Blackhumouristpress's Blog

December 16, 2015

And Justice For All

Filed under: america,poem,trump,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:42 am
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                Hang the flags perpetually at half-mast- every day a crisis

                NRA Card member or those among us who join Isis

                The reactionary fears arms closed, the liberal embraces eyes blind

                What we find in the quagmire is a desire for someone to come and lead

                Feed the electorate a new poll, detract away from the hole of

                Economics gives way to Islamics, tactics of the feckless and the reckless

                The new red scare finding fanatics everywhere that the radical facts are

                empirical

                Isolation resuscitation cooperation dissemination to save a nation

                Refuge or not to refuge refuse the nuclear centrifuge

                Weather or whether- it’s all huge and looms like a mushroom cloud

December 5, 2015

And They Broke Bread and Gave Thanks…

Filed under: chicago,elections,Ethnicity,humor,humour,ISIS,Short Story,trump — blackhumouristpress @ 2:23 am
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The Flannigan’s got together every Thanksgiving like just about every American with family does on the last Thursday of every November.  Thanksgiving is the first of three mandatory holidays that they all submit to gathering for every year.  Thanksgiving, then Christmas a month later and then it ends with Easter.

The Flannigan’s had a very Irish name but actually they were more Swedish than anything.  They had converted to Protestantism back around 1955 from Catholicism.  They became Evangelical Christians and so it became necessary and a duty to discuss god with anyone with ears.  Some of the Flannigan’s took the oath of accepting Christ as their own personal Jesus and in turn trying their level best to in a sense, sell Amway for god by asking people what their walk with the lord was.  For most people the question was like asking their sexual preference or even seedier personal sexual desires.  The devotion to Evangelical Christianity varied among the Flannigan’s from atheist to front row crusader.  Some among them decided that it was possible that god was not Evangelical Christian and then others concluded that just maybe there was no god.  On this particular day, god was not discussed during their Thanksgiving dinner.  Dinners with the Flannigan’s was always lively.  Someone inevitably throws out the first pitch while turkey gets passed with cranberries, string bean casserole with dried onions, rolls, sweet potatoes and so on.

“Did you guys see that video of the colored kid being shot like 60 times?”

The question was posed by Wade who now after the death of his father, Art, a World War II veteran, was the patriarch.  Wade, a Vietnam Veteran who had longish hair, tattoos, a Harley Davidson and a Corvette with a bronze medal license plate. After the war, Wade decided that there could not possibly be a god that would let such horrible things happen to innocent people.   He purposely called black people colored to get under the skin of his politically correct granddaughter who just happened to have an African-American boyfriend.

“Colored, grandpa?  Are we in the Deep South in the 1960’s?  Are we gonna git in the truck aftah dinnah and lynch us a colored?   That colored child was only shot sixteen times.  The cop ran out of bullets at sixteen.”

Edina, was racially cool.  She started attending an Episcopal Church that had a lesbian minister and all the people were really inclusive and mostly interracial couples.  Edina sort of wished she could be with her boyfriend RJ for Thanksgiving.  Last Thanksgiving was a bit of a cultural shock for Edina. It was as if she had gone to a foreign country.  RJ’s grandmother made a few recognizable things and some things she had never seen on a Thanksgiving table before.  Nobody really sat and had a meal together.  Men sat around the television and watched football.  People young and old came by and picked at stuff that was out and the women gave Edina the stare down- just another skinny white bitch who stole another good looking black man from the small pool of desirable men.  It would be weird among family or weird with her boyfriend’s family.  It was just going to be weird for her either way.

“Did you all know that this is the 50th anniversary of the death of JFK?  My what a good looking man and his wife was just a princess of a woman.  So refined and she could speak French and redecorate…  What a shame.  They say his head went flying all over the motorcade.  Cops had brains and blood splattered all over them…  That must have been something.”

Everyone stopped eating and talking and stared at Lorie, the matriarch who discussed some grizzly details in the middle of a meal.

Lorie, the wife of Art who was had recently died, was ninety years old.  She married after Art returned from World War II.  They had two children and moved to the suburbs.  Her job since 1947 was to be a wife, a mom, a thrifty shopper, a cook and a maid.  Instead of sitting to eat, she was folding the clothes that Wade had brought over to his mom to wash.  Everyone at the table kept telling her to sit.  She was slightly hard of hearing and then selective.

“It’s fifty two years, grandma.  I was born in 1965 and he died in 1963… Every Thanksgiving you bring up JFK.  Did you have a thing for him?”

Mathew was her grandson, father of Edina, son of Wade.   Mathew was indifferent to religion and politics but was very much into sports and music.  He grew up a Punk Rock kid in the 1980’s.

“I remember those horrible shirts you used to wear of one of those crazy bands.  Dead Kennedys…  After everything that family had to go through and to wear a shirt like that.  You had no respect for nothing back then.”

It was a famous photo of a Vietnamese man wincing just before being shot in the temple with a handgun with the words, Holiday in Cambodia.  It stirred Vietnam memories for Wade.

“I could have choked the life out of you when I saw that shirt.  I went over there to make democracy safe for young punks like you just so you could go around looking like an asshole and wearing shirts that piss everyone off.”

“Come on, dad…  That was a long time ago.  I grew up and got jaded just like you.  You don’t think I look at just about everyone under the age of twenty five and shake my head?  Glued to their cell phones, pants hanging off of their asses, stupid tattoos, and piercings.  Guys today want to be Olympic athletes and then turn chick…  I had a Mohawk and wore offensive t-shirts.  Look what’s going on today.  If you really hate the establishment and your government, you become an Islamic terrorist and kill fellow Americans…  You thought the world was coming to an end with Punk Rock.  Look at where we are today?”

Ryan, the ex-hippy turned born again Christian, wore a Ted Cruz button on his suit jacket.  Nobody else wore a suit.  Ryan’s wife was from Brazil.  Her name was Martha and she was black, Chinese and Hispanic that spoke Portuguese.  Everyone sort of forgot what she was exactly.  All they knew was that she was extremely born again, vegan and gluten free.  Martha didn’t quite understand everything being discussed but found it interesting.

“Martha… come on, sweetie.  You gotta have some of that good turkey and ham.  I got it at Honeybaked.  I would think you couldn’t get Honeybaked out there in Portugal,” said Lorie, while folding clothes.

“Ma!  Put the clothes down and come eat…  She speaks Portuguese.  She’s from Brazil.”  Said Ryan.

“Well, I know they don’t have Honeybaked there.  You’d be lucky to get a Mc Donald’s.”

Nobody had a response to that.  The television break from the football game flashed a picture of a young black male being shot in the street of Chicago by a police officer and the protesting going on in front of prestigious stores in Chicago’s downtown.

“If a cop tells you to stop and you don’t, you’re rolling the dice.  Carrying a knife and not listening to a cop is asking to get shot,” said Wade.

“Sixteen or sixty times, right grandpa?  They would have shot a white kid too, right?” Said Edina

“Fucking A right…  Let’s just drop it.  Cops are wrong, criminals are right.  Blacks got the right to thumb their noses at authority.” Said Wade.

“Grandpa, why are talking about this when we have so many terrorists coming here from Syria to infiltrate us and kill us.  Cops are only killing one segment of society but Syrian women and children are coming with bombs strapped to their chests to kill us unless we elect Trump to deport all illegals and refugees and when were done with them, deport all non-born Americans except his beautiful wife and any other super models and once we’ve gotten all of them, we’ll get rid of red haired people, freckled people and create a new master race of people with really bad hair.”

“Well honey, once the moderates have taken over Europe and North America, sharped tongue cuties like you will be stoned in the city center.  Hope you have a good head scarf and can recite the Koran when they come for you.  In the meantime, maybe you can come up with a way to re-educate the police here so that let criminals do whatever the hell they want.  If Hilary becomes president she can take care of all those things for you.  Chicago will look like Benghazi,” said Wade.

Several people groaned at the interchange.  Mathew asked what the score of the football game.  For a full five seconds nobody said anything.  Silverware clicked against plates and the announcers in the back ground commented on the football game.  Martha took break in the conversation as an opportunity to say something.  Nobody interrupted the woman who rarely spoke.  They had heard that she was taking an English as a second language course for four hours a day, every day.  Her English was coming along quite well.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Everyone stopped eating and turned to the exotic looking woman.  This was a watershed moment.  The quiet foreigner who seemed to sit in her husband’s shadow asked everyone present if they wished to know what she thought.  Of course they were all interested.  Everyone looked at the exotic looking woman.

“China makes everything that anyone could ever want to buy and has an army of more people than there are people in the United States and they never have to send any troops to fight.  They don’t have terrorism and people are not shooting each other every day.  Why do you think this is?”

Everyone kept coming up with things on China for about a half hour until dessert was served.  Ryan received a text message from Martha who was sitting next to him.  It read-

SOMEBODY NEEDED TO STOP THESE PEOPLE   : )

November 25, 2015

Between Calais et Marseille

Seth knew he was an atheist at a young age.  Being half Jewish and half Muslim left him no choice but to be an atheist out of fear that he might have developed two personalities, each a different religion and wind up attacking himself.  It was upon the death of his father around the age of ten that Seth’s mother dropped the bomb of his life on him.

“Chaim was a very good man and he loved you like a son…”

“Mom?  Wouldn’t he love me like a son if he was my dad?”

“If he was your dad…  But he wasn’t.”

It was with that conversation that Seth learned that his real father was a handsome Algerian man who spoke perfect French, owned a restaurant and had a thing for Seth’s mother.  Soon after conception, Seth biological father sold his restaurant and moved to France, leaving Seth’s mother with an issue- a pregnancy from an affair.  Seth’s mother led her husband Chaim to believe that Seth was his son and so everyone lived happily ever after.  For about 10 years.

Seth learned to play the guitar and he liked to write poetry.  As he grew older he became aware of the world around him and became more and more socially and politically aware.  Seth had a job at an independent coffee shop where he strummed his songs and read his poetry and held meetings of like- minded people.  These like-minded people protested things like the World Trade Organization, police brutality, gay rights, transgender rights, rights of prisoners and most recently, rights of refugees to live democratically free with all the rights bestowed upon born Americans at birth.  Seth was approached by a French student who happened to be at the coffee shop the night that Seth was performing some of his acoustic songs about bringing refugees home to their home away from home in America.  It was all set up for Seth.  The French student contacted someone who knew someone who was putting together a peace rally to raise money for Syrian refugees living in tents near Calais, France.  Seth was to be flown, fed, paid and put up for a weekend in France for a festival.  Seth would be given a 30 minute acoustic set on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, get paid and return to the United States.  It was a dream come true for pretty much a closet musician who wrote songs that almost nobody ever heard.

Seth arrived in Paris with his acoustic guitar and a back pack.  He wore a pork pie hat and loose clothing.  Seth wanted to try Absinthe while in Paris since he was a huge Hemingway fan.  After several drinks of Absinthe and a discussion with the English-speaking bartender on what life might have been like for Hemingway, Seth was as they say- fucked up.  Seth staggered to the train station and boarded a train for what he thought was headed to Calais on the far north of France near the Belgium border where battles to defeat fascism took place.  Instead Seth boarded a train headed for the far south city of Marseille.  Unbeknownst to Seth, while there was a huge peace rally designed to raise money for refugees fleeing Syria, there was a huge neo-Nazi, skinhead, National Front rally being held in Marseille.  It was at about 2:00am that Seth was awoken from a deep sleep by five British skinheads that were headed south in solidarity with their French fellow racists to be part of huge anti-immigration rally.  They grabbed his guitar case out of his hands and took it out of the case.  It took Seth a solid five seconds to figure out where he was, how he got there and what might be potentially going on.  The five bald young men in boots, tight jeans and bomber jackets studied the guitar.  They knew they were in the company of some sort of hippy, peace-loving American and they were going to make his night miserable if they were correct on profiling him.

“Oi mate…  What ave we here?  A guitar, is it?  Where you headed with this instrument, mate?”

Seth remembered getting his ass kicked by jocks over the years and knew a severe ass beating without any chance of anyone coming to his aid in a contained sleeping compartment could mean death.  Seth played it cool.

“I’m headed to the same place as you…”

The skinheads were a bit perplexed.  This thin smelly American in baggy clothes suitable for a street panhandler in Seattle did not quite look like what was going to be at the far right rally.  They studied the stickers on Seth’s guitar case.  There was a hope sticker with a picture of Obama, a rainbow sticker, equality sticker and several other very liberal looking stickers.

“What’s all this on your case, mate?  Looks loike you ave a strong loike for Obama and rainbows and such.  Did you get all this at skin rallies in the states?”

It was a coy question and Seth rolled with it.  Seth could read the looks on the five young men’s faces and knew the cat was going to have to bark like a dog if he wanted to get out of the dog pound safely.

“This case…  I bought this from a music store just before leaving the US.  I went to a pawn shop and bought it for really cheap.  I told the guy I needed a sturdy travel case for my guitar and he came up with this.  I literally bought this thing yesterday to make the trip.  I haven’t had time to take all the bullshit off that was put on by someone who used to own this.”

“No worries, mate.  We ave ands…  We can elp you with that…”

As the young men picked at the stickers with their thumb nails, took drinks from a bottle and became rowdy, one of them demanded Seth play them a song that he was intending to play at the rally.  Seth convinced them that he once was part of a Ska/Reggae band and was now a solo artist from the states who was for Donald Trump, sending Mexicans home, telling gays that they cannot get married and so on.  Seth was pretty convincing and he kind of needed to be.

“Shit…  Look at shit that Obama has got us into…  Trump is the answer to everything that’s fucked up in America right now.  I’m tired of the gays, ghetto rap, illegal immigrants, feminist, Obama loving liberal shit…  Yup, it’s time for a change.”

“Roight, mate…  So play us a li-ool something you came up with that you are thinking of playing in Marseille.”

Seth was quick on his toes to create something out of nothing.  He modified a strummy folk song he wrote called, “Bring Them Home” into a fast Ska tune called, “Send Them Home”.

It’s time to stand up and do the right thing maybe the white thing

They’re fucking here due to the Arab Spring and here’s the next thing- Send them home,

Send them home! We’ve fucking had enough- Send them home.

 

It was catchy and danceable and the English skins loved it.  One of them asked him to play another song.  Seth became nervous.  He blew his load on that one little ditty and didn’t quite have another bullshit song in him.  The thought suddenly came to Seth to sing The Marseillaise, the national anthem of France.  Seth learned it so that he could strum it and get everyone in Calais to sing along and then because they were as close as you could get to Great Britain, the national anthem of France would morph into, God Save the Queen.  Seth busted out another Ska beat and began to sing in French.

 

Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!

God save our gracious Queen Long live our noble Queen God save the Queen Send her victorious Happy and glorious Long to reign over us God Save the Queen!

The skins listened to the recognizable song in French and sang along to their own national anthem with arms around each other, drinking and shouting. When they arrived in Marseille, Seth was whisked up to a stage that Skinhead bands shared for the weekend long festival. The drunk British skins demanded that between sets that Seth be allowed to play his national anthem medleys and his anti-immigrant song. A barstool like seat was set up for him on a stage looking out at thousands of people. Seth was buzzed again from drinking with his new “mates” and played the songs without thought. The crowd of thousands began to gyrate to the song doing a Ska dance called a “skank”. It was surreal. Seth finished and was patted on the back and hugged. He drank with a bald girl with black lipstick at the festival who eventually fed him, shaved his head and fucked him several times in her hotel room. Seth woke early the next morning to find a bunch of skinheads laying around the hotel room on floors and couches. Next to him was the girl who made love to him and then another guy on the other side of her. Seth gathered his things and slipped out without awaking anyone. He bought a ticket for Calais and arrived a day and a half late. Seth was the second to last performer to sing his folk song for the refugees and those supporting the refugees. Seth looked out at the crowd of thousands who had smiles and were attentively waiting to hear his song, “Take Them Home”. Before going into the song, Seth pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and jokingly said a few words first.

“If you’re an American in Paris… Don’t drink Absinthe before departing for Calais… You might find yourself shaved bald on a train headed to Marseille instead… Long story but I’m here now…”

 

November 12, 2015

The 1932 Presidential Debate… In Germany

In early March of 1932, the president of Germany, Paul von Hindenburg agreed to have a debate with the other two major candidates, Adolf Hitler and Ernst Thalmann.  Those in the inner circle around Hindenburg thought that the old guy should take a pass on verbally sparring with the young man who sought to defeat him.  Hindenburg knew the Nazi Party was growing in popularity but he hardly took the Austrian Corporal from World War I seriously and so he agreed to face the competition in a debate.

“President Hindenburg, it is said that you are for the most part, apolitical, aloof and benign as a head of state.  You have claimed to be dedicated to democracy but hold a spot in your heart for the monarchy.  What are your thoughts on returning Germany to a monarchy?”

The dignified looking war hero of three wars, brushed back his large moustache, smiled and answered with a few short words.

“I think my running for a second term of office speaks for my dedication to the democratic process…  With a gun to my back.”

“Can you explain what you mean by a gun to your back, Mr. President?”

Hindenburg looked at young Adolf with his arms folded and tight face and tried to be light about their gathering.  Mr. Hitler patiently waited his turn.

“There are those among me that believe the only way to keep this Austrian corporal from the presidency is to continue on as president.  At my age, I am Germany’s last hope.”

Laughter in the room erupted.  The moderator turned to Adolf Hitler and asked him what he thought of the president’s comments.  Moderators love a good war of words between candidates.  Who doesn’t take notice of a good fight?

“In eight years, Bismarck was able to win three wars and in seven years our current great war hero has done what exactly for the fatherland?  Holding up a white flag while asleep in a very comfy chair is hardly progress.  I propose to make Germany great again like Bismarck.  Germany doesn’t win anymore…  We are not winning.  I pledge to you to cleanse the fatherland of elements that leach and suck from the tit leaving real Germans to want…”

Ernst Thalmann, the Communist candidate interrupted Adolf which only incensed him nearly to the point of physically attacking the distant third party candidate.

“I hope all reasonably intelligent people understand that a vote for Hindenburg is a proxy vote for Hitler and a vote for Hitler is a vote for war…”

Hitler brushed back his dark hair, smiled at the moderator and spoke over Thalmann.

“You dear dockworker, would be best of service to the fatherland if you were to fetch the president and I something to quench are parched throats as we discuss the direction one of us will be taking this country very shortly.  The idea of you marching the keys to Germany up to the Kremlin so that you might become a lap dog for Stalin, is sad.  Luckily for Germany your ideas are so obscure that you are one podium away from being on the street with a cup in your hand…  This is the crux of Germany’s problems- a tired old figurehead who thinks he is a monarch, who holds up the terms of Weimar as if it were the bible and then you have the Stalin’s cabin boy to my other side…  Germans are superior and unless we think of ourselves as superior we will never win again.”

The questioning and answering and interrupting went on for nearly an hour when the moderator asked each man to give a closing statement.  Thalmann’s closing statement came off as handwringing, the sky is falling sort of whining.  The president appeared to have nodded off twice during the debate.  He pledged to continue on with what was working for Germany.  Hitler threw out his pledge.

“If I become president, we will do something really special. We will make this country greater than ever before. We’ll have more jobs, we’ll have more of everything.  Think of Bismarck… We were discussing all sorts of things tonight, many of which will just be words, it’ll just pass on. I don’t want to say politicians … all talk, no action, but a lot of what we talked about is words and it’ll be forgotten very quickly. If I’m president, many of the things that we discussed tonight will not be forgotten. We’ll find solutions. The world will respect us, they will respect us like never before, and I have to say it’s a great honor to be here tonight.”

And well most of you know what happened next…

September 28, 2015

Bigger Than the Beatles or The Pope Meets ISIS

Filed under: humor,humour,ISIS,pope,Short Story,trump — blackhumouristpress @ 3:39 am
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The pope was told jokingly in Spanish during his tour of the United States, “Your holiness, as you can see…  You are bigger than the Beatles.”  The joke made Pope Francis laugh as he was a Beatles fan and remembered the John Lennon quote, “We are bigger than Jesus.”  As throngs of well-wishers lined streets to see the pope in America, the land of Morey Povich and the Kardashians, one could not discount the fact that the head of the Catholic Church was on a roll.  He is the people’s pope.  He speaks plainly and might be the coming of the anti-Trump.  Who could stop the pope now from speaking freely?  Would it be so wrong to get people to stop, take a step back and think about things?  The pope was talked into visiting the Crimea and North Korea.  Those that booked the pope’s world tour knew that those events would be very interesting.  The ultimate stop would be to address ISIS in occupied areas along the border of Iraq and Syria.  Being so popular and a representative of a prophet, the religious leaders behind the political struggle politely agreed to allow the pope to speak to them.  Picture this: a five foot high stage in the middle of nowhere, as desolate as the moon with thousands of men with covered faces listened to the pope speak in Arabic.  The pope worked on his speech while on the plane and was coached on how to pronounce every word necessary.  Accent aside, the ISIS fighters were impressed.  This is how the speech went-

“You are the face of its people, their representatives. You are called to defend and preserve the dignity of your fellow citizens in the tireless and demanding pursuit of the common good, for this is the chief aim of all politics. When countries which have been at odds resume the path of dialogue — a dialogue which may have been interrupted for the most legitimate of reasons — new opportunities open up for all. This has required, and requires, courage and daring, which is not the same as irresponsibility. A good political leader is one who, with the interests of all in mind, seizes the moment in a spirit of openness and pragmatism.”

There was no polite clapping as the pope paused.  The pope thought about the Yazidi women being rounded up for slavery and men being killed.  The clips he saw of people being shot in the head and beheaded.  Being a student of history, he thought about the inquisition and thought he should comment on the parallels.

“If I can speak freely…  There was a time when the church set out to convert people, to change people, to save people from their customs and their beliefs.  Was it right?  Maybe for the time, it was.  Given what is happening now am I given license to say what is right and wrong?  I think god will have to decide this for us all.”

The pope looked out at the crowd.  It was a large crowd that was mesmerized by his words.  Pope Francis thought about Hitler’s Triumph of Will.  If you take away the message, the choice of words is what moved the crowd.  The pope stopped speaking and looked over the heads of the hooded and masked fighters who weren’t sure how to react to the idea of the head of the infidels was addressing them.  The pope had their attention.  The pope went on.

“A delicate balance is required to combat violence perpetrated in the name of a religion, an ideology or an economic system, while also safeguarding religious freedom, intellectual freedom and individual freedoms. But there is another temptation which we must especially guard against: the simplistic reductionism which sees only good or evil; or, if you will, the righteous and sinners. The contemporary world, with its open wounds which affect so many of our brothers and sisters, demands that we confront every form of polarization which would divide it into these two camps. We know that in the attempt to be freed of the enemy without, we can be tempted to feed the enemy within. To imitate the hatred and violence of tyrants and murderers is the best way to take their place. That is something which you, as a people, reject.

Our response must instead be one of hope and healing, of peace and justice.”

Even in Arabic, it was a highly decorated way of getting a thought across.  Combat violence in the name of religion while safeguarding religious freedom…  I’m with you…Intellectual freedom and individual freedoms…  Say what?!

”Being at the service of dialogue and peace also means being truly determined to minimize and, in the long term, to end the many armed conflicts throughout our world. Here we have to ask ourselves: Why are deadly weapons being sold to those who plan to inflict untold suffering on individuals and society? Sadly, the answer, as we all know, is simply for money: money that is drenched in blood, often innocent blood. In the face of this shameful and culpable silence, it is our duty to confront the problem and to stop the arms trade.”

The pope lifted his papers and straightened them up by bouncing them against the podium while wind howled in the distance.  Pope Francis lifted his hand to wave goodbye and smiled.  A few men politely waved back while others did nothing.  The pope got into a bullet proof Range Rover and headed to the airport.  All he could think was that sometimes, somethings just don’t go over very well.  The pope looked pensive as the plane he was on flew towards Italy and ultimately the Vatican.  The question was asked of the pope, “How do you think it went?”  The pope didn’t answer immediately.  He rubbed his chin, smiled and answered the question with a question.  “How big were the Beatles in Iraq and Syria?”  Only the pope laughed.

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