Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 18, 2017


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

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

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

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

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


November 9, 2009


Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:33 am
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