Mykel's Column for MRR 310, March 2009

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 310
by Mykel Board

The phrase "healthy life style" is a mask for concealing phobic maneuvers aimed at avoiding the dangers of life, both real and imaginary, especially the temptations of drugs and sex.--Thomas Szasz

SCENE 1: It's a pug. Like the obnoxious little bug-eyed runt in MEN IN BLACK. This one's not black. It's yellow. Piss colored... not a Guinness piss... a Bud-lite.

Attached to one of those expanding leashes, it meanders across the sidewalk, tripping up students, office workers, and anyone else who uses the sidewalk to actually go someplace, rather than sniff around trying to find a place to shit. At the other end of the leash is a young woman. She wears a long black coat. The ends of a brown scarf show over her back next to the perfectly cut edge of her black hair. On her head, is a white furry bell. Not an actual ringing bell, but a bell-shaped hat that would do DEVO proud.

That's all I can see of the girl. Of the dog, I can see more... full view. Sniffing garbage, staircase edges, the shoes of passing pedestrians. Its little chopped-off tail sticks straight into the air. I can see its gray-brown sphincter. An anal stargate. Closed up tight. Clean as a Disney movie.

But wait..there's a little pressure. A tiny bulge in that chocolate spiral. The pointed tip of an emerging turd. The dog stops and squats. There on the sidewalk, as if squeezed from a Crest tube, first one, then the other: two perfect turds, the second slightly shorter than the first.

The woman removes a plastic bag from the leash end. She puts her hand inside, turns the bag inside out, wearing it like a glove. Then, she scoops up the two brown sausages, unfolds the plastic around them, ties the bag shut, and drops it in a litter bin. That's not very interesting.

What IS interesting is, when the dog stands up, its tiny little anus is still perfectly tight, and clean. Just like new. After I take a shit, I spend half a roll of toilet paper cleaning up. Sometimes more... depending on the beer brand of the previous night. Sometimes I need to wipe up my back and down my legs. Ripping the paper, wiping up, down, front to back, back to front. The white paper turns brown, no matter where its whiteness touches.

And here's this little mutt, two perfect pieces, anus clean as Whistler's Mother. It's not fair.

Then again, there's something special in that act of wiping. Something satisfying, like an accomplishment. The outside of my body covered with the inside... like my heart on my sleeve... controlled and made nasally presentable to the outside world by rubbing with soft white paper. Maybe I have the better life after all.

Cut to scene 2: I stand outside the St. Barnaby's Middle School playground. It's the first warm day. The youngsters have shed their heavy coats and run back and forth teasing and testing each other. In one corner, several skinny guys in bluejeans flip a haki sak back and forth: Adidas-to-Nike-to-Nike. Right in front of me. A group of girls in pleated dresses huddle over a cellphone, backs to the oblivious teacher,

One youngster, skin the color of chocolate milk, stands against the school wall. He's the only one wearing shorts. His thin yet adolescently muscular legs disappear appetizingly into his silver shorts. He puts one leg in front of the other, as if posing for a Greek sculpture. I imagine the callipygian youth naked, turning. I imagine his sphincter, much-wiped, but probably eternally closed to me. I imagine... Uh oh.

There... on the other side of the street... this NYU jock. Six and half feet tall. Shoulders out to here. Crewcut. Xanthrocroid. A square hairless face. Some football team barely visible on his hooded sweatshirt. I can see an O and a piece of another letter. TROJANS? WARRIORS? GORLOCKS? I can't tell.

His simian right arm drapes over a girl's shoulder. She's half his height. Long “blond” hair... tits as frontal as his shoulders are side. She looks up into the guy's eyes as if he's the only human in the world. In profile, I see Mr. Muscle look down at her. The shadow from his baseball hat hides his eyes, but I can imagine their practiced blueness, penetrating the otherwise empty brain of his big-boobed girlfriend. He bends down. Kisses her lightly on the forehead. Yuck. That's sick.

The meat: This is the health issue of MRR. I expect most columnists will focus on the sorry state of healthcare in America-- or on their own particular health problems. We've got some ill amongst us. Maybe George Tabb will talk about his own problems. That is, if he can stop talking about me. (I love it, of course!)

There are three main concepts of disease:

ONE: The Western version says disease is like war. An army (of cancer cells, bacteria, viruses) invades. The job of the doctor is to kill or repel the invading army. Drugs and surgery are the weapons. If you have the flu, for example, it's caused by a flu virus. If you kill the virus, you get rid of the flu. The more you kill, the healthier you are.

TWO: The Eastern version of disease says disease is like juggling. As long as everything balances, it works. But if the balance is off, you drop your balls. If you have the flu, for example, it is because an imbalance in your body allows the flu virus to have a bad effect. There are always viruses and bacteria in the air... on the land... in water. Some people get sick, others don't. The reason? You get sick because your body is out of balance. In that weakened state, the flu bug can take over. The job of the doctor is to restore the body's balance. They use herbs, pressure, needles and food, to restore that balance.

THREE: In America, “healthy” and “sick” have replaced “sin” and “virtue” as a way to judge others. Drinking too much... eating too much... homosexuality... gambling... “too much” everyday sex... even “over-shopping.” These are sick, in America in 2009. They are no longer “sins.” No longer “bad.”

In Spanish, you tiene (have)sickness. In English, we ARE sick. Disease of new, like sin of old, defines the individual: I am an alcoholic. You are not what you eat. You are your sickness.

In the past, I've ranted against this definition. I've stood outside America's linguistic gates, banging my hair-plugged head against the lock... demanding change inside.... a new way of speaking... a way that allows people just to be, rather than to be sick. For some unimaginable reason, the linguistic gates, like that little colored guy's much-wiped sphincter, never open for me. So I'll try another stratagem.

I'll accept your definition. You got it. No sin or virtue. No good or bad. Just sick or healthy. But my kind of sickness is Eastern sickness. An imbalance. A tilt, like the leaning tower of Pisa. It's not an invading army. It doesn't need surgery to cut something out. It doesn't need poisons to kill the invaders. It needs a gentle tug the other way. A pull back to equilibrium. Let's take a look at what's sick-- and what isn't.

RULE ONE: Nothing that occurs in your mind is sick. Your mind is where you can do ANYTHING. You SHOULD do anything. It is the center of freedom, a test zone for all ideas. The wildest things are possible here, with NO REPERCUSSIONS. Put a bullet through some evangelist's head in real life... you're outta here! But do it in your mind... and you're free. NOBODY KNOWS!

RULE TWO: This kind of freedom is available to anyone. Every prisoner in every cell in the world has this freedom. It is healthy. Mental freedom is healthy.

Included in this rule is knowledge that some things should remain in your mind. You learn to see them in your mind, smell them in your mind, do them in your mind and then let them go. A fantasy about ripping through your highschool class with an AK47 is healthy. Actually doing it, is not. 

RULE THREE: Outside your own mind you can lose your balance... begin to tilt on the slippery slope of disease. And it is DIS-EASE. Your body feels uncomfortable. You aren't satisfied with life in your mind. You're worried about life in other people's mind. You're worried about what THEY think, or worse, what THEY think of YOU. You have something to prove.

“I'm getting laid and you're not,” is what you have to prove to the guy next to you. So you drape your arm around your big-boobed catch, and mark your territory with a kiss to the forehead.

You need to show you possess this girl. You need to keep her in your hand. She might run. You might be alone. Your fears push you off balance. You become sick.

What else is sick?

RULE FOUR: Acting immorally in the world... that's sick. I'm not talking about Christian morality. That says anything that makes your body feel good... is bad. Or the new Christian morality that says anything that makes your body feel good... is “unhealthy.” I'm talking about human morality. A morality that says anything that contributes to the pain of others is ba... er... sick. Buying sweatshop shoes that create the pain of poverty... that pushes the world off balance. That's sick. Withholding money from the bum on the corner, when you're going to use it to download some crustpunk song from i-tunes... this guy's starving in front of you. That's sick. Becoming a temp-lez, so your politics will look right to your fellow students before you find Mr. Corporate Right and move to the burbs to drop puppies. That's sick.

SO: Jerking off to fantasies of sucking the eyeballs out of severed baby heads is NOT sick. Dreams of wallowing in entrails pulled through the hairless vaginae of 10 year old daughters of British aristocracy are NOT sick. Holding hands with your girlfriend while waiting to try on a pair of Nikes. That's really sick.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to comment on the column]

--> Celebrities go free dept: No, I'm not talking about the Lillo Brancato Jr. murder trial. I'm talking about another case.

  Most of America knows that Rush Limbaugh was caught with a bottle of Viagra prescribed for someone else. It was at U.S. customs on a return trip from the Dominican Republic. I guess me and Rush have similar tastes in colored girls. Unfortunately for Radioland, Rush will not have to face charges for the illegally possessed drugs.

  The local DA (or the feds, I'm not sure which) have decided not to pursue the case.

-->Keith Dobson sent me a brochure of "Precious Gifts from the Redwoods." It lists all those great things (like vases and "three tier modern bowls") that you can buy from the deforested redwood trees. Now that's appreciating nature: cut it down and put it on your home shelf. Yowsah!

-->Nutrition Action Newsletter is published by The Center for Science in the Public Interest. The newsletter shows lots of scams Big Food uses to make you think the shit they're selling is “healthy.” The only thing I dislike about the publication is that it calls especially unhealthy food: Food Porn. That gives porn a bad name.

  But, I was dismayed to receive a mass emailing from CSPI calling for a government ban on SPARKS! That beer/Red Bull mix is as logical as spaghetti and tomato sauce. I mean, the only DISADVANTAGE to getting drunk is that you can't stay awake to enjoy it. SPARKS solves the problem.

  Sleazier than a letter-writing campaign, CSPI is asking for people to send them “bad experiences from mixing Red Bull with alcohol.” How about the GOOD experiences? How about the people who DIDN'T fall asleep at the wheel when they were drunk? How about the folks who COULD keep their eyes open to enjoy the sex that their drunken conquest got them? How about THOSE experiences? (Is there any difference between SPARKS and Irish Coffee?) 

  Let's show 'em! Send them your GOOD experiences with Red Bull/booze mixes... and your thoughts on this ban. Email Carol Walsh at: cwalsh@cspinet.org. Tell her that you think banning SPARKS is SICK!

-->Real DIY dept: So the banks and auto execs get bailouts from the government. Where's my cut? That's what the factory workers at Republic Windows & Doors in Chicago wanted to know. The factory gave them three days notice, then fired everybody and tried to shut down. Hang on! The union guys on the floor said no. They sat down and took the place over.

  Even though I'm not a big fan of WORK, it's nice to see people DOING things instead of taking it on the chin. I only wish New Yorkers had the balls to do something when it hits them... like when the transit fares go up. The mayor has 36 billion dollars, and they're raising MY fare to cover a gap of less than 1/36 of that. Yo Mayor, bail ME out! Meanwhile, I'll sit in on the subway platform floor. Gonna join me?  

-->Church and State Dept: The government of our nation's capital gives $12 million to Central Union Mission for a homeless shelter. Sounds good, huh? Well, the shelter requires church attendance, or they throw you back on the street. One man was too ill to go to the religious services. They kicked him out-- to sleep on the streets. That's sick.

-->Even in New York and Berkeley Dept: Two bastions of liberal free speech? Yeah right. In New York, City officials ordered Cooper Union College to remove Picasso's portrait of Joseph Stalin from their facade. The banner was part of an exhibition by the artist Lene Berg. Complaints from the local Ukrainian community brought the ban. They thought the banner “seemed to promote Stalin.” We wouldn't want pictures of Stalin, would we? He was against free speech.

  In Berkeley, four posters were banned from display at the city-run Addison Street Windows Gallery. The posters were banned because they contained images of guns. Oh yeah, the name of the exhibition was Art of Democracy. Yeah, right.

-->Keep them (and me) coming dept: Yeah, keep sending me those homemade porno vids! I love 'em. I'm still at POB 137, Prince St. Station, New York NY 10012

-end

You can go to Mykel's homepage for lots of other interesting, weird stuff.

Mykel's MRR Column 309 (Feb. 2009)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR 309 (Feb. 2009)
by Mykel Board

“Americans always do the right thing... when they have absolutely no other choice.” --Winston Churchill

Naked, I lay on the bed. I slip a hand behind my back, through my legs. Grabbing my balls from behind, I pull them down between my legs. I press my thighs together, holding the balls under me. My cock rests on top. It's no longer a cock, but a large clitoris. I've made myself a girl. I can diddle my clit to EuroAngels Hardball 4. Diddle. Diddle. Diddle.

It's election night. I can't watch. I want to diddle myself away from the hell of a McCain presidency. Worse. He won't make it a year. Sarah Palin, not MILF enough for me, will be in the Whitehouse. It'll be worse than Hillary Clinton. I don't want to watch the news. Watch the inevitable Red State creep, as the blood-colored states spread in the smear of American moronocity.

Americans are stupid vengeful people. The crackers of the Carolinas. The old Florida Jews. The hardhats in Ohio. They'd rather give up their homes to a bailed-out bank, than vote for a Negro. I know them.

Americans are the dumbest, most racist, most hateful, people on earth. Like they're gonna vote for Barack Hussein Obama. NO WE CAN'T!

I've got to stop thinking about this. My clit won't harden. That nub won't poke up. Won't swell to its girlish heights. I'm beating a dead larva. Choking a limp chicken. Spanking a... What's that?

Through my closed window comes the sound of cheering. People in the street. Screaming. Applauding. Stomping in joy. Horns honk. I can't fuckin' believe it. He must've won. Somehow, he did it.

I turn off the DVD and switch to CNN. There's McCain now, talking to a cheering crowd:

That Barack Obama managed to inspire the hopes of so many millions of Americans, who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president, is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving.

This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for African-Americans and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.

A century ago, President Theodore Roosevelt's invitation of Booker T. Washington to dine at the White House was taken as an outrage in many quarters.

America today is a world away from the cruel and frightful bigotry of that time. There is no better evidence of this than the election of an African-American to the presidency of the United States.

African-American? Presidency? Fuck! He won. We won!

Pride for African-Americans? Hah! Pride for Whitefolks, I'd say. Pride for Jews! Pride for everyone who voted for the guy even though (because?) he WASN'T one of them. I feel like dancing. Walking on air. Kissing a fat girl.

They did it. Those shallow, stupid Americans. Those I had so much contempt for. Those crackers. Those Jews. Those shlubs in Ohio. They did it My mind drifts to the future.

I'm in Europe. It's 2009. The Euro has declined enough to let me visit my old friends in Germany. I get off the plane and go to immigration. I flash my American passport, something that usually fills me with embarrassment, if not dread. Not this time.

“Listen, you fucker,” I think at the immigration agent. “Don't say a thing. I don't want to hear it. I don't want that Oh, a stupid American sneer. I don't want see your hands grip the passport, thinking another violent thug.

Fuck you. We elected Barack Obama. We're the first Western nation. First “white” nation to have a leader who's not white. You didn't do it. You couldn't do it. WE did it. We, America... Something I haven't felt part of since Jimmy Carter gave amnesty to the draft dodgers. Me, a United Statesian and PROUD of it. My mental flag waving strong.

Flash ahead to the real future: Gilberto invites me to Boston to see THE DWARVES. The show's before a farewell-for-two-weeks party for him. He's going back to Sonora to see the family, and prepare for the great LATIBBEAN PARTY in Mexico 2009. I'll post the details on Latibbean.org as I get 'em.

I'm at the show with Gilberto, some of his friends, my pal John R. and his daughter. (Everybody thinks she's his girlfriend.) The Dwarves, of course, are great... a little calmer than they used to be, but still a lot of fun. The surprise of the night, however, is a band called THE UP-RISING.

UP-RISING is pure hardcore fun. A big singer with So-Cal attitude. (Looks like he's been around. Mid-30s, hardcore crust on the edges... How come I never heard of these guys?). He even gets the crowd to sing along to the punkrock hits of the 80s. Can you say 6-Pack? Most of the audience was still sperm when that came out.

I forgot my earplugs, so I chew on a few napkins and stick the spitballs in my ears. Not the best sound protection, but even a daughter is better than nothing.

I love the band, but I can't hear the patter between songs. Something about the anniversary of a Bali Bombing-- with a lot of God bless yous.

Uh oh, I think. Some stupid anti-Muslim redneck garbage. I'm glad I don't understand it. Besides, the band is so good, I don't want to spoil a good time.

After the show, I go over to the merch tables. I don't plan to buy anything. I just wanna tell The Uprising how much I liked their set... despite that God Bless You shit. I also want to ask 'em about Bali bombing. So what if it's an anniversary. Every day is a bombing anniversary. Do they mention Hiroshima? Belgrade? Are they spreading some kind of anti-Arab bullsh... Ok. I'll let 'em speak for themselves.

“Yo!” I say in my typically shy way. “You guys were great. Best surprise since Kissy Kamekaze. But...”

Before I can finish, by pal John... who's got better hearing than me, perks up.

“You a surfer?” he says.

The guy... Crab, the band's singer, nods. How the fuck did John know?

“So you were in Bali for that surfing thing,” John continues.

Looks like I missed something.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was the only American who lived.”

“I heard about it,” says John.

“You don't know,” says Crab. Then he tells the story.

I'm in Bali for this surfers fest, I guess you know about it. We all go to this disco... all the surfers, I mean. I'm not much for discos, but since everybody was going.... So we're inside and I'm just talking to this guy. A friend of mine... fellow surfer... blond hair, kinda skinny, you know, the kinda guy that girls like... well liked... see. Suddenly he explodes.

It's a huge sound. Louder than anything in my life. My hearing's still wrecked from it. Can't hear at all out of this ear. But just then I don't hear the sound at all. I just see my friend... explode.

I see his head blow off, just go into the air... just pow, it's flying... his mouth is still working... jaw going up and down... even 8 feet in the hair... just his head... Everything's in slow motion. His insides explode. Guts coming through his body. Flying into my face. Covering me. Can you imagine... imagine... imagine what it's like being covered by your friend... pieces of your friend. Blood, guts... His skin all over me... Skin in my eyes... over my eyeballs. Intestines in my mouth, my nose, breathing intestines. Inhaling intestines... I can still taste it. How many people know... know... know the taste of raw human guts. I know. I'll never forget it. They hit me so hard in the mouth... almost knocked my teeth out. Your friend. And there he is. You're inhaling him. Tasting his blood. It was warm, no hot. Hotter than your own blood, you know when you get a cut or something? And his flesh. Seeing pieces of his body.

Just blam... your pal.. turns inside out. One second he's just standing there... next second he's... he's... he's in pieces. All over you. It's not something you forget. You can't forget. Never forget...

He stops to breathe. Close his eyes. If he cries, I'm gonna lose it. He doesn't cry.

“I thought you might be a surfer,” says John. “I'm a surfer too... in Boston. But I was thinking about going to that Bali party. It's a good thing I didn't.”

“Yeah,” says Crab. “A good thing.”

“Holy fuck!” I think, forking over five bucks for the band's homemade CD. “If that were me, I'd wanna kill 'em all. Al Qaeda, Joe Ali-salaam, a random lady walking down the street in a black headscarf. I'd be a maniac. I'd move to Israel. Join ARAB-BUSTERS. Vote for Joe Lieberman.”

But here's this guy. The only American who lived. And there's not one speck of hate coming out of him. Not one phlegmspot of malevolence.

It's America. Hooey! Some new America. It's people saying Yes, We Can. It's not an eye-for-an-eye. It's compassion. It's lack of hate. Not kill 'em all. It's something more than bumper sticker brains and gunracks.

Yes, we fuckin' can.

By the time you read this, I'll be back from a trip to South Carolina. And in North Carolina, besides buying pecan log rolls at Stuckey's, I can actually talk to people. I can say “Hi. I'm an American too. Maybe we even voted for the same person.”

Back on the bed, blood rushes to my clitoris. I rub up and down. Yes, we have the best chance ever. Yes, we can. We can have a white country lead by a colored guy named Barack Obama. I rub harder. Faster.

Yes, we can. We can feel pain and not respond with hatred. Yes, we can. We can cheer and honk horns for more than a football win! Yes we can! My labia swell with blood as my little girlnub hardens in my hand. Yes, we can. I rub more. Yes, we can. Yes. Yes. YES!!!

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]

-->Glad the Brits are on it dept: BBC world news reports that Maasai herdsmen in Kenya have use an age-old contraceptive, the "olor", to protect their goat herds from a drought.
The locals make an olor from cowhide or a square piece of plastic. Then, they tie it around the belly of the male goats. It keeps them from screwing. The herdsmen are using the device to limit the goat population and make sure there aren't too many animals grazing on sparse vegetation.
"We don't want them to breed in this drought," says Ole Ngoshoi Kipameto, a Maasai goat owner.

-->Keeps her a virgin dept: A Jesuit magazine has apologized after inadvertently publishing an advertisement for a Virgin Mary Statue wrapped in a condom. The artist intended it as a protest against the church's opposition to condom use.
The Rev. Drew Christiansen, editor-in-chief of America, said that the condom was not visible in the black and white proofs they used to review the final draft of the magazine.
The headline for the ad read, ''Unique Contemporary Religious Art Work for Sale.'' In the text, the statue was called ''Extra Virgin,'' and was described as ''a stunning 22 cm high statue of the Virgin Mary standing atop a serpent wearing a delicate veil of latex.''
The statue was made by Steve Rosenthal, who said he was an artist in London. Rosenthal released a statement saying he placed the ad as a protest against Vatican opposition to the use of condoms.

-->Again with the kids dept: Amazingly, the Supreme court ruled (5-4) that states could not use the death penalty against people convicted of child rape. Though they did not say they enjoyed the crime, the judges said that "in terms of moral depravity and of injury to the person and to the public, it cannot be compared to murder." They did not mention where dropping bombs on civilians fits on the moral depravity scale.

-->Mixed emotions dept: Remember Elliot Spitzer, the NY Governor who promoted stronger laws against prostitute patrons. He was caught with a $10,000 prostitute. I was sad he was a victim of a horrible law. I was glad it was HIS law he was a victim of.
Likewise, the arrest of right-wing evangelist Tony Alamo mixes my emotions. On one hand, it's a joy to see the bastard nailed. On the other, the charge is "possession of child pornography," clearly a crime with no victim. I mean, how the hell does POSSESSION hurt anyone, even if you believe making of porn does?
Oh well, bad law... but it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person.

-->Now THAT's an emergency dept: Local cops are familiar with the neighborhood cranks. You know, the guys who call 911 to complain about their neighbor's squeaky bedsprings. But my favorite crank is Reginald Peterson of Jacksonville Florida. He called 911-- twice. Why? A SUBWAY restaurant did not prepare his Italian sandwich correctly. They left off the sauce. If that's not a bigger crime than having kiddie porn, it should be.

-->Then there's the Longmont, Colorado guy who tried to get free porn from the locals. He told the clerk he was a detective who wanted to check the films to make sure there were no underage people in them. He even flashed a badge. He told the store to give him the DVDs "to inspect." Though it was a good scam, it didn't work. The store gave the REAL cops store surveillance tapes, made while the fake cop was demanding vids. They haven't found him. Yay! He didn't get any free DVDs. Awww.

-->It's catching dept: Not to be outdone by Christians with their drive-in churches, Utne Reader reports that "Mega-Mosques" are rising all over America. One in northern Virginia has more than 5000 families. Many offer church-like programs, including gymnastics and Boy Scout training. Oy vey!

-->Criminally correct dept: In Car & Travel Magazine (October 2008) they use a photo to illustrate an article about car models popular with thieves. The young man, in a hoodie, with a jimmy stuck in a car window.. is white. Hmmm, shouldn't they have made it a girl? A grandma? What's with this cliché that all car thieves are young men? Are they prejudiced?

In case you're wondering what to steal, the most popular models for 2007 were the 2000 Honda Civic, the 1994 Honda Accord, and the 1991 Toyota Camry. It is not clear from the article-- or photo-- how many of the thieves are Japanese.

-->More on sackcloth & ashes dept: (I copped this from the internet someplace. I wrote about this plan before. Evidently, it flopped.)

Birmingham Mayor Larry Langford castigated a local clergy group because he doesn’t think enough churches participated in his sackcloth and ashes rally back in April. He also criticized churches for espousing prosperity theology (a valid point) but pretty funny coming from the man who accessorized his sackcloth with a Rolex and designer shoes.

In 2002, about the same time he was running for county commission, Langford had accumulated about $70,000 in credit card debts and department store bills. Most of that debt was for clothes.

-->How to get money from the government dept: Kyle wrote me that his girlfriend, Angie can't stay with him because of a “no contact” order on his probation. So she was homeless.
The solution? Kyle punched in her in the face and kicked her in the ribs. It left a couple hardcore bruises. She then went to the women's assistance center for homeless women. She told them her ex husband beat her up.
The center called the cops and took her to the battered women's shelter. With a copy of the police report, the welfare office put her in the domestic violence assistance program and gave her a $1500 check. Then, they found her an apartment, paid the deposit and the utilities.
I think Kyle should charge for his services.

-->God does it again dept: A recent Science Illustrated reports that 1,800 people participated in a prayer medical-heart-study.

The result? Those who knew that they were being prayed for, were 7 per cent MORE likely to develop complications than those who either didn't know, or weren't prayed for at all.

The authors surmise that the reason was when people knew others were praying for them, it made them more nervous and they got sicker. I say bullshit. The real reason? God got pissed off at people disturbing her (God) with their stupid supplications. She wanted to teach them a lesson! Fuck you AND your prayers!

-->Just keeps getting better dept: My pal Sid Yiddish was in town. We did a Pennsylvania talk radio show on WDIY, and recorded 45 minutes for StoryCorps-(heard weekly Friday mornings on National Public Radio or www.storycorps.net).Sid stayed at my apartment during that time.

I like having guests every once-in-awhile, but a major problem is that they use up the toilet paper. Well, this time, God was listening to ME!

Sid and I go ABC NO RIO to see the hard-on inducing Kissy Kamekaze. We not only see them, but are amazed at TRIGGER EFFECT from Montreal. Those guys were literally bouncing off the walls-- like Spiderman-- or Jet Li. I've never seen that outside the movies. And they're LOUD. Reminds me of Motorhead... if Motorhead came from Seattle.

We're also treated to the funny, and scatological ENDANGERED FECES (best name of the year?) They're ecologically (scatological?) incorrect... throwing rolls and rolls of toilet paper over the crowd. Then the crowd throws the paper at each other. I haven't had so much fun since my first night in Trinidad!

PLUS, Sid dives right in, rescues two barely bothered rolls for our own private use. I'm using some of that paper right now, to clean up after EuroAngels Hardball 4.

-end