Santa's Pyramid Scheme For God

Edgar was voted the best Santa Claus in the Midwest portion of the United States. Rarely was there a child that sat upon his lap with slits for eyes, mouth wide open, arms reaching towards an observing parent with a wail of torture coming from a reluctant toddler. Kids loved Edgar. Now Edgar was not a pedophile but he did have a quirky thing that got him off and that was having a human sit upon his lap. Male or female, young or old, it did not matter. It did not take Edgar long to climax and reload. Edgar wore Depends so that none of the children or cute mothers who coyly opted to sit on his lap for a seductively cute photo to send to all their friends, would inadvertently become wet themselves. As twisted as this was, Edgar was a hit everywhere he went and malls would queue up to hire him for ridiculous amounts of money just to have him camp out in front of their stores. Edgar had all sorts of people approach him and despite the magical seasonal essence of being a special bearer of gifts to all good Christian children, as often is the case, adults lose sight of what Christmas really means. Christmas to the throngs of non-religious, American consumers, who help to keep the internal dynamo of consumer spending in motion, has nothing to do with Jesus or his birthday. Edgar was amused during a cigarette break by a man named Jack, so much so that he donated his fifteen minute break in the cold Midwestern air to listening to a round about sales pitch. “Santa… Hope you don’t mind me calling you Santa. You got a great thing here. The kids line up for hours just to talk to you and take photos… I don’t know how you do it but you’re good. Really good. Not to change the subject, but have you seen the movie called The Way? It’s with Martin Sheen and his non crazy son, Emilio?” “I don’t watch movies. I’m sort of a Fox News junky…” “I would never have guessed that about Santa… Anyway, I think if you get a chance, you should watch it. It is really a life lesson, eye opener. We do all this planning for life and really the journey is life. We’re living it every moment yet we plan for big things that often never come. Health is so important and yet we Americans come in droves to eat in food courts such as this one, eating nothing but pure shit and then stroll around entertaining ourselves with purchases of other pure shit we really don’t need. I mean those of us born into believing that god allowed his son to be killed to cleanse us of our sins so that we could have everlasting life. I disdained the thought for many years until at Thanksgiving a few years back, our family dinner turned into a blood bath; shoot out whereby I nearly lost my life. Picture blood oozing out of my chest and a woman massaging my heart so that it would not stop. You’re looking at someone that should be dead right now and for that reason, I am a religious man and do understand the sacrifice the Son of God made for all of us. I live each moment to the fullest and no detail goes unnoticed any longer” “That must be exhausting… Go on” “Well Santa, I am a retired officer of the law who is deeply religious now and understand that everything in everyday has some deeper meaning that we miss by always looking forward… Are you into Indy racing?” “Not really…” “Well I’m going to write down this short video made by my company for the Indy races. You might have seen people driving around with signs on their car for a product called Monavie… I represent this product and company. I believe in the miracle of this product as I do god. This product is so good and can prevent so much of the toxins we regularly take in from doing us harm internally. I don’t have samples today but after you watch this video on line, I can stop by maybe during a break and have you try a sample of the various products that are all natural and are in the process of being FDA approved.” “They’re not approved yet by the FDA?” “Not yet. But when it is, guys like you and me are going to be sitting pretty. All I’m asking you is to try it. If you like it, we can work out a deal as a team” “A team?” “A team that is one step ahead of all other juices. We could be in partnership selling motivational aids to help MonaVie vendors move the juice. You can earn back the $258 you would need to spend on the motivational lectures by selling $39 juice bottles; you could earn it back in another way—getting people to buy $258 motivational lectures. If you're good and I see for myself that you are top notch, you can sell the lectures to other people, who sell them to yet others. Everybody gets rich. Everybody needs money and everyone comes out ahead.” Santa put out his cigarette and smiled as he exhaled a puff of blue smoke. Jack anxiously awaited Santa’s answer. Santa asked a question instead. “Okay… Now let me ask you about your walk with god. I hear often about what god tells people to do. Is god also a partner of this Monavie thing too?”

Thank You For Your Patience

Thank you for your patience when you’re in your car waiting in a stopped line and an Audi illegally comes racing up the right side. He owns a car that costs more than your home, cars and timeshare. Speaking of time, your time, he doesn’t fucking care. Thank you for your patience when you wait ate the Red Box behind the woman with the big ass who thinks she looks like Vivica Fox. She knows your standing patiently waiting to rent Hello Kitty for your girls as she talks to herself, pops her gum and fucks with her fake Yak curls. Thank you for your patience at the DMV. Your number is 97 and they’re still on 23. The angry woman behind the counter with the 80’s hair like Joan Jett, yells in the faces of foreigners who haven’t learned English yet. Your tax dollars hard at work. Be patient, they’ll treat you like a fucking jerk. Thank you for your patience; your wait time is 28 minutes. The kids are screaming, you’re driving and have reached your limit. A human just came on the line and disconnected as you were saying hi. Thank you for your patience, give it another try. We’re closed now we open again tomorrow morning at nine. Thank you for your patience with the economy. It isn’t my fault; it was the guy before me. There’s a lot to do constantly. Now pardon me while I work on my legacy. Thank you for your patience at the free hospital. They can’t reject those uninsured, they take them all. You may wait a full day in the lobby looking catatonic from a stroke. This kind of shit happens when you’re broke. Thank you for your patience is a bullshit line. Nobody really values each other’s time. The fucking terrorists created the TSA. Fuck it; my flight has been cancelled anyway. We know you have many choices and chose us to your dismay… good luck getting home and have a nice day.

The Teague Party or Being Honest About Being Honest

Harrison Teague through Facebook, Twitter and good ole fashion word of mouth, was able to get close to a hundred people to come out and eat free sandwiches and juice at his car dealership. Teague sold Chrysler products. His motto for his billboards, radio and television commercials was always him smiling with a slight gap between his two front teeth saying, “We are in a Teague of our own” Harrison Teague had good wavy hair that hadn’t grayed or thinned. It appeared to be a helmet at times but was always impeccably coiffed. Harrison learned early on that he could sell things to people. He could get people who would never think about owning a Chrysler, to buy a car. Harrison read Mein Kampf several times and watched Triumph of Will dubbed in English a number of times and had decided that like Richard Nixon, Adolph Hitler was meant to be a politician. Just something’s went wrong along the way. Harrison did not have anything against Jews. Harrison used to play up the fact that Henry Ford was anti-Semitic and wind up sending Jews home in K cars back during the days of Lee Iacocca. With four dealerships to choose from, Harrison wanted to set his sights on something bigger. Harrison felt that there was a dormant majority of Americans that longed for the stability and security of old time values. The Tea Party was too abrasive and too angry. The Teague Party was going to be inclusive of Hispanics and any sensible people of color who were willing to work for a living and critically look at the poor job that congress was doing. Harrison knew that Hitler started small and so he was not put off that his first rally at his spoken word was made up of only one hundred people. Harrison took the podium with the fervor of Hitler and the smile and hair of Joel Osteen. This was going to be day one of a great American movement. “I want to thank you all for coming her today. Enjoy the refreshments and a refreshing new day. Don’t be despondent with the fact that your fellow Americans are content wallowing in the mire of complacency while the fat cats point more fingers and get nothing done for their constituents once again… Which reminds me of a joke… What did Jesus say to congress? Can’t guess? He said don’t do anything until I get back. Amen to that and pass the plate. We have exactly one more political party than the communist party used to have during the days of the Cold War in Soviet bloc countries. You had brand A. Here in the United States, the strongest, most powerful nation in our minds, we have brand A and brand B. We keep turning to the two same options for years. Oh I know there exists smaller parties bent on obscurity that thrives on the fact that their boutique political views are held and shared by a small group of intellectuals that get them. Where does that get us? You work and where does your money go? To build roads that don’t need to be built. To house people who have turned relief into a birth rite and we fund a war that is borderline ridiculous. Speaking of borderline… So we send our boys to fight a war in a part of the world that resembles the moon. People running around dressed the way Jesus Christ did before he told congress to hold up. Stay with me… This is getting good. Now we are trying to save the hearts and minds of people who side with us when convenient and then the Taliban when there is a gun to their heads. The group of people we are fighting are waiting in a neighboring country that has been supported by us monetarily by your tax dollars since the days the Soviets were fighting in Afghanistan. This country was our ally in fighting the evil empire. Now they harbor our enemy in the great fight to end misogyny, tyranny, and terrorism and over all great evil in a part of the world nobody ever thought about unless they were thumbing through a National Geographic. Today I want you all to pledge that you will make it your life’s quest to recapture, not restore or return America to it’s former greatness. Do I care about abortion? Do I care if a man wants to marry another man? If you need an abortion, pay for it. You take up with god later the consequences of your actions. Don’t ask the people to foot the bill as if it was some sort of sanctioned, state funded birth control. Roe versus wade? Row yourselves out of this quagmire of complacency and wade through this sea of arrested intellectual development. Translation- wake up and do something. One man, one woman. It starts with one. One and one and one and another one and then another one and then an army of people who care to change the way life is in their country. This is your country. Not the Democrats and not the Republicans. Now the press will latch onto this and label it another far right, wacko fringe group made up of angry fiscal conservatives who are slightly racist, sexist and homophobic. Any gays who value their dollar are welcome to join us. Any race of people who make their money and value keeping as much of their money as possible- this is your party. Sexist? Teague needs women. Smart, savvy, aware women everywhere, we are waiting for you. My pledge to you as a representative of ideals and beliefs is that we will form a party of the people for the people within the next four years and I pledge to you that we will become a viable alternative to the same old thing. Are you with me?” Agnes or Agniewska laid beside Harrison later that night and went to retrieve a towel to mop up the spew that landed on her back and was glistening on his rock solid abdomen and thighs. Agnes thought highly of her employer who paid her in cash to watch is two children. She agreed with Harrison that his wife was mean and that she just didn’t appreciate or get him. Harrison’s two young sons really loved her and she knew that Harrison fancied her quite a bit. While Harrison was deep in thought and his cock laid slightly flaccid, resting on his right thigh, Agnes took a warm, wet towel and cleaned him up. Agnes was in the back of the room when Harrison gave his speech, handing out free Jimmy John sandwiches to those willing to hear him. Agnes, being smart and a realist, posed the question of how Harrison will handle their affair when the time comes that the press will dig through his life like archeologists. “Oh I’m already on that. The people of this country have to quit acting so fucking pious. Presidents, governors, mayors, generals, the head of the CIA all hold their heads down in shame. In Italy, nobody wonders why these things happen. They only wonder why they don’t happen. It’s time America comes to grips with the fact that people are really not being honest about being honest… If you go to check on the kids, bring back some water. I’m really parched. If we have any extra sandwiches, bring some back... I'm hungry."

We Have Black Friends or For Unlawful Carnal Knowlege

The Thames, pronounced “temz” just like the famous river in England, was lying in bed in their bedroom, each watching their own television. It was like watching television at an appliance store. One would have to filter out the other sounds in order to focus on their own program. A marriage counselor recommended that in order to preserve their marriage and spend more time together, that they purchase two televisions and watch television separate but equal… I heard that term somewhere else. Tim Thames was watching Monday Night Football while Tammy Thames was watching Dancing With The Stars. Tim thought the show was stupid and he concluded that if he were coached eight hours a day, he too could prance about like Gene Kelly. Dancing was for weddings. Watching men in tight pants writhe around on freezing tundra, was much more to his liking. Tammy didn’t hate football, in fact she would occasionally peek at this guy or that guy and marvel at how tight and round their asses were. Some men looked as though they had canned hams strapped to their buttocks, under Lycra. It never mattered to Tammy who won or who was playing. Tammy received a text message while lying in bed next to Tim. It was a commercial break and she had been admiring football player ass when the message came in from their friends The Whites. William and Hilary White, were black and as much as people wanted to call them Bill and Hilary, William corrected people. His name was William and not Will, Willy, Bill or Billy. William was his grandfather’s name who came from Kingston, Jamaica. William thought of himself as an English gent of the Caribbean, a modern day Sidney Poitier. Hilary was an attractive black woman with a pretty smile and a fantastic ass. How they became friends oddly enough was through the sport of ice hockey. Their two sons who are now in college, played youth hockey together for many years. For over ten years, they woke up early and drove their boys to practices and games and then drank in hotel hallways and lounges together. The White’s son was always the one black player on the hockey team. It made the other whites, not to be confused with The Whites, feel as though they were tolerant and accepting of other races and cultures by the mere fact that they had black friends; The Whites. Tim and Tammy often threw that out among other whites. “Our good friends, The Whites… Who are really black… I mean African-American, will be at the party too.” And so on… Hilary had sent a text inviting Tim and Tammy to their house to watch the election results and sip some red wine that they picked up at a winery in Germany. The Whites took a vacation and toured wineries near the French border in Germany. William had whispered to his wife while taste testing Riesling in Germany, “Hitler must be rolling over in his grave. Two American blacks drinking prized German wine and being served like servants by members of the master race… It doesn’t get any better than this…” William and Tim were both very outspoken no-it-alls and alcohol and vast knowledge often led to fights. William was a supporter of the president and Tim was a supporter of Romney. Wine with opposing political views pointed towards an interesting evening. “I see you’ve texted Hilary back. Have you already committed us to going to their place again? In 2008, you didn’t tell me that their extended family was going to be sitting around the living room, crying and hugging each other after Obama won. I had to pretend like I was happy too and I wasn’t,” said Tim. “Why? Because it was the symbolic decline of the American white male? An attractive black man becomes president and white men are threatened,” said Tammy. “Denzel Washington is an attractive black man. The president is not. The president looks like… A monkey.” Said Tim. “Now that is perfect. Our president is a simian. How very Klanish of you,” said Tammy. “If he looked like a fucking aardvark, I would tell you that. To me, he resembles a monkey. I’ll agree that he is smooth and self confident but I don’t agree that he is attractive,” said Tim. Strangely enough, once while having sex with each other for possibly the 10,000 times since the first time in the back seat of a car during college, Tim fantasized about being behind Michelle Obama and Tammy fantasized that the man behind her was the commander-in-chief. Tim and Tammy were prone to a lot of talking during sex. It was also the counselor’s opinion that they connect more with each other while having sex in the form of verbally relaying their pleasure with one another. There would be rhetorical questions such as, “Who owns this pussy? Or who wants this pussy?”. On a night when neither of them was saying much, they both had thoughts about fucking the first lady and the president while fucking each other. Both Tim and Tammy had given thought to fucking William and Hilary but never discussed it with each other. Both had accused the other of being a little too inviting in their body language, tone of voice and smiles with the Whites. “George Bush was an unattractive man and you never said a word about how he looks. Why is it that you have yet to come to grips with the fact that our president is black?” Asked Tammy. “I don’t care about how white he really is while appearing to be black. Our president was raised by his grandparents just like most black kids are today. The difference is that he was raised by white people in Hawaii and he went to Harvard. He comes off as some native of Chicago and he is about as much a Chicagoan as he is truly black… Be all that as it is, I don’t want to be around a bunch of gloating black people if Obama wins re-election. I don’t want to pretend I voted for Obama too just so that I don’t appear racist. Whites and I don’t mean William and Hilary; still make up 65% of this country. If whites don’t vote for the president, he isn’t going to be president. I’m tired of hearing how racist whites still are. Nobody tried to kill the president and whites overwhelmingly voted for a blackish man,” said Tim. “Blackish? Like brackish? You really are racist and have not come to grips with it. We live in an all white neighborhood with a smattering of Indians and Koreans and you work with white people in another all white area and people of color make you uncomfortable. Face it so you can begin to accept it,” said Tammy. “That sounds like some kind of Oprah-esque brainwashing. Unless you go out and hold hands with queers and people of all other colors other than your own, you’re racist and homophobic. I have voted Republican since Reagan when I was a senior in high school. I voted once for Perot and felt like an asshole after doing it so I will most likely vote Republican until I die. Not because they are the white party as much as they are not the party to worry and cater to those who don’t wish to do for themselves, don’t care if queers want to fuck up their lives with marriage and hand out money for abortions. Today if fags want to get abortions, nobody really cares. People are worried about losing their jobs and homes. Everything else is not important. With unemployment still up and the housing market still flat, I don’t see what has happened in the last four years that would make me want to vote for Obama. Call me racist or call me a realist. I hope you’re not voting for him because Oprah told you to or because you think he is more attractive than Romney. I hope you are not fearful of Mormons and for that reason voting for a man who might be a closet Muslim,” said Tim. “If you don’t want to go, I will simply tell them we are staying home,” said Tammy with folded arms. “No, we’re going. They will totally think I made you not go. I have a gun to my head on this one. I will go and I will not boast and beat my chest if Romney wins but don’t expect me to cry and bring up Rosa Parks with their relatives if Obama wins. I don’t want to argue with William either. I cannot believe he would argue with me over the word fuck. It most definitely means, for unlawful carnal knowledge and not fornication under consent of the king. He still believes he is a subject of the queen because he was born in Kingston. The queen doesn’t give a shit about Jamaica unless she’s looking for a bottle of rum,” said Tim. Tammy flicked off the light and turned off both televisions. She turned on her side away from Tim and did not say goodnight. Tim felt bad and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. He kissed her softly on the neck and told her that none of that stuff really mattered to him and that finding the person best suited for his life was what really mattered most to him. Tammy turned towards Tim. The nice, unsolicited words just put her in the mood. Tim wrapped his arms around his wife and he began to massage her cold and pimply butt cheeks while kissing her. They made love as they had many, many times in the past. Tim then rolled over and immediately began to fall asleep. A good fucking for Tim was like giving a baby a bottle of milk. Tim was ready to sleep. Tammy on the other hand was wide-awake. She could feel Tim’s hand getting heavy around her waist. She thought that she should probably say something before Tim truly fell asleep. “Honey?” “Hmm?” “I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me, okay?” “Okay…” “Would you say my ass is as nice as Hilary’s or Michelle Obama’s?” Tim didn’t want to come off as a liar or have his wife think that he was lying even though he was about to lie. Michelle Obama and Hilary both looked like they had canned hams for buttocks. Asses that could support drinks and so on. Tim wanted to sleep and he wanted Tammy to sleep too. He had to think quickly. He leaned in and kissed his wife under her ear. “In this age when men need Viagra. I never need a boost when it comes to you. You still give me a full metal jacket after all these years. I still feel like an admiral of a beautiful ship when I get behind you… I’d rather have your ass than any others.” Tammy bought the nice words and Tim fell fast asleep. They will be watching the election results with the Whites tonight. How about you?

The Last 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.


Lincoln Washington, 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 Stoney Island 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.”

The Last 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.


Lincoln Washington, 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 Stoney Island 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.”

Auckland to Oakland or Why Get Married?

Uncle Boog sat at the bar waiting for his nephew, the youngest son of his older sister. Boog was a drill sergeant in the Army who after five tours of duty, was sent to North Carolina to whip future recruits into soldiers. Boog sat watching the debate between Mitt Romney and President Obama with aviator shades on, uniform and drill sergeant hat. People in the establishment looked at the bizarre character and wondered who he was and why he was there. Boog was waiting for his nephew. The youngest son of his older sister. I think I mentioned that already. Boogard went by the name Boog because Clarence was just not tough enough and so, since the age of six, Clarence was called Boog. If you want a fight with a tough man, call Boog by his birth given name. Joe walked in to see his uncle starring intently at the television. Joe patted Boog on the back. Boog turned quickly and grabbed the wrist of his nephew and twisted it. Upon recognizing his nephew, he released his hand and pulled a stool out for him to sit. Boog slid an envelope with $1,000.00 in it to Joe and explained that he could not bring himself to attend his wedding but wanted to give him a boost in the form of money instead of a gift. “Your mom mentioned a registry… I had never heard of a registry. I came to find out you picked all your stuff at Crate and Barrel. I stood in line with a list of stuff that your girl picked out behind two queers that wanted to return a Dutch oven. I suddenly looked around and noticed all the people in the place were queer. Messy fucking hair like rodents ran around on top of their heads, horn-rimmed glasses and tight pants. A man should sound like a man even if he fancies another man. You were born a man, act like a man.” The bartender brought an orange colored beer to Joe as Boog drank a glass of red wine. Joe laughed at the hard man drinking red wine. For as macho as Boog was, holding a glass daintily, swirling the glass and sniffing it seemed almost surreal to Joe. “Wine? I got hooked on it in Germany. I was seeing a fraulein who got me on the stuff. She wanted to marry and have me take over her father’s farm near Bavaria. I’m no marriage material. I look at people and they think they’re going to be happy legally chaining themselves together until they realize that guys are lazy and chicks are borderline nuts at any given time. You got a guy getting fat and soft, watching athletes in their prime going at it like gladiators for their enjoyment which detracts from their boring lives. Getting fat and soft in a lazy-boy and the old lady is disenchanted with the fact that he doesn’t want to do nothing or go anywhere. She gets upset and eats, he gets tired and eats. They have less sex and then it becomes nearly impossible for him to have sex so he gets Viagra so that he can have sex again after getting a membership to a gym. He’ll put his fat ass on a treadmill and walk for a few weeks and get despondent over the fact that he still looks like a sack of shit. So he says fuck it… I’m going to have wings and beer and watch sports and she can just go fuck herself. Well she’s not fucking herself. She goes out and gets in shape. She sees that Oprah ran a marathon and so she does a 5k then a 10k and has confidence to go out and have a chocolate-tini with her less than satisfied suburban soccer mom friends who are also angry about their less than favorable marriages that has come way under there vision and expectations that go back to the days when Ken and Barbie met and married in their bedrooms on rainy days… I’m not trying to dissuade you. You might be just fine.” Boog ordered another Carmenere that cost $12.00 a glass. He studied the bottle and decided that if he got the chance, he would have to visit Chile. He had admired Pinochet and the days when the CIA could depose a head of state and prop up a puppet for national interest. Boog hated the way the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were handled. Boog was part of the group that had to replace the crew at Abu Graib. One of the female American soldiers was caught trying to sexually service the inmates that were trying to kill her. Boog hated people. Discovering something so perverse just solidified his ill view of humanity. “So he’s getting out of shape and she’s running races and before you know it, some dude at a bar from New Zealand is buying her drinks and talking about how wholesome his life was raising fucking sheep in a town near Auckland. She loves his accent and doesn’t care that his wife misunderstands him and that he lives in Oakland. She doesn’t know the difference between Oakland and Auckland and that New Zealand is not Australia and that the suave motherfucker with the Geico accent is hoping to land her like an aircraft on autopilot. Her old man is watching Rutgers playing some fucking school you never heard of or ever considered going to at home in a chair and the Kiwi is trying to sell her cock and his cleaning products that he peddles for a living all at the same time. She never questions why he is living in Detroit if New Zealand is paradise and why he walked away from a million acres of land looking over the Pacific Ocean. He came to America to sell industrial cleaning supplies while looking at the Detroit River? My advice to you, son is to stay off the lazy boy. You may have to go to Ikea and take Salsa Dancing lessons. You have to try to follow the vision she has in her head of what marriage is supposed to be. After you spawn a few kids, her attention will turn to the kids. You then dedicate your lives to raising a spoiled little fuck that will sass you and claim you ruined their lives one day while sitting at a bar talking to someone. Who do you know that doesn’t hate their parents or feel their parents came up woefully short? We all have expectations of things and how they should be. We feel short changed and then go and watch sports or drink in lounges like this one. I married and I shouldn’t have. I took this bad job and really I have always wanted to be a nude scientist or what have you. We work until we aren’t functional and then we get senior discounts for shit just for living long enough to not be worth anything to people younger than us. We then gloss over days gone by and how things were so much better and how the youth are going to kill this country… You look at these two assholes wanting to be president of this country and for what? So they can be on a coin or dollar bill some day? So fat children can have the day off from school to sit cooped up in an apartment and watch television and eat partially hydrogenated shit causes it’s too dangerous to go outside and celebrate that old dead president’s life… So where you going for your honeymoon?”

I Play the Piano

It’s not my job to say too much. In fact I can’t say anything. I just play the piano. People wear nice clothes here and they smell good to mask the fact that maybe they don’t smell so good. They all have on those nice watches so that when someone asks what time it is, they can tell them. I don’t need to know the time, man. My office is this piano that goes back to the days of prohibition back before inhibition and extinction. We were on our way up then and didn’t know it. Oh yes, you had the temporary set back of a decline and a depression solved by a world war that lead us into prosperity and a fear of communism. I miss communism. It was so simple then. Half the world hated us and half hated them and you were either black or white and it was all just a chess game. If you were raggedy with a scraggly beard, maybe you liked Che. Maybe you thought Fidel had merit. God bless him if you believe in god for creating a ban on American products. 1955 Chevy Bell-Airs roaming around Havana like it’s still the days of prosperity, two kids, a car and a two-week vacation. Ike played golf and GM made a lot of cars for the whole world to drive. We were on the way up and now we are on the way down. I never learned to play a violin and so all I can play is this piano while Americana rots, decays and burns like decadent Rome. A noble thought that people from all over could come together and become a new people. It almost worked in Yugoslavia. I owned one car and it was a Yugo. I bought it for $5,000 in 1987 and at $93.00 a month, I owned nothing by 1992. Tito’s car and the shinning beacon of the Communist curtain… Well fuck that shit. It was a Fiat anyway and now they’re bound to fuck things up for Chrysler. The first time I made love was in a Chrysler Newport. It was a 1971 and it was huge. You could fit four in the front and four in the back comfortably. We watched three movies at the drive-in in Van Nuys. She was a swell gal. Her eyes would roll back like she was in a trance and her tits would do the windmill. How is it that two tits go opposite directions at the same time? How does the right know to go counter clockwise and the left to go clockwise? I guess it depends on which side you’re on. We fucked in that car with the radio on and heard Nixon step down for the good of the country. I couldn’t help as I was pounding away on that girl whose name I forget, thinking that Nixon sounded like dioxin and toxin all at the same time. So what if Nixon and Dioxin was a toxin. So you get cancer. That cannot be Dick’s problem. We’re like time bombs. All programmed to stop working at some point in time. We go on doing this and that and planning for years and decades ahead not knowing what’s taking place inside of us. I’m playing a sweet tune as background music and you’re growing something in your asshole that is going to spread throughout your body like dandelions. I miss the days of carefree living. A walk anytime of day and mom to take care of the basics and essentials. You swam upstream to have me and have told me that I am the prettiest human to have ever walked the planet. God had a plan for me, right? I hope god loves the piano. I hope god loves Sinatra and Bacharach and even Billy fucking Joel. If his plan for me was to play the piano, he made me into a trained pony to go round and round for nameless and faceless individuals to take a spin with me for the night on their quest to hide and run from the mundane existence that is man… Fuck it, I’m playing Nirvana on a grand piano and nobody knows and nobody cares. I just play the piano.

F@*k Las Vegas... This is Detroit

Trev and Tracy, both exceptionally good looking and best friends, were bailed out of jail by a man they had never met by the name Bruce. Trev and Tracy had all the qualities of a tandem that could possibly go Columbine. They were each other’s best friend, hated everyone and everything and lacked empathy for others the way any respectable sociopath like Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy or the Son of Sam lacked compassion. Trev and Tracy grew huge in a short period of time from using steroids. Both long haired, young men, stood a hair below six feet of height and weighed about 215 lbs. Among ordinary men, the were formidable and knew it. The two were arrested for starting a bar brawl at a bar on Woodward in Ferndale that was holding a gay Tango dance night. Trev and Tracy taunted the patrons until they were confronted. Trev and Tracy beat up several guys, broke chairs, glasses and mirrors within the establishment before the Ferndale, Michigan Police collected them. Bruce came to their rescue with bond money. Neither Trev nor Tracy knew who Bruce was. They came out of a holding pen to see a short and stocky Jewish man with a bad toupee that looked like a black helmet. Bruce was talking on a cell phone with his elbow sticking out at his side and his pinky finger with a large sparkly ring, pointing daintily in the air. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned down to the third button, his gray chest hair contrasted against his tan skin and a large star of David. “Boys... You two are bad motherfuckers. I’ve been hearing about your escapades for some time and found out from a friend of a friend of some other fucking guy, that you were locked up for some fisticuffs with a bunch of fags. I myself would kick the shit out of anyone for doing the Tango. Who does the Tango anymore?” The boys looked down and shook their heads in agreement. Bruce was a strong presence even though he was paunchy and short. Bruce put his arms around both boys and walked them down to a 1963 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors. Trev recognized the car and asked Bruce if it was the car that Kennedy was killed in. “You are a very astute student of American history, son… This is a replica of the exact automobile that our late president was assassinated in. I was a young boy when he was killed but you want to talk about hope and change… That motherfucker was a breath of fresh air after a decade of Red Scares, witch hunts and what have you… I could put the top down if you want but there is always a chance that some motherfucker in a vacant book depository might take pot shots at us. After all, this is Detroit..” Bruce’s driver was a large black man with mutton sideburns. They listened to the Isley Brothers while Bruce’s assistant made Mai Tai’s in the back of the massive vehicle for the boys. “You boys have a rep… You are both known as bad motherfuckers in a bad motherfucking town. Detroit is serious bad. It’s hard to be a bad motherfucker with palm trees around. You walk the desolate streets of Detroit, that is some shit and you two motherfuckers got the shit I’m looking for… You know what I’m saying?” The boys shook their heads like bobble heads; up and down and sideways. They pretended to know what Bruce was saying but they motherfucking didn’t know. “Boys… I am a promoter of a fight league of true brawlers. I am associated with raw, brute strength. You two are built like motherfucking Greek gods. No fat and nothing but muscle with the knowledge of how to fight. I back fighters in fighting matches. This ain’t no fucking fake wrestling shit with fat fucks swinging chairs. This ain’t some octagon shit with a ref to stop you from dying. This is a ring where the fight stops when someone stops moving. I know you two could kick some fucking ass. My money is on you two. So here’s the thing; you win, you get 10k, you lose, you get 2k. I give you each a grand now and the remainder when the match concludes. Now this isn’t some weak shit. You two will be put up at the Motor City Casino and chauffeured over to the arena on Rosa Parks near Corktown.” “What’s the name of the arena?” Asked Tracy. “The motherfucking Bruce the Bruiser’s emporium of ass kicking… Whaddya say?” “I wish it were in Vegas…” said Trev. “Fuck Las Vegas. This is Detroit.” Said Bruce. Come fight night, a Saturday night. A limousine came to collect the two young men. They were driven to a desolate area of mostly vacant buildings on a street in Detroit that was named after a black woman who was a bit of a pioneer. Neither boy knew who Rosa Parks was. Tracy thought she was Betsy Ross, the woman who made flags for President Washington or something like that. The boys were whisked into a dank hallway that smelled of mold where the floors were covered with water that had seeped through holes in walls. Their outfits were laid out for them. Two purple colored Speedo like trunks with sequins were on a rudimentary board under a bare lamp that hung from the ceiling. A rotund man with hair on both sides and nothing up the center, entered with four chins and a thick moustache. He held a large can of mineral oil. “I’m here to oil you both down and mousse your hair.” Two large men came in and escorted Trev and Tracy who were oiled and moussed in purple trunks down a long hallway where they could hear Euro music blaring on a sound system. The boys watched scantily dressed men, wearing chaps with nothing on the ass, serving beer to patrons only attended by men. Men who looked macho like bikers or truck drivers and wimpy looking English teachers and artists, singles and couples. In to the ring stepped two large men that were slightly smaller than seven feet in height and about three hundred pounds. They had long blond, curly hair and huge muscles. They wore Speedo style trunks that had Texas on the ass and a white outline of the state where their cocks would be. They both had erections that looked like a tent pole holding up a tent. Sideways. They wore cowboy hats and had whiter than white teeth. “Harry… Which one them you want? Imma have the smaller one. I like when they small. They scream louder.” Said Larry. “Larry… Don’t much matter ta me. I love em all jus the same… y’all bout to git yer asses beat.” Said Harry. Trev and Tracy tried to climb out of the ring. The door was locked to the chain link fence that was twelve feet high and slathered in oil too to prevent any sort of climbing. Both Trev and Tracy found it was impossible to climb the fence. Trev and Tracy ran around the arena, afraid for their lives. It was a surreal moment for both of them. They looked at the faces of the ordinary people in attendance and could see the perverse excitement on their faces; they wanted to see blood, gore, violence and rape. Eventually the Texas twins were able to catch both Trev and Tracy. It was like MMA meets Deliverance. Once back in the cold holding pen that served as the “visitors” locker room, the prep/oil man, handed them two towels and soap. Trev and Tracy were bloody, sore, bruised and humiliated in a way they never thought possible. Bruce walked in with three large men and dropped two envelopes of cash for Trev and Tracy with a sadistic smile on his face. “I got two asskickers coming in from Boston. Tough Irish kids with pseudo black accents who fancy themselves some really tough motherfuckers. It will be quite a show tomorrow. We are in nowhere fucking Detroit in a home made five thousand seat arena where sick motherfuckers are coughing up $100.00 a ticket, $500.00 ring side to see the male equivalent of the donkey show. As PT once said, there is a sucker born every second and I’m there to take em… Have a nice evening.”

Nighthawks

Mathilde, a name she created for herself, decided when she opened up her Jazz club, that she would only speak French to her bartender, whom she was sleeping with on nights when she really wanted to have sex. Jasper would then watch Mathilde light a cigarette, flick her wrist towards Jasper and say, “va t’en…” Mathilde inherited money from the husband of her grandmother who had married the last of five husbands George never had children and had saved well after serving in World War II. Mathilde lived in Paris for a year and then returned to the states to claim her money and open her club. Mathilde was into Film Noir and a look among women and men of days gone by. She tried hard to recreate something that didn’t exist any longer. Jasper wore a red sports coat and a thin black tie. The television screens in the club were from the 1950’s and only played old movies. Mathilde could speak perfect English but chose to only speak French upon returning from France. The job description online for a bartender was that he not she, had to be fluent in French. Jasper was born in Montreal. Jasper was not French but had to learn French in a French-speaking city. Jasper found Mathilde amusing. He did not mind fucking the thin woman with tangerine shaped tits when the mood caught her. “Sir, there are very few people in this day in age that would selflessly give to their country and join the armed forces. I have chosen the infantry so that given the opportunity; I can send those Allah loving towel heads up to heaven to get their 72 virgins in the afterlife. I feel very strongly about this sir.” “How old are you, son?” “21 today, sir.” “Well thanks for that. I forgot to check your ID. I used to live in Los Angeles, West Los Angeles to be exact. I used to take a number 2 Santa Monica bus from Westwood near UCLA down Wilshire Boulevard to where I lived. The bus would cut through the VA and cemetery where thousands of boys laid silent. Boys just like you. I hope you make it back and go on with your life, kid.” “Sir, it is what god has chosen for me.” “Another mango rum, kid?” “Better make it two.” Mathilde sat on a stool in the center of the bar and listened to all the patrons speak to Jasper. She would comment to Jasper in French. Of course. “Pourquoi? Il est tres jeune et beau …” “Right… Like Rousseau said; a blank slate.” “These Jazz dudes think they got it all figured out. They all tend to play the same shit from a ten-year period where colored dudes were shooting heroin and turning Benny Goodman on his head. This was the American classic period, man. This is Beethoven, Mozart and Bach for Americana. Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane and these young white dudes play it and play it. Don’t get me wrong, man. I dig it.” “Colored… Now that takes me back to a simpler time. Pay phones, UHF and Richard Nixon. Say Mack… Why the Steven Segal look? Nixon had a similar hairline to you. He would never have pulled it back in a pony tail, had a vodka with a splash of cranberry and called a colored an African-American.” “You’re right about that, Jasper… It is sort of redundant, isn’t it? I mean they all came from Africa so why always push that back in their faces every time you refer to one of them with the obvious? Am I right, Jas?” “Who could argue with that logic? Another splash of cranberry with your vodka?” “Easy on the ice and easy on the cranberry…” “Doucement avec l’alcool… la coute pour ca c’est trop cher.” “Jasper… You are an ageless creature. You must be a half-century but look to be under the age of thirty-five. How do you do it?” “Well, I eat well, exercise and try to keep in mind that everything happening here is transitory.” “Transitory… I like that word. It is a polite way of saying that everything doesn’t really mean shit, correct?” “Righto mate… Some slob stood in this bar 100 years ago and discussed the Titanic slipping into the sea and breaking up the huge monopolies like US Steel and Standard Oil. Guys like you ordered a whiskey for under a nickel and guys like me made thirty cents a day and lived in a flophouse. I live in an apartment and make… not that much more than thirty cents a day and is it really living versus existing? Le plus les choses changent, le plus ils sont le meme…” “My exact words… Another Hemingway, please. Absinthe with a hint of champagne, please.” “Tu gagne beaucoups d’argent et les autres chose sont plus important que d’argent, mon vieux.” “Bien sur, madam…” “Romney picked wisely. I think the kid looks presidential actually. So Romney takes a job that nobody should ever want. One of these smelly punks who sit in parks, strumming guitars, worrying about the rich, suddenly becomes furious that their hope has changed and buys a gun from the same guy who is hooking them up with drugs and kills Romney. This leaves the job to the kid from Wisconsin. Mind you that this hippie assassin, this modern day Lee Harvey Oswald’s family is contributing to a Protestant church somewhere in suburbia and is also one of those families who gave $250.00 to help Romney defeat the incumbent while also sending money to their bust out son who lives in a park somewhere, protesting everything… What do you think?” “I think that any restaurant that only offers you two choices on the menu, cannot be too good.” “That sounds very communist.” “Freedom or the illusion of freedom is the heroin of the masses… I think Marx said that, didn’t he?” “Never mind… Give me another one of those Belgian beers.” “Of course. That sounds very American.” “Jill… I don’t mind the whole French thing in front of the consumers but you don’t need to do that when we’re alone. We both speak English as a first language. Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind just once?” Mathilde spoke in a clear Midwestern accent while laying on her side, smoking a cigarette out of a holder while listening to Nat King Cole sing in French. “Life sounds better in French… Even if it is not even close to being ideal.” Jasper lifted his eyebrows as he slipped on his pants and readied himself to leave Mathilde’s house for the night. “D’accord… C’est votre vie et j’habite etre avec vous…”

MC Puppet Master- 1% of 1%

I’m that one percent of that one percent. Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha! I’m the real puppet master. Candidates pointing fingers in debates, fluxuating interest rates. I make money when rains and when it shines. Think it’s yours? It’s mine. I feed the elephants and feed the donkey, I’m the scariest motherfucking honkey. I got an army that works for me. I’m bigger than Mobile/ Exxon and BP. To know me is to love me. Red carpet, white glove me. I could put the NBA and every rapping NWA and have the entire CIA in my deep pockets. The rich own jets- I own rockets. I’m the real Anglo-Saxon, my phone is blownin up from my cousin-the queen she’s relaxin at a quaint palace in London- nice place- I own mother fucking islands. I own heads of state and real estate larger than Texas or Alaska and all other 50 states. Your piece of the pie comes off my plate. People hate me but they need me. I’m the one who makes the economy. So how y’all feel knowing your just cogs in my wheel? I’m that one percent of that one percent. Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha! I’m the real puppet master.

Nato Protesters-Happy Talk

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk, Talk about things you'd like to do, You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true? The happy, syrupy, musical song from the movie, South Pacific played loudly through speakers in a stainless steel room. Russell sat naked and shackled to chains on the wall. The lights cut out and suddenly fire hose force jets of cold water ripped at Russell’s skin. Water filled his ears, went up his nose and caused immense pain to his testicles. The dousing lasted thirty seconds followed by a drop in temperature within the room to a crisp 45 degrees with giant fans from the ceiling that sounded like a World War II propeller plane. The cold temperatures and high wind, made it difficult for Russell to catch his breath. The music suddenly stopped, as did the fan. The lights, as bright as the sun went on and standing with their heads cocked towards one another as they studied Russell was Phil and Andy. Phil was a giant of a man with broad shoulders who wore a white lab coat splattered with blood. He wore a Hilary Clinton mask over his face. Andy, a legal midget wore a white lab coat also stained with blood and a Mexican wrestling mask over his face. The music resumed loudly as Andy used a remote control switch to elevate Russell to Phil’s eye level. The chains that held Russell suddenly tightened so that his back was plastered against the wall. Talk about a moon floating in de sky looking like a lily on a lake, Talk about a bird learning how to fly making all the music he can make Happy talk, keep talking' happy talk, talk about things you'd like to do, You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true? Andy took a bat used to play cricket and smashed the bottoms of Russell’s feet. Russell screamed about his civil rights and rights as a human. Phil took a feces stained washcloth and stuffed it into the mouth of the career protester. Russell gagged and shook his head in an attempt to get the washcloth out of his mouth. Phil took duct tape and ensured that the rag would remain in Russell’s mouth. Russell was then lowered so that his head could be placed into a tub of water. Phil held Russell’s head in the tub for about twenty seconds as electric contacts that were attached to Russell’s finger tips, suddenly carried a current from the bike that Andy pedaled furiously. It was a 1970 gold Schwinn with a banana seat and blue poms that hung from each side of the handlebars. With each revolution of the pedals, a current ran from a car battery and caused a painful shock. Russell, whose head was underwater when the initial shock took place, gasped for air while his head was underwater. Before Russell could drown in twelve inches of water, Phil pulled the choking Russell out of the water and into a plastic bag. Russell went from immense pain to complete panic for close to thirty minutes while the song, Happy Talk played over and over. The Asian woman with an accent sang about dreams and happiness, the moon, the stars and birds while Russell nearly passed out from the torture. Talk about a star looking like a toy, peeking through de branches of a tree, Talk about a girl, talk about a boy, counting all de ripples on de sea Happy talk, keep talking happy talk, Talk about things you'd like to do You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true? Russell’s head was covered in a dark pillowcase as he was transported and dumped in a park near Lake Michigan in Chicago. Russell cried and whimpered as other protesters untied him and asked what happened. Across town at an all night diner, Phil had a steak with eggs while Andy ate oatmeal and read the paper. “How bout that, Phil… The paper says that the city of Detroit is a safer place to be this week than the city of Chicago. The article says we can expect about 10,000 protesters.” Said Andy. “Well Andy… You know what God said in Genesis 18 about the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? God said, “If you can find fifty good people there, I won’t destroy the city.” Said Phil. Andy took a sip of his coffee and looked out of the window at a group of unwashed kids passing out literature to disinterested people walking by. “Hmmm. Well maybe we should get the hell out of here and go to Detroit. I don’t want to be here when god decides to torch this town. It happened once, it could happen again.” “Amen, little buddy, amen…”

Hey Mickey!

“Look at fucking Bernice. You’re a fucking wizard at video games, aren’t you, Bernice?” Mickey stood next to Bernie as he played a video game and nervously stared straight ahead at the screen. One of the rockets got hit by fire and ended the game. Bernie and his friend Saul tried to step away from the group that surrounded them but was unable to move. Judas Priest blared through out the game room, which was full of teenage boys playing video games. Mickey flicked Bernie behind the ear and then poked the Chicago Cubs logo on his baseball shirt. “Bernice… It’s fucking winter. Don’t wear fucking white painter’s pants and a Cubs shirt when it’s snowing outside. You know what? You and your fucking girlfriend come outside for a moment.” “We’re not leaving, Mickey,” said Bernie. Martha, who was hanging on Mickey’s shoulder, laughed and weakly tried to persuade Mickey to just leave the two smaller boys alone. She was enjoying the hazing. Bullying is always a bit more funny when one is high and in a group of three or more. Mickey and Martha were there with two friends Mathew and Mark. In fact Mathew and Mark were sort of disciples of Mickey. Mickey was the captain of the hockey team and his father was the coach. Mickey’s father had a job lined up for Mickey, driving a beer truck just as soon as he graduated from high school. Mickey, Martha and the disciples had just come from Mark’s basement where they took turns toking on a bong, listening to Rush. They all became famished and went to eat hot dogs and cheese fries at a Greek fast food restaurant. Mickey noticed Bernie and Saul through the window of the game room next door and decided that they would torment the two Jewish boys because they were Jewish, nerdy, small, timid and rich. “Them fucking Jews run the world. It’s a conspiracy. You show me one poor Jew. Bankers, lawyers, doctors, jewelers. The name Jew is in Jewelry. The old Jew who owns the liquor distribution company my old man works for, never leaves Miami. He gets a big fat check each month and guys like my old man, run around making him rich.” Mickey heard his father’s anti-Semitic rants over the years from his recliner, wearing a tank top, holding a beer after work from the time he could retain what he was hearing until he grew up and moved out of the house. Mickey grew up believing kids like Bernie and Saul were privileged and for that reason, teasing, bullying and terrorizing Jewish kids, was warranted. “You two kikes strip down to your fucking underwear. Leave that Cubs shirt over here next to those pants and you two Woody Allen looking motherfuckers… Now get the fuck out of my site or I'll tell the Nazis you were here.” Bernie and Saul stripped down to their underwear and ran across the parking lot in their boots and white underwear and disappeared into the night. Mickey went back to Martha’s house and had sex with her three times after getting high again while her parents obliviously slept. Life in 1982 was great for Mickey and Martha. Oh, Mickey, what a pity You don't understand You take me by the heart When you take me by the hand Oh, Mickey, you're so pretty Can't you understand It's guys like you, Mickey Oh, what you do, Mickey, do, Mickey Don't break my heart, Mickey Hey, Mickey Bernard showed up at the door of a dilapidated home with weeds knee high in the front yard. He pounded loudly on the door of the home with his bodyguard standing beside him. Mickey answered the door in a stained white T-shirt that read Pabst Blue Ribbon. He came to the door in a pair of underwear with rust stains near the side to where his cock pulled towards. Mickey strained to adjust his eyes to the sunlight as he looked at two unfamiliar men who stood with suits on at the front steps. “Hiya, Mick… you mind if I come in? You really shouldn’t mind because I just purchased this fucking palace for back taxes. It’s my home now and you and your family are now squatters.” Mickey, who had been hounded by creditors regularly, tried to slam the door on Bernard and his large bald man. Bernard’s bodyguard stopped the door from closing. The two men forced their way into the living room and sat down on the couch. “Let see, Mick. You got laid off as an assistant deliveryman due to the fact that you lost your license for drunk driving, correct? Look at this fucking hillbilly palace… you probably got live coons living under the couches here, feeding on pizza crust that fell between the cushions. Let me guess… You married the beautiful Martha and spawned these inbred looking monsters I see wandering from room to room here. They're probably smoking your weed and watching goats fuck blond chicks on the internet while jacking off while you catch up on sleep on this here couch that smells like something the cat wouldn’t dare piss on. It has been many years, Mick. I’m in the driver’s seat now, you pathetic piece of shit… You probably never knew this back in high school but karma has no expiration date. Now, I need to know when you’re moving or paying me rent. I don’t care if you don’t have a job. I own a Subway franchise. You will work arm and arm with the Indians I have making more sandwiches in a day than you could shake a fucking stick at… Practice asking if they want mustard on their sandwich. You will fucking pay me rent or my associate here who is a war criminal from the Yugoslav War, will make your life less worth living than it currently is. Now, if you decide you will not carry your end of the bargain, life will get a whole lot worse for you than it is now… Oh and the rent just went up. You can thank the president for that one. Yes we can raise the rent. Yes we can put your ass on the street. Yes we can force you outside in your nut stained underwear if you’re not really fucking careful. You thought you hated Jews back in the day? Well now you really got a reason, my friend." Martha came into the room smoking a cigarette, with a T-shirt that said, “I’m sexy and I know it.” Her breasts were at half-mast and it appeared as though her ass had deflated. In a husky smoker’s voice, she smiled, cleared her throat and calmly posed a question to Bernard. “Bernice… Can’t we somehow work this whole thing out?” At a well to-do nightclub in downtown Chicago near the large hotels that house conventioneers and businessman, Mickey dressed in black pants, white shirt and bow tie. Mickey's job was to hand paper towels to patrons in the men's bathroom that had just relieved themselves before returning back to dance and drink. A large patron among some very large people in these United States sat with his pants around his ankles in a stall and called out for help, unable to help himself up as he gasped for air and sweated profusely. Mickey caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror helping the morbidly obese Jewish man with a yarmulke on his head, pull up his pants. Mickey was nauseated by the fresh scent of shit that had not been flushed away into the abyss. Mickey could almost taste the breath of the large man who was sweating and panting as they both struggled to pull the man's pants up and help him to his feet. The winded man asked Mickey his name as he stuffed a one-dollar bill into his shirt pocket condescendingly. The obese man then recalled the old 1980's syrupy; bubble gum hit by a woman named Toni Basil and began to serenade Mickey. Hey, Mickey Now when you take me by the hooves Who's ever gonna know And every time you move I let a little more show, There's something you can use so don't say no, Mickey

The Gulf of Apathy

The Gulf of Apathy Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:36 am Edit This Tags: humor, Humour, poem, society, television I want to look twenty-five forever Malibu Pilates, a colonoscopy everything is good inside of me, behind me Got passion, a sense of fashion waiting at Sears to see a real Kardashian Its just mild anxiety about the complexity of the economy and the nosey neighbors next to me. Dog piss on the rug, no eye contact or a hug from the wife, suburban life, bored offspring hate me but love to take Ecstasy. A 600 lb woman on the screen, lean cuisine, P90X, mind blowing sex and people catching catfish with their hands. More stars than grains of sand, universe growing, Serengeti wildebeest and plastic in the oceans and on the beach, deep wrinkle cream and cock enlarging potions. Disney, history, mystery, military, unwrapping King Tut, developing a Brazilian butt Juice, blend, chop, shop silver, sex toys, wealth without risk, Ru Paul and other chicks with dicks. My sleep number, look fit this summer. Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy swarggart, the roll of Erwin Rommel and a 12 disc set by Merl Haggard. It is a virtual rodeo and a makeover, a subliminal take over with hidden messages masked as information and entertainment. High definition low retention emptying minds and oozing radiation. Televised real time closed caption of the rapture brought to you by your friends at BP- bridging the Gulf of Apathy.

Every Girl is a Princess

Ms. Jones led Stephanie into the beauty shop that was buzzing with sounds of music and talking. Ms. Jones had her arm around the thin figure that struggled to look up at the women who were greeting them.
“Ladies, this is Princess Stephanie… Princess Stephanie is going to be in the school play tonight and I need to have her look like royalty.”
Alice Jones had escaped inner city Detroit only to return to be an elementary school teacher at Holmes Elementary in the city of Detroit. Despite fractured family lives of her young students, Ms. Jones got her fifth grade class to appreciate Romeo and Juliet and read stories by James Thurber.
Ms. Jones wrote a play that she was hoping to get published about a young, poor girl who grows up in Detroit that meets and marries a real prince from a make believe country in Africa. The students of her class were putting on the play for the entire school. The only wrench in the gears of the story was that Stephanie was a little white girl with blond hair. While Stephanie was getting her hair washed in the back by the shampoo girl, Tisma, the owner of the beauty shop pulled Alice aside to understand what it was that she was doing exactly. The older and larger woman stood close to Alice with one hand on her hip while gesturing with the other hand.
“You got one little white girl in a class full of black girls who now can buy themselves a Tiana doll and visualize themselves as Tiana and you choose the pretty white girl to be the princess who marries an African prince and moves to Africa?! This ain’t 1960 when little colored, negro girls had no choice but to hold a little white doll and wish they wasn’t so damn black… Watchu doin, girl? Every damn mother in that auditorium gone think bout they man taking up with a blonde white woman. What message you sending to all them other little black girls? Little girls as black as you…”
Alice listened to Tisma with pursed lips and her arms folded, as she politely and patiently waited for her moment to speak.
“Before you question and chastise me, you should hear the story.”
Alice explained Stephanie’s story as Stephanie watched cartoons while her hair was being blown dried. After several minutes, Tisma emerged with her large presence and larger voice.
“Trina! Go git Rouchelle and tell her to bring her some fabric. I need her to make a gown quickly. Ain’t no way I’m sending a princess out this place looking like a pauper. When Princess Stephanie step outta here, everyone gone know the princess come to tea here today.”
Over the course of three hours, the rail thin ten year old girl was transformed into a regal figure. Stephanie’s hair was curled and had blonde extensions added. She had eyeliner, lipstick and pearls around her neck that matched the pearl colored dress that went along with pearl colored pumps. Stephanie looked old enough to attend a junior prom. She stood marveling at her self in the mirror as the women who created her commented to her and one another about how beautiful she looked. Alice put her arm around Stephanie’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.
“Remember how you look today and always remember you are beautiful on the inside and on the outside. You are a princess and this is your day to feel like one. You’re gonna do a good job tonight and so many people are gonna be there to see you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you make it on the news tonight. You are a pretty young lady, Stephanie and I believe you will one day make a beautiful queen.”
Stephanie stepped out on the stage and saw over a hundred parents and siblings sitting in seats. She shined like a star. Stephanie was articulate and vibrant. When the performance ended, Stephanie was given flowers and adulation. Alice then took Stephanie to Greektown to eat dinner and a dessert of Baklava. Everyone noticed the pretty looking young debutante and some commented on how lovely she looked. Stephanie really felt special. There was no thought about living in an abandoned home with no heat with her crack addict grandmother and her boyfriend that was having sex with Stephanie and inviting others to do the same in exchange for a few dollars to buy drugs. Alice had sensed something distressing in the eyes of the young girl and upon learning how she lived, removed her from the home without any opposition from Stephanie’s grandmother. With the exception of a few neighbors who lived in the high rise condominium overlooking the Detroit River, nobody knew that Stephanie was living with her school teacher.
Stephanie changed into her Hello Kitty nightgown and hopped into the twin bed that had a smiling Felix the Cat clock on the wall where the eyes moved from left to right with each tick. A television was on the wall with a shelf full of books and everything was safe, orderly and clean. Nights were often difficult for Stephanie and Alice understood. Thoughts of unspeakable acts often filled Stephanie’s mind as she lay in bed. That night as Alice brushed Stephanie’s hair away from her eyes, Stephanie looked at Alice and thanked her and then calmly fell asleep. That night Stephanie didn’t have dreams of toothless, drugged out men violating her or huddling on a piss stained mattress, trying to stay warm. She dreamed she was walking down a red carpet and everyone respected and revered her for being a real princess. All girls really are princesses.

1933 Again

The president, a precedent plays a violin at the funeral pyre in a
Quagmire, bonfire Koran, Iran and Little Kim has a little hand on the button
In a strange land north of Seoul.

I don’t know what we don’t know and there are things we know we know.
Election year- vote for so and so– there are things we do not know that we don't know- goo goo j’goob.

I’m a 99, you’re a 99. They got yours, they got mine. It’s futile like feudal between haves and halves of halves and fractions of factions and commercial break distractions.

G8- ain’t it grand? Liquid gold in the sand to be mobile or Mobil/Exxon the hex on the White House and greenhouse gas.

The hero is zero, living intestate with a falling interest rate
Trying to compensate for millions losing their estate. So what’s our fate?

We have nothing to fear but fear itself

Amigos in America

The Ortega’s, no relation to Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua at least none that any of them know, came from a small town in Mexico. The town that the Ortega’s come from in Mexico is not one that American vacationers would flock to overeat, over drink and generally over indulge in. After the birth of his third child, Ronaldo Reagan Ortega, Javier packed up his family and crossed the Rio Grande and made his way up to the city of Chicago.
The idea to move to the United States came to Javier when his wife gave birth to a sandy haired blue eyed boy that he named after the United States President that he admired so much. Javier thought that it was fantastic that a man, who made pretty bad movies, could go on to be a governor of a state and then become president of one of the wealthiest and most powerful countries in the world. Way back in Javier’s ancestry, there was blond haired, blue eyed German man who was his great-great grandfather who had immigrated to Mexico. Javier took the recessive trait that surfaced in his son as a sign from god- go live with the white people in America.
Javier washed cars, drove trucks and cleaned tables as an undocumented illegal alien. He did an outstanding job of saving money to help his children as they got older. There was Socorro who was tall and thin with straight and long jet black hair with high cheek bones. Socorro was the eldest and the rebel among the three children. Socorro had moved to Los Angeles and married a Low-rider gangster who gave up gangbanging to customize classic cars for other Low- riders. Socorro had two children and lived in a small house not far from LAX airport in Los Angeles. Nina was the middle child who was quiet and always there to help family at all times. Nina bought a home with her husband in Chicago and moved her parents in with them.
Ronaldo was handsome and fair skinned. He resembled those European actors in the Spanish speaking novellas and had the ability to blend in with Anglo looking people without a second look. Ronaldo was an outstanding student that finished medical school, became a citizen of the United States and had a birthday all in the same month.
Ronaldo had a girlfriend named Jennifer who was a complete physical package in the eyes of most men. She was pretty on an athletic frame with a nice set of breasts and perky posterior. Jennifer was high maintenance among women who are considered high maintenance. Jennifer had to have all the passwords to Ronaldo’s emails, Facebook account and cell phone. Jennifer chose all of Ronaldo’s clothes, told him where to go to medical school, what car to buy. Slowly over time, all of Ronaldo’s childhood friends were slowly phased out and those with money and title moved in to become Ronaldo’s newly sanitized friends. Ronaldo’s family said very little about their concern that Jennifer, a rich sheltered woman was reinventing the pliable Ronaldo into something that was not Latino. The family’s fear was that they were going to lose their brother and son.
Jennifer rented a coach bus to take Ronaldo on a tour of his thirty favorite places in Chicago with his newly adopted friends. Jennifer had planned on renting out a banquet hall for the celebration of becoming a citizen, a doctor and having his thirtieth birthday. Ronaldo asked Jennifer to have the party at the culmination of the six hour tour on the coach bus at his sister Nina’s house so that he could see his family for his birthday.
Nina and their parents didn’t feel slighted that Jennifer did not invite them to go along on the coach bus to tour places that she felt were Ronaldo’s favorite places. Socorro had driven in with her husband for the celebration in a sharp 1964 Chevrolet Impala that was lowered three inches from the ground and painted a sparkly red color with spoke wheels and a hand painted sign on the back window that said, “Chavo Y Socorro”. Socorro voiced her displeasure about Jennifer’s controlling nature to her parents and sister but promised to hold her tongue.
At a few minutes after six in the evening. Thirty loud, drunk people filed out of the coach bus and into the home on Nina. The crowd was mostly white and well to do. The new friends of Ronaldo devoured all the food and drank more alcohol. They were drunk, loud and obnoxious. Nina, Socorro and their parents looked out of place in their own home among the partying people. Jennifer, who was wearing a tight black dress, climbed on top of a coffee table in the living room and banged a spoon against her beer bottle until everyone stopped talking and listened to her. Jennifer sucked in her quivering lips and put her right hand against her chest. She began to cry as she gave her dedication speech to the entire room.
“I just want to say that I am so proud of the love of my life Ronaldo who has come so far from where he was to where he is now. From a little town that nobody ever heard of in Mexico to become an American citizen just like all of us. Very soon Ronaldo will do his residency at Children’s Hospital here in Chicago. I want to thank all of you for being here to celebrate a special time for both Ronaldo and I… I really love you all so very much…”
The crowd cheered and chanted Ronaldo’s name. Friends raised shot glasses and bottles of Mexican beer. The room had the feel of a frat party that was about to get out of hand. Drunken urban professionals showed up at Nina’s home to eat and drink more. Socorro could no longer hold back. Socorro stood up on her chair and banged a fork against a bottle of beer. A few men whistled as the shapely woman with blue eye liner stood up to say a few words to the group of friends.
“I want my brother to know that his family has always been proud of him and have always known he is special. He is special not because he looks like Europeans but because he has a good heart. I hope as he enters and is accepted into the world of Caucasian people, that he always remembers that little town he was from in Mexico that I have heard of as has my sister and my parents. I hope my brother keeps in mind to be American does not mean to not be Mexican. I hope my brother remembers that while blacks were once sent to the back of the bus in favor of white people during this black history month, Mexicans today weren’t invited or even allowed on the bus. I hope you all enjoyed the authentic Mexican food you ate today and will be considerate and clean up your mess before you leave because these Mexicans who live here are not servants or busboys today. I hope you all keep in mind when you leave here and are safely back in your safe suburbs among all the people who look just like you… The day is coming when you will all have to recognize that we are here, we are growing and we are not going anywhere. Every time you see a nice front lawn, every time you eat at a restaurant, think about the people who make that possible… Think about that when you’re drinking your Coronas on Cinco de Mayo and think about that now that you’ve adopted my blue eyed brother as one of your own… I ask you all to raise your glasses and repeat after me… Viva Mexico, putas.”
And they lived happily ever after. Separately.

The Day You Passed Away

Jasper opened his eyes to find himself in his childhood bedroom. He looked at the blinds that let rays of light filter in through the slats. He sat up and studied himself in the mirror; a thin figure with acne and long, wavy, brown hair. Jasper slipped on a T shirt and walked down to the kitchen. A tinny voice spoke about the coming presidential elections between Reagan and Mondale through a small radio on the kitchen counter. Jasper looked out of the kitchen window and noticed a table full of people in what would have been the backyard that was nothing more than a large field that went as far as the eye could see. It was a giant picnic table that seemed to stretch to the horizon. At the table were people seated on both sides. A warm breeze gently made the high grass bend lazily. Two of Jasper’s childhood dogs ran up to greet him followed by his grandmother who kissed him and held him so tightly that it was hard to breathe.
“We’ve been here for some time now and we had gotten word that you might be coming home today… We just weren’t sure when… Come say hello to granddaddy. He’s over there talking to General Patton.”
General Patton wore his helmet and had four stars on each side of his collar. Over his left breast were several military pins. George was petting the dogs and discussing World War I and II with Jasper’s great-grandfather who had served in Belgium during World War I.
“I proclaimed many things and you have to be bold when you’re a four star general. People want to know if you’re brave or flapping in the breeze like a surrender flag… That’s all fine and well. When I got to Lorraine region of France, I made a bold declaration. I told the medical corps that there will be no more VD and there wasn’t. You can imagine all the wounded and dying and we have medics trying to cure The Clap… I put an end to that nonsense… Well then, there he is, the man of the hour. Your granddad says you were an outstanding young man and would have joined the military had it not been for something called Punk Rock. Each generation has something that would lead the previous generations to want to slap the shit out of those that followed. We call them descendants but we really don’t wish that they descend into the mire after us. You understand? Bismarck might have gave me a good crack and possibly Peter the Great might have backhanded him. I don’t know if you have kids but kids have a tendency to let their parents down. I have had very little in the way of poor reports on you, kid… Nice to have made your acquaintance. If you have ever wondered what you can do forever, you have the chance to meet and talk to anyone you want. Just the other day, I was talking to a guy named John Lennon. A nice English fellow. It took a good half hour before I realized that he was no relation to the Russian Lenin. Some here say that his music was quite popular but probably not my cup of meat.”
Jasper furrowed his brow and looked around at people he knew and didn’t know. Jasper’s cousin Sheila came jogging up in a pair of shorts and a spaghetti strap top. She had a smile as wide as one could manage. She hugged Jasper hard. Sheila smelled of Babysoft and Clairol Herbalessence shampoo from the late 1970’s and early 1980’s.
“Dude! So good to see you. I heard you were coming and I had to make sure I was here to meet you. It’s so good to see you again. We just got word that Whitney Houston is on her way here today… Hey! You remember when we traveled from L.A. to Denver in your little Fiat? We had to pretend to be married cause none of those yokels would rent us a room thinking we were just teenagers out to fool around for the night. Remember? I wrapped my arm around you and convinced that old woman at the Bates looking motel that you and I were newly weds and that you didn’t have the money to buy me a ring. We slept in the same bed and I warned you not to touch me… Do you remember?”
Sheila still had both her arms wrapped around Jasper at the waist as she studied his face. Sheila was young and vibrant. The wind blew her reddish brown hair over her face. A few strands stuck to her lips. Sheila was still smiling. She put her head against Jasper’s chest and hugged him tight. The thought suddenly came to Jasper that he had not seen his cousin in 27 years and the last time he saw her was during the trip from Los Angeles to Denver. Their Uncle Butch had just called Jasper not long ago to report that Sheila had taken a gun and shot herself in the head while taking a shower. She left behind a few children and a husband. Butch had told Jasper that Sheila had become depressed and obese. Jasper felt badly that he had never connected again with his cousin that meant something to him at a time when life had changed from youth and had taken a distinct path towards adulthood on the road from Los Angeles to Denver.
“Butch called me not long ago… I had heard from him about you…”
Sheila closed her eyes and put her index finger across Jasper’s lips. She put her hands on Jasper’s cheeks and held his head still as she spoke to him with serious but playful eyes.
“You decided to leave Los Angeles for Chicago at a wedding when we were 18 years old. You told me that you were going to go to college and stop chasing the dream to be a musician… We didn’t know it then but that was the pinnacle of our youth and the dividing line between what was and what was going to be… You were a big James Dean fan and you even said as we drove in your Fiat Spider with the top down, that Jimmy went out when he was on top and that you couldn’t see yourself playing bingo and cutting coupons one day.”
James Dean walked up with his blondish brown hair ruffled in the front. He wore a plain white T shirt, faded jeans and a pair of boots. He smiled, showing a dimple on one side of his cheek. He held a red coat over his right shoulder.
“Sheila tells me that you drove from Chicago to Fairmont, Indiana to find where I lived… That’s a little kookie, kid. You remind me of Sal Mineo a little bit; two nervous guys. Just so you know; Indiana is everywhere and nowhere all at the same. You don’t believe me, ask Kurt Vonnegut. He’s over there talking to someone called H.L. Mencken.”
The whole thing began to make sense to Jasper. Tears began to stream down his cheek. Sheila hugged him and wiped away the tears. She asked why he was upset.
“I’m either having a very descriptive dream or I’m dead and if I’m dead, it’s unfair that I had so much I wanted and needed to do and didn’t get a chance to finish it. I couldn’t even tell my wife and kids that I love them and that despite the fact that I’m always so busy, I really do love them more than life itself… I remember driving home from work and that it was my last day. I had to go home to tell my wife that my job had been eliminated. I had to tell her that I hadn’t been paying the mortgage on a home that we owned for ten years and that any day we could be evicted. I needed to tell her that the college money we saved for our daughter was squandered on bad investments and then I open my eyes and I’m laying in my old bed from when I was kid. I’m skinny, with acne and a lot of hair. If I’m dreaming, I want it to end now so that I can sort out the shit I got myself into… Sheila, promise you’ll stay with me for a while til I figure this all out.”
“I’m holding your hand and will til we figure this all out…”
At a suburban Chicago hospital, Jasper laid on a bed. His two children stood nearby answering text messages as his wife held his lifeless hand. A young doctor, who hadn’t been on call when Jasper was rushed into the emergency room, read the chart of the man who had a stroke and appeared to be having no brain activity. The young doctor was thinking about his vacation to Aruba that would begin at 4am with a plane ride to Miami and then off to the island. The sad wives and stunned adult children scenario was common place. Dr. Brown felt very little empathy but had learned early on to speak in sympathetic tones. His recommendation was to pull the plug because the 48 year old Jasper would never be what he once was. The family sobbed and wailed for a good hour or so. They touched their husband and father who meant something to them. There would be a visitation and service, he would be buried and then the realization would set in a few days later, that he was truly gone and that one day they would each take their turn.
Whitney Houston walked up in a full length gown looking young and elegant. She smiled a confused smile. People that neither Jasper, Sheila nor George Patton knew, came to greet Whitney. Sheila walked with Jasper along the table that was taken up by guests. Jasper asked where they were going. Sheila kissed her cousin on the cheek and clasped his hand in hers.
“Believe this or not… As big as this table is, there is a spot for you and I. We are going to find it…”

Dedicated to Sheila and all of those who once were alive...