You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
Column Number 311 April 2009
by Mykel Board
"The hitter can never be the judge. Only the receiver of the blow can tell you how hard it was, whether it would kill a man or make a baby just yawn.” --Edward P. Jones
April is supposed to be the month of rebirth, refreshment. Spring. Waking up from the frozen winter. But I'll be lucky if I can get out of bed this April... and I know I'll never completely recover. Soon you'll know why.
Fools may continue to believe the old sticks-and-stones poem your mother told you. But believe me, words CAN hurt. Not so much the one they're directed against, but the one who creates them.
Here's the story:
It starts in January. Just before my birthday. 65. I should retire... like normal people. Yeah, right.
The phone rings. I usually don't answer it. This time, I make a mistake.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hello.” The voice from the other side is deep, gentle, almost fatherly voice. “Is this Mykel Board?”
“It is,” I say. “If this is about the MasterCard bill..”
The voice on the other end of the line chuckles....
After the call, I run to take the Chinatown bus to Boston. Four hours and fifteen minutes later, I walk into his office. It's a modest place, walls lined with bookshelves. On one side is an incredibly messy desk, papers, folders, books open, face down, curved like birds in flight.
As he stands up, I notice his hair... Grayish, but full... like Ronald Reagan's only puffier. He's ten years my senior, but he's got twice as much hair. Is he really Jewish? Jews go bald. Why do you think they invented those yarmulkes? It's a cover up.
The man smiles, then shakes my hand.
“Mykel,” he says, “I've been waiting a long time for this meeting.”
“I never expected it,” I say. “I thought you were pissed off at me because I called you a holocaust revisionist.”
His face is static, as if molded into a perpetual smile.
“I don't even remember that,” he says. “I'm not one to hold a grudge.”
He motions for me to sit down. There is a vacant straight back wooden chair. Slatted, like something you might find in an old library.
“Professor Chomsky... can I call you Noam?... I've always wanted to ask you about that part in Aspects of a Theory of Syntax,” I say, “I mean the pronoun and anaphora. How does that relate to Dougherty's anaporn relationship?
And in John promised Bill to go, John goes. But in John persuaded Bill to go, Bill goes. Or is that more Government and Binding.”
The professor pulls his chair opposite mine. From behind some papers, he takes out a coffee pot and a cup. He pours me a cup of coffee.
“Here,” he says. “Relax before we converse”
He stands to hand me the coffee. But instead of handing it to me, he throws it in my face. The hot liquid burns my skin and blinds me.
“So, I'm a holocaust revisionist, huh? Revise this!” I feel a sharp pain on my cheek, where I guess he struck me with... his hand? A book? Before I have time to consider, I feel the pain on my other cheek. A small trickle of something warm runs down the side of my face.
“I'll give you an anaporn relationship,” he says, slamming something really big against the side of my head.
I pass out.
At first, it's just the pain in my wrists... like a dream about handcuffs. Then consciousness returns. My wrists really do hurt. I move my hand to rub away the pain... I don't move my hand. I can't. It's tied down. The other one too.
Then I feel the cold. A cool wind, washing over my... my naked body. I'm here. Exposed. Slowly, the awareness overtakes me. I smell sawdust. Feel something rough against my skin. I'm folded... folded over something. Maybe a sawhorse. My wrists tied to the legs in front. My ankles to the rear ones. My hips rest on the top of the sawhorse... rest? No, they're pulled tight against it. My balls forced back and downward from the pressure.
Through my slowly opening eyes I can see backwards-- and upside down, between my legs. There's Chomsky, naked from the waist down, fisting a surprisingly large erection-- his, not mine.
I close my eyes and lift my head. Someone's in front of me. I can only see from mid-thigh down. A pair of jeans, and some politically correct non-Nike sneakers.
“Hello Mykel,” I recognize the voice.
“Biafra!” I say. “Thank God you're here....” As I speak I notice my mouth hurts. My teeth hurt. I run my tongue over them and feel a back molar... loose... I wiggle it with the tongue tip, then speak.
“Jeezus fuck!” I say. “I don't get it.”
“Don't you Mykel?” he answers, laughing like a villain in kids' cartoons. “You've played the tune long enough. Now it's time to pay the piper. Remember that (his voice changes to a wimpy New York accent) I guess it was interesting, but it sure went on a long a long time...? Remember that? How about The Dead Kennedys were great, but Lard???... I'd just... greasy. Remember that Mykel?”
I hear the sound of a zipper unzipping.
A pinch. A brutal pinch of my nose...squeezed shut... nearly broken. I can't breathe. I open my mouth to take a breath. Immediately, something thick and hard enters, pressing against the back of my throat, making me gag.
“We'll see what lasts a long time,” comes Biafra's voice above me.
I feel like I'm going to puke... but I can't... No place to let it out. I gag.
Then the pain comes. Not from my mouth, but from behind me. From my anal rosebud.
“I don't have to plow you a new one.” It's Chomsky's voice behind me. “This one will do just fine.”
I want to scream as the dry scraping against the tender brown ring is stretched and torn. I can't scream. I can hardly breathe, as the Biafran kielbasa knocks my loose tooth free from my lower jaw.
I feel blood filling my mouth. Simultaneously, the sandpaper sound behind me changes into a soft squish. I must be lubricating with my own blood... Confirmed...in a warm trickle down the back of my legs.
“Yeeehah!” whoops the voice behind me. Then a slap to an asscheek. “Ride 'em cowboy!”
Porno stars look like they're having the time of their life when they all their holes are filled at the same time. The brutality of what's happening to me may be giving me the time of my life... but it's not a good time.
I hear a groan above me. The pace and intensity of the shoving into my mouth quickens. If I throw up, the vomit will be forced back into my lungs. I'm not sure I can hold back. I'll suffocate. Die. I have to keep control.
Hands press behind my head, forcing my nose into the mass of pubic hair in front of me. I swallow my tooth. Washed down by a mass of thick liquid that dribbles down the back of my throat.
He pulls out of my mouth. My head released, now limply hangs a few inches above the ground. A thin steam of blood, semen and drool dribbles up the side of my face.
I gasp as fresh air fills my lungs for the first time in what feels like an hour, but probably was no more than a few minutes. I can barely lift my head. I don't have to.
Someone has grabbed the hair on the back of my head and is yanking it upwards. One of my eyes is swollen shut from the hot coffee and the blows inflicted on it. Through the other eye, I make out a wide black face with a mass of curly-but-not-kinky hair. There is something familiar about the wide body and the loose wool sweater. I know that face. If only I could concentrate.
I let my eyes drop from the out-of-focus face, down the body, to the nude lower half... nude lower half???
I try to speak, but only a sputter of blood leaves my mouth.
The woman holds my head up, taking a fistfull of hair. Spreading her legs, she forces her naked crotch into my face.
“What's black and sits on three hundred pounds of crack? Huh Mykel?” she says.
“I thought it was funny.” I say through the muffle. Then think, FUCK! IT'S OPRAH WINFREY!
“Here's some crack for you Mykel,” she says grinding into my bleeding nose and mouth. “Funny, isn't it?”
My neck feels like it's going to snap off. Her thighs tighten around my head. I'm inhaling the entire Seattle fish market. I can't breathe. My lungs are going to explode.
At the edge of whatever vision I have left I see a vague outline... a black leather jacket. Levis. Short blond hair.
George Tabb! I think. He's here to save me.
“George!” I say through the massive twat in front of me.
“Yeah, Mykel,” he says, walking around to where my bloody asshole lies naked and abused. “Remember that time when...”
I can't hear the rest, because those black Oprah thighs have tightened around my head. The last words I hear before I lose consciousness are “Take my dick, please!”
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]
-->At the bottom of my pile dept: I found this clipping. It's about the father of a 7-year old Wisconsin boy. Dad was so upset his son wouldn't wear a Green Bay Packers jersey during the playoffs, that he forced it on the kid. Then he duct-taped it to him.
The father was arrested, fined $186 and released. My question: What the fuck kind of fine is $186? I'm not a football fan. Does that number have some kind of special meaning in football land? A quarterback number or something? Jeezus!
-->Making progress department: Until March 3 2008, Verizon wireless included the contract provision that subscribers agree that the company "does not own or manage the internet." The provision has since been dropped. However subscribers still have to acknowledge "Verizon assumes no liability for the accuracy of things that may be read over the Internet or received in e-mails." Does that mean that guy in Nigeria doesn't really want me to hold his money?
--> To avoid a trial, Karen Fletcher of PA, plead guilty to obscenity for fictional kiddie sex stories on her subscription only website. There were no pictures on the site. She was fined $1000 and given 6 months house arrest. This is the first obscenity conviction based solely on written material in more than 30 years. Is Obama gonna fix this???? And it gets worse:
-->Pssst, Hey kid, wanna buy a book? Let's see your ID dept: A new 2008 Oregon law makes it a $125,000 crime to furnish "sexually explicit" materials to a minor. This includes health-education materials and fiction. Booksellers would be liable, even if the minors were only browsing.
-->Life imitates art dept: Doctors at Bellevue Mental Hospital in New York have identified a new syndrome they call "The Truman Show Delusion." These, mostly young white men, believe they are the subjects of their own reality TV show. Some seem pleased, ready for the million-dollar payout at the end. Others seem upset.
One syndrome victim came to NY to climb the Statue of Liberty. He believed that he'd be reunited with this high-school girlfriend at the top, and finally be released from “the show." Hate to spoil it, buster. But there's only one way we get released from the show, and It's not by climbing... It's by jumping.
-->I missed the TOP TEN MRR issue. Actually, I submitted my ten early, but the MRR tyrants at the top rejected them. I didn't follow the rules, they said.
They told me my top ten had to be PRODUCT, something you could BUY. A drunken night on the town in Port of Spain didn't qualify. No UPC on that, ya see.
So, out of the front pages, here's my top ten for 2008-- four months late. (After the first two, they're in no particular order). No product here. Just the bands... and my life. :
1. Trinidad Wining
2. Trinidad Liming
3. WORLD WAR IX
4. KISSY KAMIKAZI
5. BLACKOUT SHOPPERS,
6. ENDANGERED FECES.
7. ANTI-EVERYTHING (Trinidad)
8. TRIGGER EFFECT (Canada)
9. SUCIEDAD DISCRIMINADA (Mexico)
10. @PATIA NO (Venezuela)
-->Obama or not dept: Good Magazine (Dec. '08) reports that 20 percent of NYU students recently polled said they'd give up their right to vote in 2008 in exchange for an iPod Touch. What I want to know is... where was McCaine on this offer? He shudda been handing out those iPods. He cudda won!
