Voting For The Colonel or Mykel's Blog for November 2025

  

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's November 2025 Blog/Column

VOTING FOR THE COLONEL

by Mykel Board    

If he only wants you for your breasts, legs, and thighs, send him to KFC.
                                                                – Drake

If your idea of a 7 course meal is a bucket of KFC and a sixpack, you might be a redneck.
                                                            – Jeff Foxworthy

There's no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery. You can't do any business from there.
                                                            – Colonel Sanders

“How could you, a Jew, vote for Mamdani? That’s like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders.” That quote is from one of my best friends. We don’t agree on everything, but I’ve never met a person who agrees with me 100% on politics... or music... or movies. If I ever do, I’ll have to change my opinion. But her answer here, though, is just genius: funny… and it avoids the Godwin’s law trap.

For those who don’t know. Godwin’s law is something like “in any discussion, one party is sure to mention Hitler or The Nazis and, after that, all intelligent discussion is impossible.” Board’s corollary to Godwin’s law is “when person A calls person B on Godwin’s law, person B will inevitably answer yeah, but Godwin himself said it’s all right to mention Nazis if you’re really talking about Nazis.” Of course, that reply is bullshit because anyone Nazi-calling is sure to claim s/he’s talking about REAL Nazis.

My friend’s KFC remark is brilliant because it make concentration camps funny! It brings humor to tragedy. It floats with laughing irony. And it’ll work most everywhere.

Take farmers… please. Overwhelmingly, the redneck/hillbilly vote went to Donny The Trump… Regular readers know that although I don’t think that guy is 100% evil, I think it would be difficult to slip a pinkie into the stuff he’s done right. One of the worst wrong-doings is the ICE kidnaps/round-ups of folks who don’t pass the show me your papers test. Most don’t even get to reach in their pockets for those papers in the first place.

So what happens? Those farm crops lay rotting on the fields because, in normal times, they’re picked by immigrants. What native-speaking white guy is going to work a twelve hour day… under the sun… back bent for 11 and a half of those hours… for 79 cents and a hat? Those (mostly) illegals keep food in good supply.

Poor rednecks are losing money with food that won’t be harvested… Chickens voting for Colonel Sanders.

NOTE: I saw this report on Instagram… ICE visited a farm in Texas. They went to the owner, explained who they were and said they were going to inspect.

“Inspect away,” said the farm boss. “Just don’t go into that field on the left.”

Of course, that’s where they first headed. It’s where the farmer kept his most ferocious wild bulls.

I doubt the truth of the story. It’s too good. But one can always hope to find humor in real life. It’s Colonel Sanders getting his just desserts.

And speaking of Colonel Sanders… Though born in the US, his background is Dutch and Irish. The latter one of the most persecuted groups in America. Get it? The US is a nation of immigrants. One of a sliver of nice things about Franklin Roosevelt is that when he spoke before the DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, a right-wing group of anti-immigrants. At that time, the evil immigrants were mostly Germans.) Roosevelt began his speech with the words: Fellow Immigrants.

My grandparents… on my mother’s side… were “illegal immigrants… from Russia via Canada... walking to Michigan. My dream is for ICE to grab Melania Trump, stuff her in a burlap bag and ship her back to Slovenia. Even so-called native people (aka American Indians) descended from immigrants… born in Mongolia. They walked over the ice of the Bering Strait … through North America... and settled in their tepees on the way. You think the Apaches had passports? Get it? There are NO Native Americans. We’re all here because some relatives came here first. In the case of most of us, there were No papers. No immigration forms. That mean YOU, my fellow illegals.

Wait! Wait! Wait! Brake! Shift! My first plan was to use Chickens Voting for Colonel Sanders over and over again in different contexts… but I just saw a clip from the NYC mayoral debate that changed my plan. I’ll still vote for Mamdani for mayor. A socialist! Wow! 20 punk points. But I gotta say, clipwise, he disappointed me.

Why? Mandami’s become part of the party role reversal plaguing American politics. The Repubs used to be the party of small government. Now, they’re a dictatorship. The Dems used to be the party of anti-censorship, pro-sexual freedom. Now they’re prudes.

The only way I can see to connect the two parts of this blog is CHICKEN!!! We got Colonel Sanders and gay slang for underage boys. It doesn’t quite fit, but at least it’s something to boost the coherence.

What happened in the mayoral debate tonight was that Mamdani snuck someone into the audience. She was one of the women who accused Andrew Cuomo (one of Mamdani’s two opponents) of “sexual harassment.” The Muslim trotted her out during the debate to show what an evil guy Cuomo is. Did Cuomo stab her with a Bowie knife? Did he cheat her out of a fortune? Did he lie about her integrity to get her fired? No!!! He touched her “inappropriately!” Ewww! Cooties!

Oy vey! In Italy, a voluptuous woman walking down the street will likely be complimented with a pinch on the ass. She’ll turn and smile. But in prudeland USA, too tight a hug is harassment. Sex is bad say the Dems… though they wouldn’t say it out loud.

Dems say that it’s fine to give elementary school kids puberty blocking drugs, but touch them in their pre-puberty places… Oh, how horrible.

I’ve seen a facebook post… clearly from a Dem… that calls a 17-year old girl “a child.” In Arkansas you can get married at 16! In several Mexican states, the age of consent is 12. But, in the good old USA, sex is BAD. And young people are not allowed to participate in BAD THINGS.

Donny the Trump draws a cartoon of a naked woman. Naked!! How horrible! And it’s just an outline… as dirty as the Venus de Milo. But naked people have sex! What the hell does sex have to do with running a country? Why care who was friends with Jeffrey Epstein? What does that have to do with an ICE-pack of kidnappers roaming Canal Street?…. Andy Cuomo touched a breast… oooooo people touch breasts when they have sex... sex is evil. Evil Andy! It almost makes me want to vote for him. But I’m a chicken… And I’ll be voting for The Colonel.

See you in hell
Mykel Board

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→ Oh no dept: After this was written, I heard from my politically aware nephew that the Colonel Sanders remark was not original with my friend… but an internet meme. That doesn’t make it any less clever. It just makes the source different. And that same nephew told me the Mamdani’s stunt with the Cuomo-groped girl, was a copy of a stunt that Trump pulled with harasser-in-chief Bill Clinton, but I can’t find any internet reference on that one.

→ Real Sex Scandal #1 Dept: Instead of bogus scandal news where 17-year-olds are called “children,” how ‘bout this one? It’s where a doctor left the operating room to boff a nurse, while the patient lay surgically open on the operating table. I hope it was a quickie. Details here.

→Real Sex Scandal #2...this one from Thailand?: Police in Thailand arrested a woman who screwed a bunch of Buddhist monks and then blackmailed them... forcing them to make “large payments” to cover up the nookie. To me, the humor in this one is that the monks involved were de-monked. The process of revoking a monk-license in Thailand is called disrobing. I guess they had to do that. Details here.

→ A real scandal dept: So Chevrolet has gone full-MAGA and is bragging in its commercials that Americans are the best, the strongest and most important. “Never stop being American,” they say. What’s implied behind the message (with video of fighter jets on a bombing mission leaving red, white and blue chem-trails.) is that some people in American never STARTED being American. The country needs to be purified, they imply. Where have I heard THAT before?

See you in hell (redux)
MB

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya. Oh yeah… He’s looking for friends his own age. So if you’re a 20-something and interested in Africa… or just meeting new people. Contact him at: albertletowon42@gmail.com

NON-AFRICANS

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart. I’m glad they didn’t call it “anti-defense.”

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. mykelboard@gmail.com

Ya Gotta Have Heart or YOU'RE STILL WRONG, Mykel's Blog for October 2025

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's October 2025 Blog/Column

YOU GOTTA HAVE HEART

by Mykel Board    

[Sorry I’m a bit late this month. I had… er… other obligations. You’ll read about them right here, I hope.]

You have to treat the injured person not like a human being with a wound, but like a human wound.                      – Abe Kobo

We forget that health is a means, not an end   – Thomas Szasz

The hardening of the American heart is far more dangerous than the softening of our borders.   – Marianne Williamson

“Feather… Building… Brown.” [NOTE: I’m making up those three words. I have no idea what they really were.] And how are you feeling? Any pain since the operation? Twinges? Body parts? Can you describe how you feel now?

“I’ll never remember those words,” I think. “No pain now but my brain isn’t working right.”

“Mdfabadf ksafsartfa,” I say.

“What was that? Can you remember the three words?”

“No.” I answer, “Kiptoesink wastupa.”

I can say a few single words: bed, door, nurse. Others can go perfectly through my brain… thought waves… but I can’t spit them out verbally.

“Do you know where you are?” comes the question.

“Hospital,” I answer.

“What’s the name of the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” I answer. “Koospaf smitzerik.”

“I see,” she says. “We’ll let you sleep now.”

“Yes, I’m in a hospital,” my brain tells me. “I came here from another hospital. I forgot the name of this one… The old one used to be called … be called… be called... Oh yes, St. Vincent’s… but it changed names. Why did they send me away… I… I… I…”

I drift off to semi-sleep. As I fall asleep, I have a vision of a psychedelic machine… a white thing… looking a little like a parking meter… with swirling black lines on a gray screen. Have I seen that some place before? In a museum? In college during an acid trip? POW! Awake again.

“I can’t remember the words,” I tell the nurse. “ but I remember telling you I wouldn’t remember them.”

Okay, let’s back up…. Go to the recent past… a couple weeks ago… mainly a blur. I remember the pain… in my chest. I use my finger to trace the ache. Hey isn’t that exactly where my heart is? Didn’t I just use the sharp fingernail on my right hand to trace on my chest an exact outline of my heart?

Hmmm, maybe I should see a doctor.

Flash to the doctor’s office: In Chinatown… Yellow pages cardiologist… closest one. She’s on the insurance plan. Make that appointment.

Meanwhile the pain goes away… and comes back 2 days later. My visit with the doctor… of course… prescription for testing… more testing… in Chinatown. Pain again… harder longer… I can’t wait for the tests I’ll go to Saint Vincent’s. It was closed for a while, but I hear it’s open again with a different name… a drag name: Northwell. I don’t know. Maybe it changed genders Emergency room. Late… near 10 o’clock.

NOTE: As I type these words I feel a mild chest sting. Left side to the upper right of the heart… I know where that is now. Very light pain… but… but…

Back to St. Vincent’s, a temperature test. A blood test for cholesterol… The doctor comes in to tell me the results. I can’t remember what he says, but I do remember him saying… “we have to test again in four hours to confirm the first results.”

It’s now 11 o’clock. I’m not sticking around until 3AM to confirm a test. A fuckin’ heart attack will confirm the test. When the doctor leaves, I wait a few minutes and check myself out the front door.

I don’t know if they’ve got my name… let alone my insurance company. How much is my 3-hour stay gonna cost me? Does it count if they can’t double check.. give me my 3AM confirmation? Fuck ‘em… the pain isn’t bad anyway. I can walk out the front door and no one will notice.. It’s a 20-minute walk home. 20 minutes well spent, I’d say.

I’m out. On the street... no check out... no nothing. I wonder what they’ll think when someone comes up to the bed at 3AM to administer the confirmation. I chuckle to myself thinking about the look on the nurses’ face when she sees the empty bed.

I get to 6^th Ave. No pain… maybe a little tension… a little pressure… Aaaaah, home!

I peel off my clothes and, fully naked, lie down on my bed and fall asleep. Yes, a naked glorious sleep. No beeps. No buzzes… no coughing neighbor, just sleep. I stay in bed most of the next day… fading in and out of consciousness… like a boxer getting hit in the head… waking up… throwing a punch… getting hit again.

About 5 the next morning, I wake up with a chest pain… but not a chest exactly… just at the bottom of the rib cage… I think that’s where the diaphragm is. You know, that flat muscle that pumps the air in and out of the lungs. It’s a steady pain on the right and on the left… I fall asleep again.

It’s later… I don’t know how much later. The pain has moved… up… up into my chest. A small area right in the center. Easily defined… Using my thumbnail, I trace the edges of the pain. Exactly tracing an outline of my heart. Dit.. dit… dit… a heart-shaped pain right where my heart is. Pressure... then stabbing pain… Exactly there… like an anatomy lesson in medical school... Exactly….

I force myself to stand up. Slip on yesterday’s clothes… take my wallet… leave the apartment… Do I lock the door? I can’t remember. Elevator down to the street. It’s dark outside… I start walking… I can’t do this. I hail a cab…

“Get me to the hospital,” I tell the driver, “St. Vincent’s on 7^th Ave.”

I hope he doesn’t panic. I hope I don’t panic. We make it. I throw all the bills in my wallet at the driver… $10? $5? $50? Who knows? He’s too panicked to complain… Just wants me out of the cab. Could you imagine the paperwork if your fare kicks the bucket while you’re driving?

I check into St. Vincents again. The guy at the desk doesn’t recognize me from two days before. Maybe it’s a different guy… I don’t remember showing him ID or an insurance card. I don’t remember them undressing me or what they did to get me in bed. But there I am again… in a hospital gown… naked underneath.

Beeps and buzzes… then a lift… on a stretcher like a TV news victim. An ambulance ride… No siren just the ride uptown. An ambulance without a siren. Where’s the fun? It’s like a jerk off without an orgasm… Why bother?

I’m now at Lenox Hill hospital. They explain that the former St. Vincent’s doesn’t have overnight stays… so I was transferred here. “Here, have something to eat.”

Nothing tastes good. Fruit is the best among the offerings… I guess it’s the high-fructose fructose. Even the coffee is awful. The only taste is bitter… bitter brown water... It gives me gas. Here I lay… tooting away… unable to crawl out of bed and would it make a difference. Putttt… putttt … puttt… not like the beer fart which precedes a beer shit. (“Poetry is like a good beer shit.” Charles Bukowski).

FLASH AHEAD: I give up. I’ve got to force out some poetry. I’ve been here a day now… Not taken a single step in that time. I can do it. I’m sure I can stumble from here to the bathroom. I only need to pass the bed of my roommate, enter the room and close the door. First, I swing my legs over the side. More difficult than it sounds…. First the right… uh… uh… uhhhh... then the left… hospital gown rising up as I move. No one there to see junior and his jowls… revealing himself under my hospital gown. What must it be like for people who see this stuff day in and day out? I’ve often wondered how come all gynecologists aren’t gay? Doesn’t over exposure take away the joy?

Ah… ah… ahh… I lower myself from the bed to the floor. My naked feet touch down. Using my arms I slowly lower my weight to those toes.. the soles… the heels… Full weight… My body sways slightly and I grab the bed for balance.

Right foot… left foot… right foot… Past the cloth curtain room separator. Past the groaning black guy… around my age… gray beard… hospital robe slit visible up the side like a stripper… He squints his eyes open to look at me and then closes them again. I hope he hasn’t died.

Right… left… right… left… OW!! I stepped on something. Tiny and hard. I walk with the pain following me on the bottom of my foot. When I reach the bathroom, I hold the knob with my left hand and lift my right foot… grabbing it with my right hand… pulling up. There... embedded in the sole… near the big toe… is a tiny black speck. I use the nail of my right index finger to scrape it out… It looks like a mouse turd.

I flick it under my roommate’s bed… enter the bathroom… lift up my robe and sit down. Pffffftttt! (Wasn’t that a Rudolf’s Rache song?) I push. A pain shoots through my head. Fuck! I’ve given myself a stroke in addition to my heart attack. The pain disappears with the next pffffftttt! Then I feel it. You know the feeling… starting about navel height you can feel the clump… clumps… move through the lower intestine… millimeter by millimeter… right to left to right again… then down… gloriously down… PLOP! PLOP! Oh God yes!! Yes!! POETRY!

I tilt my body to the right to look at my accomplishment. Not great… but better than the mouse turd I picked out of the bottom of my foot.

FLASH TO MY RELEASE… I’ve found out they put a stent into my heart. It’s a kind of plastic min-tube that keeps a closed artery open. The hospital has made an appointment with new my cardiologist. A six-foot way plus guy. He’s barely more that third my age with a fashionable (as opposed to Chabadnik) beard, and a slim attractive body. When he speaks, I hear an accent, but I can’t identify it. His name is Dr. Farhan… pronounced “far hahn.”

“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you,” I tell him.

“Ask away” says the Doc.

“First,” I tell him. “It’s almost Yom Kippur. Can I or should I fast for the Jewish holiday?”

“It won’t hurt you,” he says. “But I don’t know how much good it’ll do you.”

“Are you Jewish?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Austria,” comes the answer, “but I’m Muslim.”

“Ah,” I tell him. “I’ve got a friend from Bahrain who complains that he gains weight every Ramadan. He tells me that as soon as the sun sets, the eating starts and doesn’t stop until sunrise the next day.”

Doc shakes his head. “My parents were Muslim so I keep the identity nominally. I don’t like the way my fellow Muslims keep the holiday. You’re supposed to feel the starvation… realize the poverty in the fast… the pain of the poor. But we just focus on watching the sunset so we can stuff our faces.”

“Same with a lot of Jews,” I tell him “Yom Kippur is… at least in part... to feel the pain of hunger so we can understand the poor. But we can’t wait to break that fast. Jews and Muslims are like fighting cousins. It’s so sad.”

“I’m non-practicing,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Next question: When I was in the hospital something happened to my memory. First I couldn’t even remember how to speak. Then it got a little better, but I couldn’t remember the names of my family members… then cities or places I’ve been. I failed that test… you know when they give you three words to remember? I couldn’t remember even one of them.”

“Okay,” says Dr. Farhan. “I’ll give you three words. Let’s see if you can remember them: Jew, Muslim, Christian.” [NOTE: Those were the actual words he gave me. I remember them now… weeks later.]

I laugh.

I ask about diet… exercise… “Cardiac Rehabilitation”… I got a prescription for it from the hospital, but the bureaucracy in filling that prescription has prevented me from doing it. I still don’t know how much or what kind of exercises I should be doing.

“What about eating and drinking?” I ask.

I expect he’ll tell me to quit drinking alcohol and subsist on a non-hotdogs and non-chicken wings diet washed down with O’douls non-beer.

“You don’t need to quit the good stuff,” he says. “Just try to cut down. How much do you drink now?”

“I just have a beer with dinner,” I lie. [NOTE: Just after I return home, I see in my spam box one of my weekly newsletters with a sub-title WHY PEOPLE LIE TO THEIR DOCTOR. I don’t read it.]

[NOTE: As I write this, I have actually cut down the drinking to about 8 beers a week. And I haven’t had fried wings, a hot dog, or a Jamaican patty since the operation.]

Dr. Fahrhan writes me a prescription. It’s for a statin replacement… “you shoot it into your belly.” He tells me.

“Like Ozempic,” I say. “I’ve seen the ads for that one.”

He holds up his index finger. “Wait a minute!” He says, “I have a practice kit.”

He leaves the office and returns with a box. He opens the box and takes out a tube similar to the Ozempic one. He passes me the tube I lift up my t-shirt and press it against my belly.

 “No… no…” says the doctor. “You have to remove the little red cap in front. Then look for some liquid to fill the tiny window. Then you should pinch your belly and get a nice chunk of fatty tissue between your thumb and forefinger.”

I grab a hunk of flesh and press it between my fingers. “Like this?” I ask.

“Yeah, but use your left hand,” he says. “You need your right hand to do the injection.”

I switch hands.

He nods.

“Now press the tip against the flesh and push the black button in the back. You’ll see the liquid disappears as it goes into your flesh.”

I do. It does.

I feel nothing as the chemical goes into my body. It doesn’t.

“When you take the actual drug,” he says, “you’ll feel a sting. This is just a practice shot. Nothing goes into your skin.”

“You got it!” He continues. “I’ll send a prescription for the Repatha over to your pharmacy.”

He looks at some papers. “CVS on Mulberry Street, right?”

I nod.

ASIDE: PET PEEVE. Doctors used to write prescriptions. SCRIPT means write. PRE- means before. Get it? It’s what the doctor WRITES BEFORE you get your drugs. You should take a written piece of paper into a pharmacy and get a price for the drugs listed on it. If you didn’t like the price, you brought it to another pharmacy. In 2025 YOU HAVE NO CHOICE! In order to prevent fake prescriptions… say a prescription for heroin or cocaine… There has to be direct contact between the doctor’s office and the drugstore. No shopping around for the best price. You pay what they ask or you don’t get it.

After the doctor, I go home... quickly fall asleep, wake up and go to the drugstore. One of the things I like about it is that it’s open 24 hours… another one is that the people who work there are nice.

The next day, I go to pick up the drug. That CVS is my usual go-to drug store even though they keep half their goods locked behind glass. Maybe they all do these days.

I’m there around 11 in the morning. I walk to the prescription section in the back, punch in my name and birthdate [ASIDE: I guess we’ve all seen and those older have noticed, that birthdays have replaced Social Security numbers as proof of ID. Hey Gen Z… do you even KNOW your social security number?]

The druggist greets me... checks the numbers on the screen… types in some words and then POW! “Yes Mr. Board, that’ll be four hundred and sixty-seven dollars.”

See you in hell
Mykel Board

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→ Role Reversal Dept pt. 1: I dislike 90% of what Donny The Trump does and the same percentage (or higher) of who he appoints to office. But my friends don’t think about it. They just hate 100% on principle. It used to be that liberals/lefties hate big corporations and love DIY or “mutual aid.” But when former Democrat RFK Jr. says “mental illness” isn’t like cancer or pneumonia and needs a different type of treatment… oooooh cooties! Look, I’ve got a lot of friends who live on the street. They do not live there because they have mental problems. They have mental problems because they live on the street! The cure for homelessness is not a pill from a psychiatrist’s hand. The cure for homelessness is A HOME… not some stupid psycho drug.

→ Role Reversal Dept pt 2: Historical note: The US did not defend itself from a Korean invasion. The US did not set up a military shield to prevent an attack by the Vietnamese. When some Saudi pilots flew some planes into the World Trade Center how did the US DEFEND itself… by invading IRAQ? The US has, in the last 100+ years NEVER defended itself. It has only attacked. Those of us who protested many of those attacks did not protest a DEFENSE. We were not “anti-defense” we were ANTI-WAR. So when Donny changed the name of the DEFENSE DEPARTMENT to the WAR DEPARTMENT… he was correcting a mistake! He was becoming more truthful. It was absolutely the right move. Though, of course, taking money away from healthcare and giving it to the WAR Department. THAT was a mistake.

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya. Oh yeah… He’s looking for friends his own age. So if you’re a 20-something and interested in Africa… or just meeting new people. Contact him at: albertletowon42@gmail.com

NON-AFRICANS

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart. I’m glad they didn’t call it “anti-defense.”

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. mykelboard@gmail.com

SECURITY Or You're Still Wrong... Blog post by Mykel Board

   

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's September 2025 Blog/Column

SECURITY

by Mykel Board    

“The more data we give, the more they take. And the less control we have.”

- Timsux Wales

“Passwords are like underwear: don’t let people see it, change it very often, and you shouldn’t share it with strangers.”
            – Chris Pirillo

“Security used to be an inconvenience sometimes, but now it’s a necessity all the time.” 

– Martina Navratilova

“The only way to maintain privacy on the internet is to not be on the internet.” 

– Abhijit Naskar

=================================

“Oh Jordan,” I breathe. “I never dreamed I’d be with you like this.”

“Mykel! Mykel! Mykel!,” Jordan breathes back. 

I press my body against Jordan’s, squeezing hard trying to feel through the double layer of clothing between us. It’s my first time in the student’s new apartment… a dorm-room actually. Part of NYU. Jordan says it’s the safest most secure student housing in the world. “Mom made sure of it.”

I reach under the twenty something’s t-shirt, feeling the skin on the spine. I bring my hand to the front… looking for a nipple to caress. I feel blood rush between my legs. 

My phone vibrates on the night-table next to the bed. 

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll ignore it.”  

“No! You can’t.” comes the answer. “You need the internet code or you can’t go any further. You want to go further, don’t you?”

“Password?” I ask. “I need a password to touch your nipple?”

“It’s the newest technology,’  comes the reply, “It protects me against harassment… you know, unwanted touching. Please!! Get the code, now!”

I turn on my shoulder... grab the phone… swipe away the home screen… click on the messages speech balloon… There is a box with a small check-box. Next to the check-box it says I am not a robot. I click the small box. And it connects to my own SMS messages. 

Top message: CVS, your prescription for TAM is ready. Just bring this message and when you’re ready click… 

Fuck… the next one… from protectyourbody.com:

Your code is 48521234. Check your email for a message from
ProtectYourBody.com. Click on the email and enter your code.

It takes a lot of self control to keep the phone in my hand instead of sending it through the window. I click on the multi-colored M from gmail. And the first email is from the evil guys. 

Please insert your code in the space below. It says. 

“I’d like to insert my fist up your virtual ass,” I think... loud enough to be heard on the next block.

Fuck! I forgot the number already, and go back to the text message to retrieve it… then I plug it in the email… the phone buzzes again… I check. A larger box shows up. In that larger box is a picture of a naked Margaret Thatcher, Joan Baez and Beyonce lying next to each other on a large bed. Their legs are spread. 

Click on all the squares that show a clitoris, says the caption. 

Using my thumbs, I stretch the picture until I can examine carefully. There’s one… another… and… it’s harder to see on Beyonce, but I manage to discover that bull-tongue clit... spanning two frames. Click. Click. I then press ENTER.

The message now says: You may proceed.

Back to the business at hand. First I press myself against Jordan hoping body to body will stimulate me again. And now I run my hand under that t-shirt… across the chest… Yes! A nipple!! And then another one. Their pinkness tingles my fingers. I can feel the tiny points harden under my fingers… and I can feel Me harden where it’s important. 

I press my lips against Jordan’s. Feeling the other’s tongue slither into my mouth, I suck it in. I peel off my own clothes and press my now-naked body against Jordan’s. Then I reach between us to help the t-shirt nudify that body… and I help the rest of the clothes free the rest of the body lying next to me. We press our nakedness together. 

I run my tongue downwards: breasts, stomach, lingering for a taste of belly button, then go south, to a hairless pube mound, then… PLOW! My head is stuck... Jordan’s thighs pinching it tight, like a wrestling hold. 

“Help!” I shout, muted by the leg hold. “I can’t move. I feel like my head is in a vice. The pain!”

“It’s not me,” answers Jordan. “Mom subscribed me to Legclamp-dot-com. They force my knees together until I call to release them. I have to get to their website and put in a release code in order to let you go.”

“Please do it quick!” I try to shout back. “My head is going to explode.” 

“Roll on to your stomach,” says Jordan, legs twisting my head forcing our entire bodies toward the cellphone. 

I jerk my shoulders, trying to get my body to follow… another jerk… finally with the help of Jordan’s turn toward the table, I manage to be completely face down... a thigh still pressing on either side of my head. 

I guess Jordan reached the phone. I hear half the conversation. It is not encouraging. 

“I don’t remember the fucking password!” Jordan shouts into the phone. “I’m in pain, and my bedfriend is in worse pain.” 

“You tell ‘em!” I try to say, my words lost between the pressing legs... fading into the mattress. 

“Goldstein,” I hear Jordan say… probably in answer to a mother’s maiden name question from the other side of the phone. Then, "Fifi." I’m guessing childhood pet. 

“You’re kidding!” comes Jordan’s voice. “Okay, okay… Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

PAROONG! The pressure eases on each side of my head. I can remove my head from between Jordan’s legs. I roll onto my back and in relief, Jordan turns to me and licks my ear. I smile. 

My bedmate’s hand rubs my chest and goes south. Lightly cupping the good parts, that hand moves up and down bringing blood into that key vessel. My limpy slowly hardens. Jordan’s lips follow the path laid out by the hand.  A joyful hardness between my legs replaces the awful pain in my head.

Jordan turns face down. I roll face down onto the nakedness now underneath me. My face nestles again a right buttocks. I move over… stick my nose between right and left lower cheeks. Working the saliva in my throat into my mouth, I use my tongue to lubricate the little hole. The sphincter tightens around my tongue. I spin around like a helicopter propeller, and nestle new hardness where my tongue has been. 

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! SECURITY VIOLATION!  ATTEMPTED SPHINCTER VIOLATION! CAMPUS POLICE INFORMED. 

The announcement… loud enough to wake the neighbors… blasting from speakers hidden who-knows-where. It doesn’t stop!

AUTHORITIES INFORMED. CAVITY SEALED! 

A siren sounds… UUUUWAAAH! UUUUWAAAH! UUUUWAAAH!

“Mykel,” says Jordan. “You’ve got to get out of here… fast… Campus security will be here in three minutes. Who knows where you’ll end up?”

I don’t ask questions. Pow! I dress like there’s no tomorrow. If I don’t hurry, maybe there will be no tomorrow. Blam! I’m out of the room… Fearing a booby-trapped elevator, I take the stairs down and exit through the back of the building… into a courtyard filled with rubber trash cans… There’s a low cyclone fence that I can easily climb over. Wow! Safe. 

Is Jordan safe? I guess it depends on how you look at it. The sophomore is safe from my hard flesh for the night. But is the sophomore safe from security? Is anyone? 

I make it back to my apartment, the stiffness in my pants just starting to loosen. I pull it out of my pants as I pull the laptop onto the bed. I lay down and tune into XNXX. Then comes the loud banging on my door… then the break-in. 

See you in hell, 

MB

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available.  Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line.  Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

Explanation dept: The adventure described in this post is obviously a figment of my imagination… but is it really that far from reality? Security is the greatest danger that humanity now faces. Soldiers call their killing-jobs security.  Your bank account gets locked because of a mis-typed password… and that’s security. Your call may be monitored or recorded. Why? For YOUR security. I’d like to walk into Times Square and piss on Sponge Bob while shouting? “You want security? Shit… well piss… happens. Security is the opposite of freedom! Arrest me and my dick… see how far that gets you!”

Even the government dept: Wired Magazine reports: A string of previously undisclosed break-ins at Tennessee National Guard armories last fall marks the latest in a growing series of security breaches at military facilities across the United States, raising fresh concerns about the vulnerability of US armories to theft and intrusion.

A confidential memo from the Tennessee Fusion Center reviewed by WIRED details four break-ins at Tennessee National Guard armories over a seven-week span. In one incident, thieves made off with night vision goggles, laser target locators, and thermal weapons sights, among other equipment. In other incidents, intruders breached fences, tripped alarms, and gained access to supply rooms discovered in the aftermath to have been unlocked.

Victoria’s Not-So Secret:  Sexy Fashion retail chain Victoria's Secret has delayed its first quarter 2025 earnings release because of ongoing corporate system restoration efforts following a security problem. In response to a late May incident, the company took down corporate systems, some in-store services, and the e-commerce website as a precaution.

Get it? No matter how much security you have, someone else can outsmart it. More security means more out-smarters and worse than that, it means less freedom for the rest of us. I have a friend with no cellphone, no laptop, no TikTok page. In fact, the only pages he has are made of paper and connected to a binding. He never gets hacked. 

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya.

NON-AFRICANS

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart.

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com