Blackhumouristpress's Blog

December 28, 2019

Re-gifting for Christmas

Joe had never met his girlfriend’s family. With work and all, who has the time to meet family of a girlfriend when she herself disliked her own family?

 

Jill’s mother Gwen had a husband and a boyfriend. The husband Don looked like Zeus not Seuss with a large beard. Gwen spent most of her time with her boyfriend inside a tent at a trailer park. Gwen’s boyfriend had a drinking and drug problem. Maybe I didn’t need to say that after writing that her boy friend Bill lived in a tent in a trailer park within the city limits of Detroit. At Christmas in Detroit, it is generally cold. This year it happened to be about as warm as San Diego.

 

Jill had twin brothers named Nat and Nate. Nat is the natural father of Nate’s son who was Nate Jr. In reality, Nate Jr. is actually Nat Jr. Nat had tricked Nate’s girlfriend one night. He got her drunk and inseminated her. Susan, the wife of Nate happened to do a DNA test and low and behold, Nat was the father. Well Nat fell on hard times and had to move back into the home he grew up in. Gwen was rarely home and Don walked his dog a lot and watched a lot of QVC. The house was filled with things purchased that were never opened. There were tunnels throughout the house and in the basement lived Nate, his wife and son. Living in the apartment above the garage in the back of Don and Gwen’s house, were Nat and his girlfriend. The whole clan drove in separate cars to Jill’s beautiful home in Royal Oak, A sensible suburb north of Detroit.

 

Gwen felt badly that her twin sons were underachieving, fat and balding in their early 30’s. She never had the heart to tell her sons and husband that her boyfriend in a tent in a trailer park was actually the twin’s father. It all made sense actually.

 

Now Nate was married to a woman who worked at the Ambassador Bridge that is the entry point to Canada. She would ask people where they came from, what they did in Canada, what they were bringing back and if she had an inkling that something was amiss, she had the right to ruin their day by having dogs and immigration police go through everything in a vehicle for hours. Nate’s wife was over 300 lbs. and had served in the Navy once upon a time about 150lbs ago. She would watch her husband from work taking care of their twin sons on a baby monitor. Nate would hear out of thin air things like, “Nate! These kids have plastic in their mouths! Goddamn it, pay attention!”

Nat and his girlfriend were taking a lot of speed and eating little more than bacon and going to the gym a lot. They used to be obese but had lost a lot of weight. Both twins had ADD and so Nat would soon get bored with working out and dieting. Eating the rich and tasty things that their older sister Jill was about to serve to them might just kill the diet.

 

Now Jill escaped the strange idiocy of her family life. She went to school, got a job, bought a house, sold it and bought a bigger home. She learned her husband was gay and he left just before last Christmas but her boyfriend Matt was making the holiday time less sad and they got along well.

 

Matt, a good looking and fit man was supposed to buy a few things for the gathering and had procrastinated. He looked at a bunch of things he received from other people in the office and grabbed a huge basket of exotic chocolates, a bottle of wine, cheeses and meats. It was a huge basket that someone who worked for him in the office gave to him wrapped in cellophane. Matt was sort of the office overseer. His job was to monitor the things people did on line and if people were shopping or looking at porn or doing online gambling, it was his job to rat out the guilty party in the office.

 

Everyone ate and almost got along. The twins hate each other and their significant others hate them. Gwen hates her husband and her husband hates her. The offspring of the twins do not get along and then there is Jill who was the smiling successful eldest child whose house was immaculate. It was a Norman Rockwell Christmas for misfits. Gifts were passed around and Matt handed Gwen the huge basket. Gwen ooed and ahhed over it. The wine was Bordeaux the cheeses were Brie and Gruyere, smoked meats, crackers and then the chocolates. Gwen took the foil off of one chocolate to find a dark chocolate penis with coconut shavings around the testicles. Dozens and dozens of chocolate shaped just the same. Nate Jr. grabbed one, unwrapped it quick and bit the circumcised tip of one of the chocolates. Gwen found a note tucked in the middle of everything and read it out loud.

 

“Matt- you are a dick and a lap dog for the man. You’re too stupid to do anything but snitch on us all. This job suits a dumb fuck like you. You sit among us in the lunchroom and then get people fired or threatened. We hate you and hope your holiday sucks a dick. So fuck you and accept this gift from all of us.

Sincerely and truly- the office.”

 

Jill’s family took pleasure in Matt’s embarrassment. Christmas is about many things and many times people lose sight of what it’s all about. Once you get past it all. The Belgian chocolates were actually quite good and that’s all that matters.

October 9, 2019

Eluding Illusions

Filed under: america,elections,humor,humour,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:17 pm
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Poll tax extortion truth abortion

Everything heard is a distortion.

Syntactical practical magical illusion

Pull the rabbit from the hat but it smells of skunk

 

What you think you thunk after reading

Subjective junk passed off as news of whatever slant of your choosing. Your side is pure, your side righteous while fighting the devious, oblivious, contentious opposition.

 

The latest sham, the latest scam rides the subliminal at a minimal. You think you understand, you think you comprehend. It’s designed to confuse you, program and use you… Thank you for your time… God bless you.

July 17, 2019

America- 2020 Poor Vision

America 2020- two visions one schism.

One part Racism one part socialism and stir to a boil.

 

Bubble gum bubble gum in a dish which candidate do you pick? Attack the president and hope it sticks before the electorate gets too sick.

 

Some salute the flag and some kneel… this is a free country do what you feel… Unless you don’t think or look like me. In that case you’re the enemy.

 

Children, I have to warn you

Because I’ve been to California.

Needles is not just a city and there’s a reason the parks are so shitty.

 

The woke spoke and want to build moats along Nevada and near Philly. Those fly over red states are just dang silly. Gun loving hicks chasing queers in big trucks.   I just can’t believe those xenophobic fucks. They don’t even like Starbucks.

 

There’s no reason for a border

Things will work out and we’ll keep order.

We are making preparations, free college and reparations. How could the middle class have reservations?

 

AOC- can you see? We’re on the cusp of anarchy. All the people you might reach are in favor to impeach the president, undocumented residents, in an unprecedented age devoid of decorum a la Jerry Springer. It’s okay to shout when they speak and give them all the finger.

 

24-hour news propaganda that overloads the subliminal. At a minimal it looks like a mushroom cloud that covers the sun. Nowhere near where we once begun. Where do we begin?

June 21, 2019

Game Face

Filed under: divorce,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:27 am
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I got a secret. Maybe you can see it in my eyes

I can’t you let you know there’s nobody on the other side of that wall. Ask me how she is and how’s it going. Can you see it in my eyes that it’s gone? Doing this crazy thing alone. Fool them when they ask. Make them think it’s like it should be. The way it is everywhere they go. Are you alone? What do you mean exactly. Sorry, no not at all. She’s beyond that wall and the kids are upstairs where you remembered them when they were young. How are you? How is it going? I’m not offended even though you don’t care. I look at you and know I can take the pain a lot longer than you. I’m stronger than you and can tighten up in the face of pain knowing that it won’t last forever. Somewhere over there where the sun tries to hide. Never bring down the flag. It’s a matter of pride. “Give my best to the kids and bride…” I’m on the island and I do not see a ship at sea. You’re out there too maybe a bit like me.

May 29, 2019

Hold The Phone…

Filed under: america,cell phones,humor,humour,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:34 am
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I’ll take a picture of my food in exchange for validation. It’s make believe and I want you to believe everything is good and we’re happy. Ask any friend you’ve never met via the Internet.

 

Smile goddamit! This cost a fuck load and we’ve been on the road for ten hours passing Wall Drug, the Badlands just to see those presidents on a wall. And what’s it all for?

 

To feel as though there is purpose and direction as you jog on that treadmill of life to nowhere. Study hard and you’ll get somewhere you cannot stand to be with your jaded family. Your wife’s not listening, she’s on Instagram and the kids got the phone cam pointed towards them making duck lips and the peace symbol.

 

It’s all a symbol of misdirection in the age of technology and your phone knows the way. Your phone is your friend, the entertainment for the evening. You on the couch, her in the bed and when you sleep you can clear your head of all things you saw and all the things you read. There is so much out there for you to discover in life. Luckily it’s all on your phone.

May 22, 2019

Your Expiration Date

Picture that you knew the day you would die. Think of it as being born with an expiration date. The young ones who pass as young children would get smothered during their short time on earth and those who knew they wouldn’t go on until age 90, would live reckless. Nobody would have to ponder how much time they had left. They would know.

Spencer married at an early age and had children early because his parents were told that he would die 2-8-91. He had two small children and had even discussed with his single brother that he would eventually marry his hot wife and raise Spencer’s children as his own. They had a party for Spencer back in 1991 when he was 24 years old a few days before his expiration date and then nothing happened. There was no car accident, no heart attack, no random gun shooting or nothing. He reasoned that maybe something got screwed up on the computer. These things do happen, you know.

Spencer went on for years thinking that everyday was probably the last and then one day when he was drunk and reading Sartre. Spencer’s wife had taken off with the kid’s basketball coach and he was alone. Spencer started to think that there was some sort of a mistake and the date of his death was probably going to be 8-2-19 and that all the numbers had been scrambled. Spencer was pretty sure that the date is coming and with it being late May of 2019, he had to get some things done and cleared up before cashing in or out.

All those years of anguish and anticipation of the inevitable really prevented him from really living. Spencer bought a motorcycle, joined Internet dating sites, he travelled the country watching sporting events and talking to random people in bars about really deep shit. He got on Facebook and found that girl that he secretly pined for in high school. She looked like the lead singer from the band Bow Wow Wow and liked surfer-looking guys with Van Shoes and OP shorts. They had long stringy hair and liked to skateboard and surf. Her name was Melissa and she was Filipino and she was so pretty that it was hard for a pimple faced Spencer to ever get the nerve up to approach her, to talk to her, to ask her to go to the movies, to be his girlfriend. Spencer had gotten himself in the best shape of his life even though he was pretty sure that the end was coming in August. He reasoned that the grass would be cut and the house immaculate on the day the house gets repossessed.   Spencer hired a detective to find out as much as he could about this girl that was trapped in his head from back in 1985. Here is what he found out- she married three times, had six children, is a big time gambler in Las Vegas and lives in an apartment in North Hollywood, California.

Spencer got off of his motorcycle clad in leather like Mad Max, holding a bouquet of roses. Sitting in a lawn chair of the kidney shaped pool that belonged to the apartment building was Melissa. She was not the thin thing that he remembered but Spencer didn’t see that. He saw the beautiful face that he fell in love with as a teenager. She was looking at her I-Phone with a furrowed brow when Spencer’s shadow cast over her. She looked up and could not make out the figure through the sun. Spencer presented the flowers and got down on one knee like a knight with his helmet on his knee.

“Time is short but there is still time and for my whole life, I’ve wanted to be with you… I won’t leave here today without you.”

Melissa gathered up a few small things and got on the back of the motorcycle. There were a few young Mexican children playing in the parking lot. Melissa tossed the bouquet to a group of young girls and they drove off towards Las Vegas listening to a song by Bow Wow Wow called Do You Wanna Hold Me.

Do you wanna hold me, hold me tight
And I cry all night, there’s only one solution to this life
There’s someone there to tell me what it’s like
Do you wanna hold me, oh yeah, do you wanna hold me, oh yeah
Do you wanna hold me, hold me there.

May 14, 2019

A Letter to Unwanted House Guests

I would be remiss if I let you walk away and not say something to you. When I was sixteen years old, I ran away from home and went to live with poor people on public aid that were willing to take me in. To show my gratitude, I helped clean the house and do chores like all the other natural children of the house. Even at that age, I thought it was exceptional that people with very little, were willing to include me in their lives. With that said, when your daughter came to me to ask for a $500.00 advance to help pay for the rent at a motel flop house after you were evicted from your apartment, I did for you what someone once did for me. I let you move into my home.

 

Being your daughter’s boss in a small restaurant and bar, I blurred personal and professional. I spoke with her often about social issues based on the news of the day. I was asked more than once if I felt any guilt for slavery or white privilege. It was a bit sassy for a young woman of 19 years of age to so brazenly tell me that white people are the devil but especially white men. I should have never gotten involved in hindsight. For my generosity, I never received even so much as a thank you from you or your daughter. Your daughter telling me that her last day working for me will be tied to her last day living in the apartment above my restaurant- my home. I had no choice upon hearing that except to tell her and you to get out of my place immediately.

 

You both are devoid of empathy but picture this- I did hospice at my parent’s home for my mom for a month. She died on a Monday and on a Thursday, my girlfriend came in unexpectedly and went through my place like the Gestapo and found that Anne Frank and her mother had been hiding in a bedroom together, looking at their phones eating Popeye’s Chicken in bed. I never got a kind word from either of you for sharing my place with you. Now as your daughter may have told you, I am not the most liberal minded person in the world but I did something so blindly liberal that you may have mistook at face value human to human generosity with some sort of white guilt. I have none of that shit. Possibly you never got around to thanking me because you felt you were owed this in some sort of way. Maybe that’s racist of me to come to that conclusion. Maybe you’re just ignorant and ungrateful people who are incapable of understanding that someone did you a big time favor by taking you in. After all, everything today is racist, misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic and if you are white, you have to be willing to go through some sort of truth and reconciliation purging session to cleanse one’s self of privilege. I can tell you that if your daughter thinks she can be surly and judgmental with people that help her, she will get a go fuck yourself response from most people. White or otherwise. My fuck you moment came when I texted both of you to know when she was coming to work on a really busy night. The response- I will be late. The question- how late? The answer- we’re not close. The reply-I didn’t ask you where, I asked you when. Her reply- don’t be rude. Don’t be rude. Don’t be rude is what the 19 year old girl who has been cloistered up in my apartment for free with her mother and says to me when she will be 90 minutes late for work because she was witnessing a friend take prom pictures. That was the limit for me. This was after the death of my mother and the discovery by my girlfriend that you had been shacked up in my apartment. I lost my mom, my girlfriend and then was told by my star employee that when she finds a place to live, she’s quitting.

 

In conclusion, I do not want you to think that this is a racial thing. I was married to a black woman and have a child who is about as black as our ex-president. It might be that black button that every white person presses when pressed about whether they are racially cool. I have a black friend. I married a black woman and so on. I have to sort out in my head if the things that transpired were things that could have happened by any obliviously ungrateful people regardless of the color of their skin or if this goes hand in glove of many with the stereotypes that exist out there. Maybe I will never know. I do know that your daughter is destined to be living with her daughter one day off of the generosity of some fool if she does not wake up and find more ambition than watching mindless shit on her phone all day and learns to work hard. Youth is transitory. I don’t think I need to tell you that.

January 31, 2019

To Be or Not to Be

I’m really worried about baby turtles on the beach

Wringing hands hoping they’ll reach shore… TURN OFF THOSE LIGHTS! and there’s more

I want a salad with no meat, no cheese… Are you aware the animals are raised with disease? in pens… Those poor hens

Spotted owls, alligator boots and those that become fur coats

 

I’ll stand at the gates while some poor soul waits to be executed for what he did on bad days…Anyways murder is wrong and I wrote this song about the travesty of ending a human life.

 

Don’t call it abortion, that’s a contortion of every woman’s right. Speaking of right, we have the right to stop the right to re-write Roe when we lose Ruth Bader. There will once come a day when you have the say to arrest on a birthday to prevent the fat, red headed, special needs or gay.

 

It will be like 23 and me for what’s growing in me so don’t call it infanticide. I thank Albany for thinking of me and standing for all that’s right.

 

Speaking of right we need to fight those evil Nazi misogynists. The racist, Russian loving wall builders who separate immigrants from their children… Yes that’s the key… the children, right?

December 1, 2018

Teachers Have Bad Days Too

Filed under: america,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 9:54 pm
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Terry had an absolute miserable day teaching. She was hired to teach guitar and keyboards as an elective to high school children in an impoverished area of the city. The pay was good but it was nothing more than babysitting. Her classes consisted of Hispanic and black gangbangers with neck tattoos, some with ankle bracelets to monitor their every move by the police, some pregnant, most high and all profane.

“Eh eh Ms. Bitchtits… This motherfucker ain’t got all it strings. How my bout to learn this shit when y’all done gave some defective shit. I don’t see Pedro motherfucker over dere wit his leafblower on his motherfucking back missing no strings on his shit… That discrimination, Ms. Bitchtits.”

Pedro took offense to the leaf blower comment as he tried hard to form a G chord without cramping his fingers.

“The only one with bitch tits all up in this bitch is yo fat ass, motherfucking Fat Albert motherfucker. What kind of crazy bitch mom names their kid Sirarthur? Yo momma was cracked out when she gave you that bitch name.”

A fight broke out. Two guitars were casualties. The school security separated them and took them out. A string of other outbursts occurred through out the day. Run of the mill swearing, playing music on their phones, eating in class, sleeping in class and general disrespect for the Terry brought her to tears on the way home.

 

Chris was a private school teacher in a really rich suburb where there were eight students in the class. The kids spent most of the day on social media or skyping friends in other schools. Kids ignored most of what Chris was trying to teach the children. Chris had a student named Floyd who dressed in black with died black hair and a safety pin through his bottom lip. He wore shirts of death metal bands you never heard of and hated everything. His parents were divorced and the dad had an older Costa Rican woman taking care of him while travelling the world on business. Floyd was in prep school but got thrown out of so many that they brought him home. His stepmother detests him and the dad just gives his kid more money to placate him. The assignment was to read allowed what the perfect day would be. Floyd read his in front of the class.

“My perfect day would be to tie up my parents in their fucking sauna and turn the temperature up to about 150 and leave them in there for a good while to ensure their reproductive organs were officially shot. I would then come to school with a dozen large sows and let tear gas off in the school. I would sit out front with a six-pack and a lawn chair on the school’s front lawn while the pigs and girls squealed like pigs and then I would probably take target practice on the knees of those running from the mayhem. No murder, just a little maiming. Of course this is just a fantasy, you see… For I have no sows at home.”

Chris dialed the police and the police showed up before Floyd could finish his essay. The police hauled Floyd in. His father was in New Zealand and the stepmother was fucking an Internet buddy in San Diego and so the Costa Rican au pair had to sort it all out. The father, who donated thousands, maybe tens of thousands to the school on top of tuition each year, pledge to see that Chris would be fired when he returned. Chris drove home crying.

Chris met Terry through a friend of a friend. At the time, they were both dating men but went on to become partners. They were once really romantic but Chris began to gain weight and Terry had become a health nut. It was just a few days ago that Terry had to break the news to Chris that the funky smell in her vagina was due to all the shit food she was eating and a little bit of poor hygiene. Love had been on the rocks and now they both had a really bad day. They walked in to find that their cats were fighting and had broken porcelain figurines that had belonged to Chris’ grandmother. The gloves came off the moment they both got home.

“I hate these cats… I hate them, I hate them… We couldn’t get fucking dogs because we live in a building that won’t allow them. So these destructive little fucks have ruined something of mine once again that can’t be replaced. I have had a day from hell and I don’t have room in my life right now to be dealing with destructive fucking cats,” shouted Chris.

“Fuck you… You teach at a country club. Try one day in my goddamn shoes and you need more therapy than you’re getting now,” said Terry.

“How dare you use that against me… You are a hateful bitch… When your parents get here, I will be staying at a hotel. I am not putting up with your criticism and theirs together. You are all unhappy people and then you shit on me. Your parents raised you to be a mean combative bitch. You’re just like them. I’m outta here.,” said Chris.

“Yeah… Will you be sending the what are you doing tonight text to your old boyfriend?” Asked Terry.

“What are you talking about? We’re just friends. I don’t hate Paul. It just didn’t work out.”

“I get all the neurotic bullshit and he gets to buy you a few drinks, slip you the genuine article and you both go on with life. I’m not blind,” said Terry.

“I’m not having this tonight. I had that weirdo kid talk about tear gas, wild pigs and shooting people in the legs today and now his rich dad wants my head for calling the cops…” said Chris.

“Welcome to modern teaching, sister. Yo this Motherfucking, bitch, niggah, bitch, niggah, motherfucking bitch ass mothefucking motherfucker… Now that’s commonly used just for description… Every minute of everyday. So you got a rich Goth psycho. You must be stressed.”

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

In the lobby of condominium were the parents of Terry who had difficulty coming to grips with their daughter’s change of life but were ready to shrug it off and wish them all the happiness in the world. The button to the intercom had stuck. Chris had pressed the button with maple syrup on her index finger earlier that morning when the Amazon man arrived with a package and that darn button never released. For a great while Terry’s parents just quietly stood in the foyer and listened to domestic car crash taking place. The parents quietly agreed to each other that they were really no different than any other couples. And that’s just how it goes on really bad days.

October 4, 2018

Genetically Modified Men

I thought maybe it was just me. I thought maybe it was just my age and that I didn’t understand that things change and people change along with them. I began to notice that some men just disappeared and then others made a dramatic change from who they were. When the NFL banned tackling and the NHL banned body checking, I began to wonder what was going on. How could so many men change at once and others just vanish?

 

As A medical doctor, I began to examine men who went through big personality changes and found that most grew center punch man buns and beards. They began to develop breasts and discussed things that were less than manly.

“My wife and I found a lovely little town in the country that is basically a strip of antique shops. We found some fabulous deals and stayed at a really charming bed and breakfast that they claimed that Ulysses Grant once stayed at during the Civil War… If you would like information on this, let me know, doctor…”

This was coming from a man who once drove a truck for a living and now works in the children’s section of the local library.  Words like “lovely”, “fabulous” and “charming”, were never part of his lexicon in the past. Every other word in the past was profanity such as, “My fucking back hurts and I’m having a really hard time taking a shit, doctor.” It was quite a change. I’m not a particularly political person but I began to bring up the president to men that I felt had lost their masculinity.

“That man is not my president. He is a horrible man and he needs to be stopped by any means necessary!”

“What about our GDP or unemployment or Wall Street going through the roof?”

“And what about those poor children ripped from their mother’s arms and sent around the country like it was Auschwitz. What about that? No human is illegal, doctor and borders are not who we are…”

“Really? Hmm… Fred… Let me ask you about playing hockey recreationally. How is that going? Are you still playing several times a week?”

“Well doctor, my wife and I take ballroom dancing and Pilates together and go for nightly walks now…”

“Interesting… Can you tell me who you believe will win the Stanley Cup this year?”

“Doctor… I really don’t have time to follow that stuff. I have a list given to me by my wife that I need to complete of things that need to be done around the house. I’m happiest when doing those things rather than sitting in front of the television all night.”

What could it be? What was going on? Why wasn’t I falling victim to this mass transformation? One day I thought I would treat myself to $5.00 latte and went into a Starbucks. The counter girl had a nose ring and a rainbow shirt with a big button that said Resist. I was taken back by her question.

“The usual, sir?”

“Usual? I haven’t been to a Starbucks for years.”

“Is that so… Well, then this one is on us, sir and we hope to see you everyday going forward.”

I drank the coffee and had an overwhelming desire to have another. For no reason I put on the View and asked my wife if she was interested in seeing a romantic comedy rather than playing softball with my team and drinking until the bar closed. All day long I sweat and fought back the desire to leave and get another latte. All night I sat on the couch rocking and thinking about having another latte. When I woke, it had passed. I felt myself again- I ate, dressed and went off to work. I began to loiter at a local Starbucks and noticed the same people coming in over and over again. Men who looked like androgynous hipsters who once looked like frumpy fat men. Weeks later I examined a man who appeared to be examining me.

He eventually couldn’t refrain from telling me what he discovered once he was sure that I wasn’t one of them.

“I’m a garbage man by trade. My job is to collect refuse and take it to a dump sight. Nothing unusual, right? Well I noticed a pig farm next to the dump and wondered what was going on at 4am. I walked through the mire to a fence where they had lights lit up enough to play baseball by. I noticed body bags on the back of trucks… Hundreds of dead bodies and a conveyor belt of old, dead white men. Their nutsacks were being cut from their bodies and dumped into buckets and then fed to pigs. The bodies then went into a crematorium. The people doing the castrating were all large women. I imagine them to be lesbian but maybe just large European types. I was amazed. I wondered where all the old white men were going. I found it, doctor. Tell me you’re not with them! Please tell me!”

I wasn’t one of them and I had to see it for myself and it was just as described. I began to notice that everyone except Eddy the garbage man had become like them and I didn’t know what could be done. I woke this morning to find a latte next to my breakfast cereal. My wife was smiling as if waiting to watch me swallow arsenic. I refused to drink the latte, grabbed my things and headed for the door.

 

“ Someday you will want it. All men want it. They need it. They live for it and when you do get it, it will come at a price, love.   You will pay for who you are.”

“What am I?”

“You know who you are, I don’t need to tell you…”

“I’m not that sharp, Susan. What am I?”

“A man who is white… And you know what that means.”

 

I ran out and began speeding towards the office. I was stopped two blocks from home by a female police officer. She approached the car and never asked me why I was going so fast. She put two hands on the door and looked at me dead in the eye and asked me if I had my latte this morning. I panicked and took off. Here I am at my office with the door locked. I can hear them through the door. Women with sweet, calm voices trying to convince me to unlock the door.

“You have to come around, doctor. All the others are changing and you will change right along with them… It’s futile to resist… Resist… Resist.”

 

I woke up sweating and looked over to find my wife sleeping. It was a dream but it was so real that I sat there for a moment wondering. Just wondering.

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