Blackhumouristpress's Blog

September 7, 2018

And Donald Trump as Richard Nixon

I stand here today, your president of the greatest nation in the world
to speak about this business of impeachment.  As you all well are well
aware, except for the People’s Republic of Massa chutes, I won every
state…  The greatest GOP landslide ever.  I served as your vice
president during the greatest peacetime growth this nation has ever
seen.  After suffering through the Great Depression and two major
wars, this nation was at peace.  When did that peace end?  I’ll go out
on a limb and say when Camelot moved into the White House.  You had
one of the greatest generals in this country’s history planning the
Bay of Pigs invasion.  How was that screwed up?  Cuba?  We could not
overturn that government?  So we looked around and tried to figure out
what weaker country we could invade to save them from themselves and
get people’s minds off of Cuba… Where to go?  Where to Go.  Ah…
Vietnam. Who ever really heard of Vietnam before and if you did, could
you find it on a map.  The great Walter Cronkite looked solemnly into
the camera to report that it is a war we couldn’t win.  I suppose he
knows better than generals.  I supposed if we had conducted a war
correctly, we wouldn’t have had such a long and useless war.  Kennedy
put it on a tee, Johnson hit it into the Gulf of Tonkin and it was my
job to fish it out.  Maybe if I was better looking and hob nobbed with
you all out in Martha’s Vineyard or Hyannis, got drunk and crashed a
car in a pond and walk away with some doll in the backseat…  Maybe if
I had a ménage a trois with Kissinger and Bridget Bardot, you might
all keep it down low, wink, nod and declare that Dick is a man’s man
and for the good of the country, we’ll just let this go.  Maybe I
needed to take charge and remind my men that there was better chance
of meeting Jesus Christ than Mc Govern defeating me and there would be
no reason to snoop on them.  Kennedy and Johnson brought you the war
and I ended it.  Kennedy and Johnson were a hair away from starting a
nuclear war with the USSR over again…  Help me out here… Anyone? Yes,
Cuba once again and I sat down with Brezhnev and worked out a plan to
limit nuclear weapons.  China…  That was I once again.  Trade
relations and a chance to sell a billion Buicks brought to you once
again by Richard Nixon.  The milk toast members of my party are
wringing their hands, worried that if they don’t throw me into the
fire, they might be next at some future date.  I said this to
Kissinger and I will say it all to you- the press is the enemy… The
establishment is the enemy.  Professors…  Communist perpetrators who
indoctrinate your children into believing that you’re the problem…
They are the enemy.  Tattoo it all over your body 100 times…  I go to
the people today and bypass the media.  The people have to know
whether or not their president is a crook.  Well I’m not a crook.  I
earned everything I’ve got.  You think you can get rid of me and
undermine the will of the people and my mandate, I say roll the dice…
Thank you all for listening tonight, god bless you and god bless
America.

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August 17, 2018

Let Them Eat Beets

Wonder drugs are really wonderful except when those darn side affects take affect. You know- hives, bleeding gums, swollen pancreas and feet, insomnia, sensitivity to light, night sweats, day sweats, heart palpitations, loss of libido, a hard on that never subsides that could service a harem… You get the idea.

 

The Millers were some large white people. The father, wheezed when he breathed. His neck was hidden between a half dozen chins. He would roll into the local 7-11 to buy those nasty tacos and wings under the heat lamp, a bag of chips, a double big gulp and that candy bar. I’m sorry, two candy bars.

“Vun for 69 cents, two for a dollar,” the Indian proprietor who announces as Bill the patriarch would get ready to slip his card into the reader.

The children were the American version of Hansel and Gretel. Middle school age cherubs that wore adult clothing. They sweat in cool weather and their eyes disappeared whenever they smiled. Hamburgers, frozen pizzas and ice creams were their staples. Their parents would cruise the aisles of the local grocery store in motorized scooters while their children waddled behind them begging for extra snacks. Very little fruit, very little vegetables and a plethora of artery clogging garbage to stuff their faces in front of their phones and the television. Bill outweighed his wife by fifty pounds and both of them were over 300lbs. When the four of them would get in the elevator on the way to the doctor’s, they would quietly do the math in their heads. The four of them were dangerously close to the maximum weight allowed by the fire marshall. Bill had a terroristic beard with a man bun that went up into a cute fountain like a center punch in the middle of his head. They would pull up at the local buffet on Mondays and smile at the register girl and Bill would always say, “You’re about to lose on this deal.” You get the idea. They were the archetypical fat Americans. They were sloppy, slovenly, sloths completely content with obesity until Bill happened to be reading about a man who looked like him and lost 250 lbs. He thought that he might just be a handsome devil under all that fat. The thought of working out hours a day and yanking fat and sugar from his diet seemed a life not worth living. Bill needed artificial will power or something to overpower his laziness.

 

Bill knew of a woman at work who lost an amazing amount of weight but appeared to have developed Tourette’s. The woman looked amazing but she had no filter. To prevent herself from saying too much, she would cover her own mouth and mumble through her fingers. Bill approached the woman in the parking lot and offered her a large sum of money if she would hook him up with the non-FDA approved drug from Mexico. The colleague agreed to the deal. At first, Bill felt nothing and after about a week he noticed that things began to change. Bill had a taste for salads with lemon instead of dressing, No burgers or pizza. He wanted to walk and lift weights instead of sit in the lazy boy and read his phone. After a month, Bill was running and doing a stationary bike, rowing machine and elliptical at the gym for hours at a time. No junk food at all and he walked around shaking a plastic container filled with a protein shake. It was an amazing transformation. Before long, Bill’s wife and kids were all taking the same drug. They became fitness machines and testimonies to clean living and exercise. Everything was great, right? Oh, yes… The side affects. The family did not lie down at the end of the night and sleep a solid eight hours. They did not sleep even half of that. They would periodically collapse and take a twenty to thirty minute nap here or there. Some times it would hit them at work like narcolepsy and they would involuntarily fall deeply asleep for fifteen minutes and feel refreshed and ready to take on any task at 110% effort or more. None of them realized that their resting heart rate was over 100 and that they were shortening their lives by racing their hearts at all times. The other side affect was brutal honesty and an inability to lie.

Bill weighed in at 185 lbs. at about six feet in height and about 6% body fat. He walked around wide-eyed with tense jaws and said the wildest things out loud. At home, it was astounding the things the family would say to each other. It didn’t matter much until they got together for dinner with their good friends, The Quentin’s. The Quentin’s were nice people. All of them had red hair to the point of orange. The kids had whitest of white skin and freckles on top of freckles. The Quentin’s had a rainbow flag in front of the house with a lawn sign that said, “Black Lives Matter” and “Hate has No Home Here” and “No Human is Illegal”. The Millers kept quiet that they voted for Trump and liked Trump and were really happy about their tax cut, their improving 401K and that Bill’s company kicked back $1,000.00 to him recently. They knew the Quentin’s were really liberal and were frantic about the changes that they could not control. They would always make off the cuff comments about Trump and Trump lovers such as ignorant, backward, fascist, Nazi, xenophobic, homophobic and so on. The Miller’s would politely listen and then try to change the subject to vacations or sports the kids were playing. The Quentin’s made ribs with a bean dip and potato chips, coleslaw and then cookies and chocolate cake. Bill and Tammy showed up with a beet salad and some sort of bland tofu. The Millers ate it like it was the greatest thing and the Quentin’s sort of snarled at it. Julie Quentin jokingly made a comment, which opened the door to brutal honesty.

“That looks like punishment, not a meal.”

Bill wiped beet juice from his chin, smiled and spoke first.

“You’re gonna eat all the calories you need for a week in one sitting? Your temple is a bank and I can tell you that you are putting way too much in the bank if you know what I mean. You have to be fatter than the last time we got together. If you’re not fatter, you certainly look fatter”

“What the hell, Bill!”

“I mean that all that shit you’re eating makes you feel like shit inside and then you think shitty things about the government and the whole world and then you go back and have a piece of cake and think, gee… I wanna kill the president…”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Bill?”

Tammy jumped in to continue where Bill started.

“Julie, Julie… Listen… You’re unhappy because you’re fat and fat because you’re unhappy. It stems from your inability to accept reality. Your resist sticker on the back of your car tells it all. You are resisting reality; you’re resisting happiness and a better life. You think getting a “No Hate” tattoo in Arabic makes you not hate? No, you hate great and I know you hate hearing the truth. We sit here and listen to you both go on and on about everything you hate and you assume we are with you and we’re not.”

Julie stood up and placed her palms on the table and began to yell in the face of her good friend Tammy or former good friend.

“What kind of mind controlling Nazi shit has happened to you? You lose the equivalent of a whole human being and now you get preachy with us? How dare you!”

Julie’s husband took a drink of his beer and said nothing. Bill winked at him and took a sip of his lemon water. The women went back and forth, yelling and pointing until the Miller boy looked up from his phone where he was watching a steroidal man discussing how to make muscle fast. The lean 13-year-old boy, made a statement.

“Adults are always talking about hoping and praying for things… You know what I hope for? Aliens… Not the illegal ones…   I pray they come down and put you all in zoos. Aliens can watch you do all the crazy, sick shit you do sexually on the Internet and maybe they’ll throw a steak in your cage… If not a steak, maybe a beet salad.”

The fighting ended really quickly after that.

June 23, 2018

Mommy and Daddy Voted For Trump- A Kid Book

Children I know you heard that once upon a time that momma and daddy voted for Obama back in 2008. Things then were not so great. Back when you were just a tadpole in dad’s bag and we were trying to secure Baghdad. Eight years of hope. Eight more? Nope.
Along came a man with a strange tan down an escalator. He told your parents that life could be better. Against all odds, against all predictions at 10pm eastern came the revelation. The American Brexit was born.
Now Aunt Tilly, the one married to Milly, both believe in freedom of speech and democracy as long as they agree. They told your parents that they were stupid and silly and yelled, “you are dumb… Racist, sexist and straight up deplorable.” For your parents the thought was unbearable the idea of Hillary as president. No borders and permanent illegal immigrants. Free college and a government job for all and no need for borders, passports, fences or walls. North Korean bombs headed for Guam, Syria feeling little like Vietnam with no hope or plan for ISIS or the return of the Tailban.
They probably would never admit this out loud but they are proud that as a boy, you wear blue and like firetrucks and they quietly believe it sucks that their values are the enemy of Hollywood, the press and talk show TV.
Russian collusion, Mueller commission fishing for obstruction and mom and dad are just so glad about the economy and their 401K and the prospect that Korean missles might go away. What do they do? What do they say? Nothing out of fear of being yelled at, belittled, attacked and driven away. Oh and by the way… You better hide this book today. Aunt Tilly is on her way. I shudder to think what she’ll think or what she’ll say and that’s just how it is everyday.

January 17, 2018

The 2nd Opinion

Filed under: america,donald trump,humor,humour,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:34 pm
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The press and a large part of the electorate was quite skeptical of
the results of a physical and mental exams performed by Dr. Ronny
Jackson so another physical was performed by a group of Doctors
ordered by the Democratic Party.  Think of Robert Mueller and his team
as physicians.  What they found was not unlike what Dr. Ronny Jackson
found.  All the clinical data came up very similar.  The press
conference following the second opinion became more frantic.  Dr. Hans
Gruber fielded questions.  What they did not know was that Dr. Hans
was an atheist, nihilist and an anarchist in his earlier days.  Dr.
Gruber was neither Democrat nor Republican.  He believed in nothing.

“Dr. Gruber…  Would you say that the president is on par with Putin
regarding his health?”

Dr. Gruber- I would say he is more on par with Rasputin.  To prevent
the possibility of being poisoned by anyone, he does not have his
kitchen staff prepare food for him.  He like most Americans pulls up
to a drive through and orders a number one.  Sometimes a number 7 with
a diet Coke.

“Dr. Gruber…  Do you believe the president is actually obese and in
danger of a heart attack or stroke given that he sleeps very little,
does not exercise except for golf and eats poorly?”

DR.  Gruber- There is what I’ve discovered based on tests and what I
believe.  Since you specifically asked what I believe, I will tell you
what I believe…  Genetically some people can eat …  pardon the word
but it has been quite popular lately… shit food and it has no affect
on them.  They can endure high stress with very little sleep and they
are no worse for the wear.

“Dr. Gruber…  Are you alluding to some sort of genetic master race,
Caucasians are superior sort of conclusion?”

Dr. Gruber- Ummm no.  Hitler was not looking for orange haired,
oranged-faced people to build his Reich.  It’s more like the luck of
the draw.  You sometimes bring to homely people together and create a
beauty.  Two right-handers give birth to a lefty.  Two brown haired
brown-eyed people create a blond with blue eyes…  These things
happened.

“Dr. Gruber…  There are a large number of psychiatrists who believe
that the president is no mentally fit.  How can we be sure that the
tests given are truly accurate at detecting the president’s mental
fitness.”?

Dr. Gruber- I don’t think I could accurately determine if someone is
mentally fit without putting that person, personally through an exam.
Has anyone found out the political leanings of these psychiatrists who
have never examined the president?  Am I allowed to ask questions
here?  No?  Okay…  Maybe a rhetorical question.”

“Dr. Gruber…  The country is perplexed by this second examination.
What would you suggest next?

Dr. Gruber- If collusion, obstruction of justice, mental and physical
fitness cannot unseat this president, you have two choices- acceptance
of reality or hope for a Democrat house in 2018 and a successful
election to trigger an impeachment Keep in mind there are large
questions right now in the minds of many Americans about the mental
fitness of the American press…  You asked me… I’m just telling you.

October 7, 2017

The stay at Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

January 18, 2017

1-20-2017

Pendulum, conundrum, electorate- ho- hum, persuaded and dumb.  Where
did this come from?
Crazy, frightening yet strong.   Simply put simplistic and genius with
a finger on the pulse tapping in to that, which is wrong with us. A
clown to some and they laughed but it was never meant to be funny.
Money, wealthy, ballsy billionaire.  People of color scared of the
unpredictable. Patriotic, simplistic people waving a flag awaiting the
arrival of the despot, in the best spot, at the best time- finally as
ludicrous as revolutionary, scary, obnoxiously brilliant- Americans
are many things but are they resilient?

The modern Prometheus?  What is this success?  Fascist? Genius?
Childish and clueless? Powerful and forceful, bold and amazing the
nasty hero of silent plurality in manicured, sanitized for your
protection suburban subdivisions in search of change of something
outspoken and blunt, unqualified, unbelievable, unstable,
unpresidential somewhere beyond the strip malls.  A clever, vulgar,
realist, opportunistic bombast of a new class- brash and crass.  The
ugly American uber alles.  Better to be feared than loved by the
progressives, the new recessives clinging to the coasts focused on
talking headed arrogance on news television.  A new shrewd, yet lewd,
entertaining aggressive who saved the republic- ans from going the way
of the dinosaurs.  Like Brexit, will he fix it as part of a horribly
refreshing nightmare of less kind and less gentler future?  “Sorry,
this is complicated business…”

December 22, 2016

What Hath God Wrought or A Tweet from Trump

Donald Trump…  You know, the guy nobody believed would become
president of the United States.  The great white hope. Brexit in
America, grab them by the pussy…  That dude.  He happened to watch an
MTV snippet of  resolution suggestions for white guys.  Trump
impetuously grabbed his cell phone, an I-Phone7+ that he received from
Rush Limbaugh as a gift for winning the presidency and decided to
record himself rebutting the millennial advice to white guys.  Very
unpresidential but damn funny.
“I happened to be up late wondering what I would do exactly if one of
our diplomats was whacked while giving a speech or if some exile from
Syria stole a plumbing truck from some poor Polish plumber in Windsor,
Ontario and decided to mow down people figure skating to, “It’s
beginning to look a lot like Christmas” in downtown Detroit.  Find
them and skin them alive?  Put them in Gitmo and play, Born in the USA
night and day in between waterboarding?  Slap Angela Merckle the way
Humphrey Bogart would have slapped a dame back when America was great?
Ah yes…Eisenhower, GM, IBM, unbridled American growth and prosperity…
Before the Beatles grew their hair and everyone smoked pot and hated
their parents for living through the Great Depression, fighting in
World War II and Korea, raised them wholesome and homogenously with
two vacations a year, just so that they could make love to whomever
and hate their parents for not liking Jimi Hendrix… And then I saw a
clip from MTV.   Today you got a whole lot of bust outs living in mom
and dad’s basement, playing beer pong and getting wasted playing
X-Box.  These are the same tools that when they get up to take a piss,
decide to go out and protest the fact that I won…  You know who I’m
talking about.  MTV put them on a recorded message to white guys.  Get
a little more aware, a little more hip and a little less white.  It
starts out with a wholesome looking white chap with a few nose
freckles who waves his hand as a gesture of hello but not a gesture
any person of color would ever do…  Why?  To damn white.  It smacks of
I’m a little pussy, cut in front of me in line, wet your finger and
jam it in my ear, take food you desire off of my plate and sodomize me
if you please.  Then you have the son of Steve Urkel, wearing a cat
shirt.  A nerdy black man who is in the know on what white guys need
to do in 2017…  Holy Smokes!  Then you get the poster boy for Michelle
Obama’s get-the-fuck-out-and-exercize-you-lazy-fat-fuck who looks like
the fat son of that hot Spanish chick, Sonia Veraga.  Next you have
Ugly Betty and Betty’s better looking sister and then the girl who
defected from her violin lessons and really thinks being white sucks…
Maybe she’ll date a black guy she was a pen pal to in prison with a
nice neck tattoo, gold-capped tooth and saggy trousers.  To his dismay
this modern day, Look Who’s Coming to Dinner might find out that white
momma wants to bag her daughter’s bad boy and white poppa’s decided to
switch teams during his mid-life crisis and grow a set of breasts,
crop his junk and learn to garden and cry at things that really don’t
warrant a tear while watching The View. Meanwhile Tyrone, Tramane,
Trayvon or what have you, might slip the hood on his hoodie at his
dinner, surrounded by dysfunctional white suburbia family worthy of
Jerry Springer and text one of his homies his shock and awe at how
white people really are and send the same damn message that Samuel
Morse wrote on his first message on the telegraph- What Hath God
Wrought?  And meanwhile back at the ranch…  We get advice to white
guys.    This just in… Soccer isn’t really a sport and if you played
it as a kid and got a trophy for just showing up, I got bad news for
you…  You probably didn’t win.  You thought I would lose and I didn’t.
Stop blaming Russians and Wiki Leaks for a flawed candidate.  Accept
that some times what you believe is not the ultimate truth despite
what a college professor might have spewed to you…  January 20th is
coming soon.  Make a resolution in the New Year to accept reality
instead of some virtual, alternative thing people have told you is
possible.  Okay…  I think that’s good.  Barron, did you hit the stop
button?”

November 30, 2016

You’ll Get So Tired of Winning…

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

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

October 28, 2016

The Emperor’s New Clothes or F#ck The Cubs

Gil and Gail packed up their deviled eggs and New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that they bought while in New Zealand and headed over to their friends Tom and Tam. It was a beautiful fall night more like summer than fall with a full moon. The event was a baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Chicago Cubs. Tom, a huge Cubs fan, set up a television outside in front of a fire pit and a trampoline off in the distance.
Gil was born and raised in Los Angeles and was a life long Dodgers fan stranded in the midwest. He walked past a teacher’s union lawn sign and three different lawn signs for Hillary Clinton and a giant blue W painted on a plain white background to signify a win for the Chicago Cubs on the way to Tom and Gail’s backyard. Gail and Tam really liked one another. They met at a Pilates class and became great friends. They watched the Kardashians together at different homes and texted about it at night. Their sons played youth hockey together and Gil was the hockey coach. Gil was quiet owner of an ice hockey pro shop who played hockey, sold hockey and played hockey four to five days a week. Gil and Tammy’s son was thin and good-looking, fast and capable at being a scoring threat at every game. Tom and Tam’s son had man boobs and hips wider than his shoulders. The bookish son of Tom and Tam was slow and had a weak shot. Gil took their son as a favor to his wife who really wanted a friend up in the stands to sit with at games. Tom was jealous that Gil was in good shape and was a good skater and coach. Tom couldn’t skate but was wealthy and had season tickets to all Cubs and Chicago Blackhawks games. Tom was a partner at a law firm and drove a Range Rover and a Corvette with personalized Cubs and Blackhawks Illinois license plates. One license said PWR PLAY 69 and the other said LUV CUB 69. Gil had no hair, was built and had a half missing tooth much like the hockey great Alex Ovechkin and a face full of scars from years of playing ice hockey without facial protection. Gil refused to wear a cage or a half shield while playing and looked like a rough neck. Tom wore black horned rimmed glasses and had looked like an LL Bean model in front of his $5000.00 built in backyard grill, 50 inch television exclusively for the backyard and excellent sound system. A band from the 1980’s called Haircut 100 blared through the speakers while the ball teams silently  took batting practice. Gil stood with a bowl of deviled eggs in a LA Dodgers hat and shirt. Tom wore a Cubs hat with a T-shirt that had a large W on it. He was cooking filet mignon, he offered Gil a beer. Gil declined as he was gluten-free. It irritated Gil when Tom would offer him a beer. Even though Gil had declined dozens of times, Tom would still offer a beer to Gil. Gil had Ceiliaks disease which prevented him from processing gluten properly.
“Tam remembered and purchased a gluten-free, lesbian safe beer for you from Trader Joe’s… You can be like every other man around this town watching this game tonight and start the night properly with a beer.”
Gil opened the beer, tapped it against the bottle Tom was holding and talked about their son’s hockey team. Gil was careful not to say too much and let Tom comment on the high and low points of the season.
“The goalie is brutal… It is truly a testament to your defense that we’ve been in every game. Do you put your best skaters on defense always?”
Gil took a drink of his beer and pondered the best answer to a question he didn’t care to answer truthfully. Gil felt that it was a good idea to be as cryptic as possible with parents when it came to playing time, position and lines. Gil played Tom and Tam’s son on the first line even though he was a slow, tentative, ineffective player. It was a political move to appease his wife who was considering her friend’s feelings.
“I try to find a balance…”
“That is a beautifully scripted answer, coach. People try to figure out where you’re coming from. They want to know if there is something deeper to your tactics. I think mystery comes off as deep but I think I have you figured out, coach…”
“Tommy… This is a night all about baseball. I’m ready to take the night off of hockey. A full moon, great fucking weather, good food, booze and the Dodgers poised to make a California boy proud…”
Beer turned to scotch and then to wine. Bottles and bottles. Blue cheese on choice steaks with gluten-free pasta. It was a night to remember. A clear, full moon and August like weather in October. The game turned ugly for Gil. The Dodgers tanked and were getting crushed by the Cubs. It was a debacle not unlike when Gil was young and the Dodgers would lose every year to the Yankees. It might have been a moment of hurt pride that caused Gil to change from a good-natured fan to a critical observer of the type of man he disdained- bragging, rich, unathletic, pudgy Chicago fan. The Dodgers were losing by a touch down when Tom lit a cigar and laughed at the score between innings. Gil told Gail that he wanted to leave. she was having a great time without having to watch her children and she did not want to cut the night short and return home yet. The game ended with a huge Cubs win. Tam put on a song that harkened back to Burt Bacharach buy a band called Cousteau. No relation to Jacques called, The Last Good Day of the Year.
There’s something there
Among the fallen fruit and flowers, won’t rest
Only minutes, only hours unless
Now the morning breaks in showers, I guess
We’ll remember this all of our lives
On the last good day of the year
Gil sat and looked at the full moon as a gentle breeze blew through the leaves in the trees that were ready to turn colors and fall. Tom was going on and on about the Cubs and then switched to politics. After a beer, a scotch and many glasses of wine, Gil was ready to speak freely, uninhibited or reserved. Tom was taken by surprise.
“Fuck you. Fuck the Cubs, fuck unions, fuck Hillary and fat kids who really don’t want to play ice hockey… Enjoy your win you fucking pompous asshole. I hope Hillary gets the same fucking treatment Nixon got for the minor shit he did compared to that cunt.”
Gil knew that his wife hated the word cunt and that most women had a thing against the word. Both Tam and Gail gasped and tried to get Gil to calm down. It only made him angrier.
“You want to let all the Mexicans in? All the Syrians? Every fucking moderate who makes their wife cover their whole fucking face like a goddamn Ninja? Fuck you and your W shirt and Hillary lawn sign… Your kid is going to wind up with heart disease by high school if you don’t discover the word no. No you can’t eat whatever you want and drink sugary bullshit. Your son has bitch tits… I know that might be harsh to hear but you can thank the Cubs and Hillary. Bitch fucking tits on a 10-year-old and why? Because you can’t say no to him? You wanna know why my kid is fast? Because he eats yogurt instead of gummy worms and fucking Doritos…”
” I think you’re angry Tom…”
“Yes, I am. When unathletic fucks like you gloat, I get mad. You don’t know dick about how to really win and it falls into your lap tonight and you’re like a fucking scientist about baseball. Yes… The fast capable kids play defense on my teams and really I believe your son would be happier with a hot dog and a drink up in the stands next to you than forechecking. You got season tickets and you want your little son of sam to play like Kane or Toews.”
Gail came up and hugged Gil and put her hand over his mouth. Gil pushed Gail away in a way that let her know that he was not done. Tom had enough drinks to stand up to Gil and he did.
“You’re mad that the Dodgers lost and that Trump is about to go down in flames. Too many people do not buy into the Hitleresque bullshit spewed by Trump. Mexicans are the paste that holds this country together. Who is going to do the shit they do for the money they make? Big strong, stupid, flag waving, tear-in-the-eye patriot who hates anything not white. You’re the big hockey coach but you weren’t quite good enough to make it so what do you do? You coach.”
Gil took a step towards Tom with the thought to give Tom a smack. Tom sneered and raised his chin as if to say, “smack me! I don’t give a shit.”
“You know something, fuckface? I won’t ever apologize for being white. I won’t ever apologize for not blindly trusting people who hate me. Vote for whoever you fucking want. Why do we all got to know who it is? Why not put up a lawn sign that says you need a little blue pill and porn to make it with your old lady? You know what? All I need is a little text telling me to get home fast and my dick hurts to be cramped up in my jeans knowing that it’s going between my old lady’s legs just as soon as possible. You like baseball analogies? I’m the fucking closer who doesn’t need a warm up pitch. Put me in cold and I’ll finish the game…”
The women left the two men alone who were about to come to blows. Tom was about to rebut Gil when the women put on a song from the 1980’s from their youth. It was a Sinead O’Connor song called The Emperor’s New Clothes. In the light of the moon, the two men watched their rather fit middle-aged wives sing and bounce on the trampoline naked slathered in coconut oil. The oil glistened off of their breasts. The men stopped fighting and looked on at their wives without saying a word. Tom poured a glass of wine for himself and Gil. The men stripped down to nothing and joined the ladies on the trampoline on probably the last good day of the year. The song played on repeat while they made love or something resembling love beside one another.
Everyone can see what’s going on
They laugh `cause they know they’re untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong
Whatever it may bring
I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don’t think so
You asked for the truth and I told you
Through their own words
They will be exposed
They’ve got a severe case of
The emperor’s new clothes

September 28, 2016

The New House of Un-American Activities

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

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

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

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

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

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