Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 21, 2014

Operation Crowbar or I Gotta Guy

At city hall in the city of Chicago, early on a Monday morning after reading about a dozen murders and over thirty shootings between Friday and Sunday, the mayor threw a fit.
“How is it that we have more fucking murders in this goddamn city than Baghdad or Kabul? I’m tired of press conferences where I hear that the murder rate is actually down but shootings are out of control. It’s a tribute to medicine that thirty people get shot and only a dozen die… THIS BULLSHIT HAS TO END NOW! I’M READY TO HEAR SOME IDEAS OUT OF YOU ALL INSTEAD OF DUMB FUCKING LOOKS… ANYONE?”
The common reply among men in Chicago when someone needs something fixed; I gotta guy. One of the mayor’s guys had a guy.
Now the mayor of Chicago knew about apartheid South Africa about as much as most Americans. It was a terrible thing that a white minority instituted separation of races. A guy named Mandela went from being a Communist perpetrator and an enemy of the state to president and so on and so forth. One of the mayor’s aides knew a guy, who knew a guy who knew the guy necessary to straighten things out in a way that could be understood in the hood. When a large smiling man with a sizable space between his two upper front teeth arrived at a meeting at city hall, it was clear he had the strongest personality in the room. With a strong Afrikaner accent, Jan used an analogy to explain the task ahead of him.
“Thees prrroblem you arrrre having ees nothing. Whaat you arrrre asking of me ees like asking a chef to make you a hard-boiled egg… Now you have to ask yourselves eef the peace you will get ees worth the price you are going to pay. Peace costs money, my friends.”
The large man was once responsible for keeping order in South African townships where angry black people were unhappy about the oppressive laws forced upon them. Jan also overthrew dictators in Africa and lead South African troops to a war in Angola. Dissuading random gangbangers from randomly murdering innocents and others deemed deserving did not seem like a difficult task to Jan. A huge price tag would be accompanied by a huge presence not seen since the riots after Martin Luther King Jr.
Jan stopped talking for a moment. He took out a marker and began writing on a blank sheet of paper. The squeak of the marker was the only sound in the room. Jan stood up and walked over to the mayor’s desk and ripped off a piece of tape and taped the paper to the wall. One word was written on it that nobody understood since it was a Dutch/Afrikaans word.


“You all know the word Apartheid… Learn thees Dutch word, my new frrrriends… Like a fucking hard boiled egg.”

Nothing was announced and nothing was said beyond the walls of city hall. The following Monday, it was front page news that nobody died or was shot within the city limits of Chicago other than one domestic dispute gone wrong. The papers tried to analyze why. The mayor came out with the chief of police to announce that the authorities were turning the corner and getting a handle of the situation and other canned catch phrases used by politicians and athletes alike. So what really happened?
Dozens of enormous trucks with steering wheels on the right side of the vehicles pulled up in every neighborhood with high incidents of murder. These trucks were like Hummers on steroids. They were like angry Land Rover limousines capable of withstanding landmines. For those who liked jacked up vehicles with large rims, these high riding trucks were an item to inspire true awe. Close to thirty former South African Police trucks called Casspirs rolled into rough streets where tourists never tarry. People who stood on corners and front porches began to notice soldiers of fortune filing out of the Casspirs with automatic weapons and scopes. These weren’t fat, old, white men in cop cars. These were white and black men equally in full soldier uniform that were soldiers of fortune from South Africa. Chicago residents in the shit neighborhoods who followed the law and rules and never sold a drug or carried a weapon, smiled and waved at the stoic soldiers that walked around with their fingers on triggers. Something serious and different was afoot. At the press conference with the mayor and chief of police, the mayor responded to the questioned that was posed repeatedly; what did you do to stop the violence?
“We used a crowbar… Sometimes you need to pry back to get at things… Next question… Nobody was murdered this weekend in the city of Chicago. Let’s talk about other things that need fixing… Let’s talk about the Cubs.”

October 23, 2012

The Final Debate or Lions, Tigers and Da Bears

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 2, 2010

Mixed Marriage

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Kevin met Keisha after a hockey game.  It seems unlikely given that Keisha really had an almost disdain for the sport of ice hockey.  Keisha’s boyfriend at the time was the goalie on the opposing team.  Kevin noticed the pretty African-American woman in the stands and made it a point of finding out where the opposing team was going to drink that night.  It was at the bar of a Red Lobster that Kevin met Keisha.  Kevin paid the waiter twenty dollars to check her identification and then give Kevin all the information.  Keisha got up to use the washroom at the Red Lobster and it was in the galley that Kevin intercepted Keisha and professed his undying love for her.

            It could have been Kevin’s boldness that really attracted Keisha to him since Kevin grabbed Keisha and began kissing her in nearly clear view of where her boyfriend was sitting.  That move was the beginning of a love and life everlasting.  The profession of love that needed to be legally bound by a document whereby Kevin and Keisha would belong to one another was where it all headed from that moment on.  It all culminated in marriage at a Baptist Church with a Catholic priest also presiding.  It was a grand affair to see the friends and family of Kevin get together and break bread with the family and friends of Keisha.  Black people trying to dance to rock from the 1980’s and white people just trying to dance.  The whites had to admit that Keisha was stunning in her white gown and the blacks had decided that Kevin looked okay for a pasty dude that really needed to take in a bit more Vitamin D via the sun.

            Time went on and is often the case, Kevin and Keisha got together and eventually had a child.  They both were excited to be parents and really loved their young daughter with all their being.  Kendra was born with curly light brown hair, light skin and blue eyes.  There was a twenty five percent chance that Kendra would come out light skinned and she did.  That in itself meant nothing to either parent other than the child looked more white than black to most but occasionally she looked more black than white to others.  Kevin joked that Kendra was a white zebra with black stripes and everyone always chuckled at the comment.  It was sort of cute to all but Keisha.

            Now for Keisha’s thirty fifth birthday, Kevin had decided that he and his wife would take a grand vacation and travel to South Africa.  A land where white people once ruled over black people and now black people ruled over all.  As the time drew closer, Keisha began to think about the tremendous amount of miles and even more kilometers it would take by airplane to get to Johannesburg and the possibility of the airplane crashing into the sea and then their young daughter would become ward of the state.  It suddenly became imperative that legally custody be granted to one of their friends in the event of their death.  The only issue was who it was going to be.

            “Benita is the sister I never had.  I would do anything for Benita and she would do anything for me.  She is Kendra’s godmother and she loves Kendra as her own.  Benita did a great job with her own children and knows that she would do a fabulous job with Kendra if something were to happen to us.  I would like to legally make Benita Kendra’s legal guardian before we go…  She is the right choice; she is a loving, educated black woman.”

            Kevin happened to be working on his spoken word/poetry reading.  He was matching up a bible verse from the Gideon Bible that he stole from a motel in Fargo, North Dakota to some rhythms that he came up with on his $150.00 Casio that he bought in at a pawn shop under the elevated train on the north side of Chicago.  It was sort of a Bossa Nova beat underneath poetry.  Kevin frequented a coffee house on the north side of Chicago with a clear view of Lake Michigan.  On Tuesday nights, random people would congregate to read indirect words about being indirect.  Kevin chose the Gideon’sBible.  A smooth jazzy beat looped over and over as Kevin softly read Deuteronomy 4: 32.

            “Ask about the former days, long before your time, form the day God man on earth; ask from one end of the heavens to the other…”

            Keisha interrupted.  Kevin blinked hard and turned off the Casio.  He could no longer concentrate.

            “Why the bible, baby?  Why don’t you write a poem about something on your mind and rattle that off at the poetry readings?  Asked Keisha.

            “Because the bible moves me.  That’s why.  Why is black so important to you?”  Asked Kevin.

            Keisha was taken aback by the question.  Kevin was aggravated by being interrupted and by Betty’s qualification of being a suitable surrogate parent because she was black.

            “What if I said I wanted to have my brother Peter to be a surrogate in the event of our death?”  Said Kevin.

            “You want you’re under achieving brother to raise our child?  The only white landscaper on the north shore?  Maybe he could put her in a junior college and teach her how to tell the difference between grass and weeds,” said Keisha.

            “Oh and your friend Betty, the one you call your sister, the one you tell our daughter that she is our aunt, the one who chose some man whore to be her husband…  You want her to hook up with some slick bastard who is going to be lining up our daughter when she hits puberty?  Great idea.  Benita chooses a worthless man before and so he will be the next one but meanwhile our daughter winds up being the Korean chick that Woody Allen wound up marrying that was his foster child.  No way.  I’m not game for that.”

            Keisha became indignant at the implication that all black men were womanizers and capable of indiscretions with young girls who may or may not be relations.

            “So all black men will rape our daughter, huh?  Is that what you’re saying?  Its cool to sleep and marry a black woman but still keep your eye on the brother, right?”

            “You get on a goddamn elevator; you’re the first one to hold your purse against your body as soon as some dude with braids, sagging pants and a long white t-shirt comes slooping up towards us.  I already know he views you as an Uncle Tom and a sell out because you stand there staring at the floor display, clutching my hand.  I didn’t make the black man a villain, they made themselves one.  I’m just here to give each individual a fair shake.  When it comes to my daughter and I’m already dead, I have to say that the screening process left up to your friend Betty, scares the hell out of me.  Her judgment sucks in my opinion.  A warm body and a large cock is all that she really needs, right?”

            “Your brother is an under achieving bust out.  He’d be happy watching television all day, drinking a six pack, asking your mom if the mail came so he could see if maybe some credit card company sent him or your mother’s dog a check in the mail.  Loser is what should be tattooed on his forehead and it saddens me to think that you would want your daughter to possibly be raised by someone that has zero ambition that is content watching NHL games in your mother’s basement with other bust outs who live with their mothers.  Why is this?  Because he is white?  You can be a worthless human being as long as you are white?  Is that the case?”

            Two days passed and neither Keisha nor Kevin would talk to one another.  The two had angered each other and dredged up latent racism that dwelled deep within both of them.  It was Kevin that thought long and hard about a compromise that would keep their South African vacation from being a case study in apartheid; suggest the lesbian Asian friend to be the surrogate mother and custodial parent in the event of death.  Keisha was surprised by the suggestion but listened to her husband without interruption.

            “I thought about this whole thing and it is really all pretty silly.  I know that Benita would be a good parent to our daughter despite whatever philandering waste of space that she might hook up with and although my brother is a bit arrested in his development, rest assured he would care for and love our daughter more than if it were his own.  I have a solution.  Your good friend Joyce from Wisconsin would be a great alternative.  Although I hope our daughter does not turn out lesbian, I know that Joyce would take good care of Kendra and being sort of butch, she would try to instill in her the necessity to be proficient at sports.  Hopefully our daughter would never be a Green Bay Packer fan but if it happens… Just like being a lesbo, I won’t be around to witness it…  What do you think?”  Asked Kevin.

            Keisha thought about the whole issue and the potential for ruining their own two week dream vacation to Africa and decided that an Asian lesbian was a great compromise.  Joyce cried upon being asked to be a parent in the event of their death.  Kevin, Keisha and Joyce toasted the agreement.  Disaster was averted.

August 27, 2009

Truth and Reconciliation

In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.

The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.

The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.

Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.

On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.

“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.

“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”

Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.

A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.

“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”

The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.

“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.

“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.

“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.

“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”

“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the other claims?”

“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”

“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”

“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”

“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”

“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”

“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”

“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”

People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.

“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”

“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”

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