It was so good to them that
they could not stop to talk to one another.  They tried something new
and then quietly shared with the other.  Terry and Terry ran across
the ball field and found their twins surrounded by wrappers to candy.
They gasped at what they saw.  Terry began crying and saying over and
over again- why?  Terry rubbed his wife’s shoulders and sternly
demanded that the twins get into their car.  Nixon stood to confront
his father.
“Dad…  I hear you talk about fake news all the time.  How could you
lie to us and tell us that this stuff would kill us.  We have been
eating candy for an hour and we’re still alive…  Is it possible that
you were giving us fake news dad?  Just like Christmas time… Huh?”
Terry grabbed his twins and began leading them back towards the car.
He was very agitated by the events of the day and the prospect that
their bodies would eventually reject the sugar overdose in ways that
they could not imagine.
“Wait to see what happens to you next…  You have no idea what is
coming.  Vomit, diarrhea, stomachaches…  You’ll both regret this
soon.”
Reagan stopped walking and looked at her parents and her brother and
boldly stated something most children would echo.
“There’s a really good chance that maybe I won’t regret this and then
what will you do?”
Good question.

August 24, 2017

Cava, Clean Glasses and Nothingness

Filed under: humor,humour,Ice hockey,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:16 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Sal washed bar dishes  first in soap then a solution of water and
bleach that kills anything that could hurt you.  He then let them drip
dry and then took a towel and dried each glass until there was no hint
of finger prints or lipstick or anything.  June sat at the bar, leaning on her elbows.
“I’m amazed by the detail to each glass…”
“Worst thing is serving someone and then they hand it back to you
because of lipstick, or a hair or Rumchata that dried or something.
They not only don’t want to pay you but now they’re disgusted and want
to go.  They then go home and jump on Yelp to let the world know that
there was a pubic hair in their rum and Coke.  The bartender was
indifferent and nobody should ever go to that establishment for that
reason.  I try hard to take away that argument.  Want to hate the
world and complain like a coward?  It won’t be about dirty glasses.
You could go home and say that I have mercenary qualities and looked
bored and you might be right but you at least got a clean glass…”
“And I like that about you…  I’d like a Cava.  Not a little souvenir
split but the whole fucking bottle.  Bring me a flute because I am a
lady…  Right?
“But of course… You asked for Cava.  Did you know that in French if
you separate Cava into ca va, you’d be asking someone how it’s going.
So let’s try it…  Comment ca va?”
“It sucks today.  I went to a funeral of a friend who just died of
cancer and then found a dick pic on the computer and letters and
letters to a mutual friend related to an affair.  I have not divulged
that I snooped and that I have seen the evidence and my fiancé
continues to lie.  I asked him if he would take a lie detector test
and he said that the idea of putting him through such a harsh test
just shows that there is no trust between us…  What should I do?”
“Um…  Do you want to stay with him?”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s a tough one…  True story…  When I was a young man, a man who
knew me and played ice hockey against me, was courting my wife.  Guys
I played hockey with told me,  my eight year old son told me in a
round about way and I didn’t want to believe it.  Once I became a
believer, I caught the two of them together at his place.  I destroyed
the apartment and beat him thoroughly and then left before the cops
came.  Would I do that today?  No way…  I would just walk away.  Jail
time, stroke or a hard attack is not worth it if someone is not with
you, truly with you.  Embarassing him on Maury Povich or on an episode
of Cheaters will not change anything.  No charge for that advice.”
June drank two bottles of Cava and talked about plants, movies, her
children, her fiancé again and death.  After more than an hour, June
noticed a book on the bar and asked about it.  It was a French book
entitled, L’Être et le néant.  Sal didn’t really want to discuss the
book.  June pushed and so Sal took a breath, rubbed his bald head and
looked up at the ceiling.
“How do I put this… Hmmm.”
June always did the talking and Sal the listening.  Sal was caught
off guard.  Sal never let on how he viewed the political landscape and
whether he was for or against the president.  Jazz and ice hockey he
was happy to discuss but all else was never divulged.
“If I were to describe myself, it may come off as self-deception
about the human reality.  I could make myself falsely believe not to
be what I actually am.  Or  deny my freedom by becoming what you
perceive as a bartender.  This means that in being a bartender, I
might believe that my social role is equal to my human existence.
This book explains that an occupation, race or social class should not
define who you are.  I am a person and not a bartender…  I could
become anything.  You sell real estate but is that really you?”
“Fucking deep shit and in French no less.  And that’s interesting to you?”
“I’m interested to be aware while I doubt much of everything in life.
To know is to be and we need to be and know what we are…  There is a
lot I know and a lot I don’t know. I am and actually I don’t know why
I am.  Can I define what I know?  Can I define what I am and wish to
be? There are things I know that I know. There are known unknowns.
That is to say There are things that I now know I don’t know. But
there are also unknown unknowns. There are things I do not know I
don’t know… And so I read about it…  In French.  It’s all really
fucked up but it sounds not so bad in French… N’est ce pas?”
“I don’t think I will ever ask you another question, Sal.”

“I’m totally okay with that, June.  I’m a good listener.”

July 18, 2017

Snap!

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:14 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

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.

June 10, 2017

Covfefe

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

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

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

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

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

May 26, 2017

What I hate about Ice Hockey

Filed under: humor,humour,Ice hockey,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:17 am
Tags: , , ,

My days off are Sundays and Mondays.  If you work at a restaurant or
as a barber, that’s just how it goes.  Sundays are reserved for my
son’s hockey and then my daughter.  One is a peewee and the other a
mite.  Sunday night, this time of year, I watch hockey if it is on or
baseball on ESPN.  I make lunches like a good mother and then sit on
the couch with a glass of red wine.  Sounds boring, right?  This is
after working about eighty hours between Tuesday and Saturday, playing
hockey four to five times, visiting the gym to lift and so on.
Monday, I get up with my daughter; drive an hour through bullshit
traffic.  Slow ass trucks and fucks that if you leave two feet of
space, will slam their car in front of you just they can have the
illusion of getting somewhere faster even though we’re going slower
than a geriatric on a bike.  I drop my daughter off at school,
navigate my way towards a rink in the city, arrive and change in just
enough time to play.  This is after a Kind Bar and two cups of coffee
and a Gatorade.  It will be the same crew to play pick-up hockey on
Monday as on Tuesday at the same time.  The United Airlines boys who
wear white jerseys with red letters that read “POLSKA”.  I used all
the Polish I learned going with my good friend P back in the day when
we would hang out at Euro/Polish nightclubs.  Finally they told me in
English that they are not Polish.  They got their asses kicked by a
team from Poland in a tournament in Prague, became great friends in a
bar together.  There is B from Toronto who has great hands, speed and
a shot for a man who could receive an AARP card.  There is J, the cop
who tells corny jokes that one might hear in a barbershop and anything
unusual that might have happened over the weekend, out on the street.
I ask him what the body count was over the weekend and he tells me
that he has a good one for me.
“So we get a call that a body is found in a garbage can.  I get there
and one of the guys who took the call grabs me as I’m getting out of
the car…  You know G, right?  Good hockey player.  He says to me,
“Sarge, I think you may recognize this girl”.  I open the lid to the
garbage to find a large ass and even larger asshole staring me in the
face…  Sick fuckers.  Sick sense of humor.”
Of course I asked what happened.  I guess when you see horrible shit
like that, details are not important.  A craigslist call girl who
partied to hard with her client, overdosed and died.  The man who
stuffed her into the garbage reasoned that he would be held
responsible for her death since it was his apartment and drugs.
Rather than call the police, the John got an empty garbage can and a
dolly and wheeled the date out to the alley.  The fuzzy reasoning man
put the can squarely in the parking spot of a man who came home,
lifted the lid and found a dead body…  Sad as it is astounding.
Then there is the young quiet guy who chokes up on his stick on break
always like a shiny stick.  T the Goth goalie, covered in tattoos,
wears a jersey that reads “Fuck You” and the numbers 666 on the back.
He talks about a video he is making for his Heavy Metal band and a
possible tour of Japan.  There is B the fireman and Y, the former
Olympic wrestler for Canada that was raised orthodox Jewish in
Montreal and that was also a symphonic flute player who quit it all to
become a PHD.  Since he wrestled as a boy, he wasn’t allowed to play
hockey and so now he is making up for lost time as a boy.  We play.  I
take one shot but have about 10 assists just with P who I give the
puck in our zone that goes coast to coast and scores.  I took two
shots, scored once.  I’m a play make and passer who plays defence and
everyone knows that.  One guy on the bench, who saw me roll my eyes,
asked me when we were done playing what it was that I hated most about
hockey.  I told him nothing.  Hockey has never fought with me or made
me mad.  A few guys who play the sport have done that. I unloaded a
few things in a snarky way but as I drove away from the rink, I
thought about the things I hate that surround the game.
Where do I begin?  Let’s begin with beginners.  You can’t fault
anyone for loving hockey and taking it up.  What is astounding is the
guy who can barely skate and carry the puck that receives the puck and
skates about as fast as someone can walk, in a straight line and
immediately loses the puck in the neutral zone.  After the fourth
time, I finally ask the culprit if they are noticing a pattern.  No
passing, head down, skating slow…  Bam, it’s gone.  That same guy does
not believe he is good enough to play defence because he has to work
on his backwards skating.  That same guy is two feet away from me when
I get the puck.  Who do I pass to?  Not that guy.  That guy needs to
use the door to get on and off the ice but does not bother to close
the door when he uses it.  He wears an NHL jersey with somebody’s name
on it other than himself.  Matching gloves, socks and a helmet sticker
with the number he wears at his Sunday night absolute beginner team.
He may show up with a few friends from his team and they inevitably
all want to be on the same team.  It becomes one big huge penalty kill
for 90 minutes.  You can hear him coming down the hall.  He has the
brand new wheel bag.  He has no wheels but his bag does.  Then there
are the young guys who have a little skill and all think their Patrick
Kane with the puck.  They skate end to end with out passing.  Toe
drags, kicking it up between their legs to their stick.  You make eye
contact with the kid and he still won’t pass to you.  You get a work
out getting open for no reason.  I finally do one of two things when
that young man is on my team.  I either take the puck off of his stick
and when he asks what the fuck I’m doing, I respond that I thought
that he was on his own team.  If I don’t do something that drastic, I
will just skate ahead of him offside and wait for the same rhetorical
question- What the fuck are you doing?  Answer- teaching you to move
the puck… Asshole.  That same guy gets violent when you stick check
him a little.  He tells you the price of the stick like that would
mean anything to me.  Your stick is expensive and too good for you.
My brother one time told me that he felt like everyone is an asshole.
It was after he came to that conclusion that he discovered that he was
the asshole.  I don’t want to be the asshole but I just want people to
play the game with respect.  You never see the pro’s play like what I
described.  You want to wear a Crosby jersey and play like an
oblivious misfit?  I hope Crosby shows up at the rink, slaps you and
demands his jersey back until you learn to play the game right.  Maybe
I’m the asshole.  I’ll work on my attitude and you straight line,
wheel bag, door opening, colour coordinating dufus, work on getting
your head out of your ass.

I’m kept my legs crossed for Ottawa tonight.  I think a win by them
would have been good for hockey and Canada.

Slapshot quote of the day- “What did he say?”  “He said OWNS”

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