Chickens Come Home to Roost or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 54

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 54

or

Chickens Come Home to Roost

I remember when all I thought about was sex... when the most important thing in my life was getting laid... when everything was just a means to that end? I remember it like it was yesterday. It WAS yesterday.

I was happier than an AntiFa at a book burning. I've written before about my complete lack of Gaydar. I hit on “lesbians” and “straight” guys with equal lack of success. These days, the response to the former is likely to be more violent than the latter.

The problem comes from my agnosticism about lesbian and straight in the first place. Since I believe homotude is something you DO rather than something you ARE... it's difficult to identify someone without them actually DOING anything. I feel like like an atheist trying to tell a Baptist from a Methodist.

The answer came in the form of a small packet from Thailand:

They're cough drops... small... spherical. You take three at a time... hold them in your mouth. On the front of the packet, there's a picture of a guy in an jacket and tie... between two centipedes. The drops look like tiny brown eggs.... centipede eggs. They have a sour taste and melt into a viscous fluid in your mouth.

Flash to the butch colored girl. Grace Jones shaved hair... a swagger like a basketball player... tattoos... just designs, no images... shoulder to wrist... with the kind of bulgish black butt that makes the world's best case for African immigration.

Just looking at her straightens up every limp part of my 70 year old body.

We're at a show... punk rock... The Sonic Reducers... a Dead Boys cover band. I stand as close to her as I can as the band starts its set. Son of Sam

She coughs... a light dry throat cough... like when you come into an overheated room on a cold day.

She coughs again.

I reach into my pocket and get the Thai cough drops.

“Here,” I say, pouring out three into her hand. “They're made from centipede eggs. And they taste like semen. But just keep them in your mouth and the cough will stop.”

She's punk rock, so she takes them and pops them into her mouth. Her cough stops.

“Thanks,” she says. “They work fine... but they don't taste like semen.”

BOOOOOING! She knows the taste of semen! That means...

“What's your name?” I ask her.

FLASH TO NEW ZEALAND: 

Those of you who are older than the iPhone will remember an all-girl band from the 90s called SPITBOY.

I've written about them before... and have had a long-term friendship with Adrienne, the singer. We've kept in touch over the years as the band itself has spread out over the world.

I told Adrienne that I planned to be in New Zealand at the end of the year.

[The actual plan: TWO NEW YEARS in two days! Since New Zealand is one of the first countries in the world to celebrate New Years. The plan was to go there... celebrate New Year... then fly to Tahiti on the other side of the international dateline... one of the LAST countries to have New Year. Celebrate New Year AGAIN. I did it.]

Adrienne tells me that Karin, Spitboy's guitar player, is living in New Zealand and I should contact her. Well, what's facebook for?

In New Zealand Karin treats me like an old friend. Invites me to stay at their (her, hubby Aleister, 2 kids) house on a hill in Nelson. As if New Zealand weren't nowhere enough, Nelson is nowhere IN New Zealand. And Karin's family lives high on a hill on the outskirts of the “city.” You wanna know how rural this place is? They have chickens!

Honest-to-Goddess clucking, waddling, feathered chickens. It's wonderful! In the morning, Kael, the youngest kid, and I walked barefoot from the house down the gravel path to the coop to scoop out eggs for breakfast.

Now I have ridden a camel in Mongolia, fucked a guy in country where homo-relations bring the death penalty, had a jealous lesbian pour a whiskey over my head, eaten rice seasoned with locust, crossed the arctic circle, wiped my ass on poison oak, lived in Mongolia... but I had never in my life walked barefoot to gather my own breakfast eggs. Let me tell you... there's nothing in the world quite like reaching under a chicken.

[Note: This barefoot thing is endemic to the Pacific. Both in New Zealand and Tahiti, locals walk on the street... on pebble strewn beaches... on gravel roads... barefoot. In New York... white pants and a Hawaiian shirt are hallmarks of a tourist. In the Pacific... it's shoes.]

The eggs are delicious... the best. It could be that they actually tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic... or it could be that I THOUGHT they tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic. It doesn't matter. They were super eggs... the eggiest eggs I've ever breakfasted on.

During the day, Kael was my tourguide. Having earned his stone in the category of hard-work, hard-study, his assignment was to take me to the Center of New Zealand^®. You can read about that trip in my travel blog. On the way back home, we pass a pasture on the side of the hill where cows graze lazily... or just lie in the sun chewing the cud with their fellow bovines.

Back at the house, mom and the two boys rocked out in the practice room before dinner... then dinner. Steak and vegetables.

And what a steak. Tender as an eighteen year old... with perfect sauce and not boiled/not frozen vegetables on the side.

“Yowsah!” I said to Aleister, Karin's other half. “This is great. Where did that meat come from? It was...”

“Isn't it good?” asked Aleister. “It comes from our neighbors... they raise cows... give us the meat... fresh from the slaughter... couldn't be better.”

Booooing! It hits me.

Not only are vegetarians losing out on the deliciousness of animal flesh... they're actually hurting animals. Here's why:

Few people will argue in favor of factory farming. Cows or chickens raised like plants... unable to move... living their whole lives in a space smaller than my NYC apartment. Fed antibiotics that make them sick... Killed cruelly on an assembly line that actually may be better than the horrible lives they've led in captivity. Just wrong...

Now, humans have eaten meat for nearly as long as they've eaten plants. Asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat. Of course, we can debate that... but there is something more important.

Humans have factory farmed for only the last hundred years or so... maybe less. If I just say, “don't eat meat... it's cruel.” You'll accept the argument or reject it. If you reject it, you can reject it with a slew of reasons, starting with “asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat.” But in any case you'll see me as a VEGETARIAN. It's a kind of identity politics. Jews don't eat pork. Vegetarians don't eat meat. QED.

It's not a reasoning person who is suggesting I give up meat. It's a VEGETARIAN. I can and will write it off as irrelevant to the world as a colored person asking me to call him AFRICAN AMERICAN... even though he speaks French and lives in Tahiti. (That didn't happen.)

On the other hand, if a person says, “Eating meat is neither right nor wrong... good nor bad. I am NOT a vegetarian, but factory farming is cruel to animals, it's unhealthy for individuals and the world, and it slowly destroys the environment... here's why....”

In other words, the discussion is based on REASON not on identity. As long as vegetarians insist that all MEAT IS MURDER... those who eat meat can dismiss them as THE OTHER... that is AS VEGETARIANS. No need to listen to the reasons. No need to discuss at all. They're vegetarians. I am not. End of discussion. Animals suffer the horrors of factory farming.

But once some guy or gal just like me presents these reasoned arguments, I cannot dismiss them. Once I see people raising animals compassionately... or hunting and eating their own food without the cruelty, antibiotics, or the massive methane of factory farming. Omnivores... just like me... Then I have to think about things in a new way.

Get it? VEGETARIANS, by assuming that identity, make it easy to dismiss all animal-eating... and thus hurt the animals most in pain.

Besides, let a vegetarian try the argument “cruelty-free organic meat TASTES better than cows that are factory farmed.” That's a point they cannot make.

After dinner, I want to hit the bars in town. I've already been to the Center of New Zealand^®... now it's time to drink.

Back in town, I hit the bars. There's one called MOON that has very nice WHISPERING SISTER IPA. Beside the beautiful name, it's a great tasting local brew... in a pub featuring local musicians.

I sit at one of the back tables... drinking my Whispering Sister... watching as the bar fills up. A young man... thin... maybe a Maori mix sits at my table. Cheeks as smooth as a waxed head... thick red lips. He smiles at me when he sits down. Then he clears his throat.

“You know the band?” he asks with the kind of New Zealand accent that gives me a hard-on.

I shake my head.

“I'm not from around here,” I say.

“You from New York?” he asks.

“Fuckin' A, I am,” I answer.

He laughs.

“Well, they're called Kiwi Pie... used to be in a punk band... now they play drunk pub music.”

“My favorite,” I tell him.

He laughs. The laugh turns into a cough.

I reach into my pocket for the Thai cough drops.

“Here,” I tell him, “take three of these. Just hold them in your mouth. They always work.

I shake three tablets into his hand.

“I should warn you,” I add, “they taste like semen.”

He pops them into his mouth and holds them there a bit.

Shaking his head, he says, “They work, but they don't taste like semen.”

BOOOING!

-end-

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

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at god@mykelboard.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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Conflation dept: As in most of what I write, I mix facts, adventures, places and people... truth and fiction. The New Zealand adventures described above were actually in TWO cities... or two places. One was the home of Karin G and family near Nelson. The other was from Mr. Sterile Assembly near Wellington. I thank both of them for taking care of me in New Zealand. You are Gods and Goddesses!  

-->Wenn der kunstler scheisst dept: Chicago's West Loop gallery featured a blank wall with the artist living in a 10-foot space behind the wall. The actual ART was a sign put up by the artist, Alejandro Figueredo Diaz-Perera, that said, “I am here, but you will not see me.” The artwork was called InThe Absence of a Body. I have no idea if it was sold or not... and if sold... did it include the artist?

-->Stan-the-land dept: A likely, but still unsure goal for my next trip will be to visit three STANS. I've never been to any of them. I think I'll skip Afghanistan and Pakistan... too many bullets and too much politics. Right now I'm thinking, Kazakhstan Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Luk Haas has given me some contacts... but if you have any... or any STAN advice contact me on facebook. Or email me at:god@mykelboard.com

-->Fake news dept: An Australian beach sign supposedly supporting multiculturalism suddenly appeared on facebook:

It was followed by the usual outrage... though it doesn't seem to me to be that much different from most American beaches at least in the prohibitions of dogs and alcohol.

It turned out to be a fake. A shit-stirrer posted by anti-Muslimists who can't find anything REAL to complain about. I can find something real to complain about...

In New Orleans 8 strip clubs have been closed in one month. Shut down by the cops. My suspicions are that CHRISTIANITY rather than ISLAM is to blame for that one. In many ways, the US is almost a Muslim country from the get-go. World's highest drinking age. World's highest sexual age of consent. Among the world's strictest controls over public (and increasingly private) alcohol and tobacco use. I think we could use MORE multiculturalism.

-->Chickenshit dept: Marlene Wicherski has informed me that it has lately become fashionable to have Rooftop Chickencoops in big cities. She lives in Boston. Here in New York --at least in most places in Manhattan south of 96 Street-- landlords don't allow tenants rooftop access at all. Liability insurance... people might through themselves off! So I didn't know about the trend. If you're lucky enough to be able to go upstairs for your just-laid morning eggs... do it barefoot. It's an important part of the experience.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. I have another blog of short interesting things at: http://mykelsclippings.blogspot.com. And finally, my oldies from last century are slowly being scanned and uploaded to: http://mykelsoldies.blogspot.com/

LINK TRADE:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to.

Here's a start:

• David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog
  
• And another Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com
  
• Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
  
• Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!
  
• And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.
  
• And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

 

Gaydar or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 44

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 44

Gaydar

I'm happier than an Anti-fascist^® at a book burning. I walk in the room and there she is. A foot taller than me... skin the color of a Hersey bar... tight black jeans... ripped at the knees... a natural rip... a Ramones rip...not a hoity toidy fashion rip. Tits not large, but perky... uplifting... like a gospel tune... a haircut somewhere between Morrissey and Grace Jones... an ass that'd make any whitegirl scream with envy... and yes... really... she's wearing a GG Allin t-shirt... I... er... shit you not. My four and a half inches of throbbing macaroni sprouts like a spring rose.

Mykel, you're mixing your metaphors... spring roses don't sprout.

Fuck you.

I'm not a shy person.. usually. I can even talk to a pretty girl at the bar. Not THE PRETTIEST, of course... the second prettiest, maybe... but still... I can do it. Now, here she is... in all her glory... standing by herself... surveying the crowd... just waiting for some bald little old Jew to come up to her and take her home.

I look at the ceiling... mosey toward her... controlling my eyes... trying to fill myself with a sense of nonchalance... project it. I edge closer.

She's by herself at the side of the stage.. one of those young punkbands on it... playing covers... Wow! NOFX! The song: Don't Call Me White ...She's singing along.. That's it... my entry line.

“I bet no one ever called you white,” I tell her.

She stops singing along... glares at me. I feel my face redden.

Mykel, stop this now! She's a dyke. You'd have more chance with Milo Yiannopoulos than with her.

How do you know she's a dyke?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

I don't get it! It's like I'm deaf or something... or lacking a sense of smell... something's missing in my biology. What's the key? How do you know a dyke when you see one? I've barked up so many wrong trees I can't even piss on 'em!

You mixed your metaphors, Mykel.

Fuck you... but I mean it. How do y know?

It's the shoulders, Mykel. You can tell by the shoulders. When het girls walk, they sway their hips... right up, left up, right up, left up. It's like watching a double basketball bounce. Lesbos don't do hips. They do shoulders. They walk with their shoulders. First the right one forward... then the left one.. like they're squeezing through a crowd on the subway.

What happens if they're just sitting down... or standing and singing with a drink in their hand. How can you tell then?

Back to square one.

FLASH TO The Peculier Pub... my favorite bar in New York: I've been stiffed again... my usual crew of fuck offs and no shows... fucked off and didn't show.

I sit alone at one of those booths along the wall in the back. I'm nursing a HE'BREW, thinking about No FX... and that girl. In the next booth... the one I'm facing... a young man sits by himself. Late 20s, he's just about the only beardless person in the bar... except for the girls. He drinks some dark beer out of a mug. Keeping the mug in his left hand, he turns the pages of a book on the table in front of him. He's got deep-set eyes, lips like on a Rolling Stones record... and cheeks... ahhh those cheeks... he couldn't grow a beard if he wanted to.

His long neck fades into his t-shirt... where it meets the collar bones... THOSE kind of collar bones, with hollows in the right places... on either side of neck. Under that t-shirt is a chest without muscles... without flab... just... I don't know... I can only imagine... I do imagine.

I look at him... trying to use the power of my projecting mind to get him to pull his eyes up from the book... to look at me... flash me a smile... move his hand in a come over and sit at my table gesture. My brain feels like it's going to pop out of my head with the mental push of Mesmer I'm forcing on this guy.

Mykel, stop this now! He's straight. You'd have more chance with Ivanka Trump than with him.

How do you know he's straight?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

No, I cannot fuckin' see it! I need a homometer.... a perfect homometer.

My homo friends call it Gaydar... a secret signal that tells you the gender preference of someone... just by looking. It's something I never understood... and something I certainly don't have.

“It's in the ears, Mykel,” explains Bradley... a homo pal of mine who I know is homo only from the fact that I've pushed my fluorescent bulb into his personal love socket. “Look ata guys' ears. If they're hairy, he's straight. Gay guys never have hairy ears. They take care of that stuff.”

“That's all?” I ask. “But what about Orientals. They never have hairy ears.”

Bradley is stumped.

So it's back to square one. 

Ilsa with my tape on her back
and an additional pair of panties
put on after leaving the cake

It's my 60th birthday party... Since my life is a series of adventures following my dreams... There will be a girl coming out of a cake tonight. It's a huge cake... constructed by a master bakestress...  hollowed out... filled by ILSA! (name changed to protect her recent family) wearing a red wig and fake pearl bikini... a 20+ barely legal girl with tattoos, brains, ass and tits... oh yeah!

And now... the cake opens... and BANG!! Out pops ILSA... scraping slightly on the side of the constructed cake. There she is... and whoa... the string on her bikini breaks... look what's coming out... a flash of nip... oh yeah!

Ever the chivalrous one, I rush in with the packing tape, and paste the top back on... taping the broken clasp directly to her back.

FLASH TO LATER THAT NIGHT: Ilsa and I sit at the bar.

“You're lucky, Mykel,” she says.

“Don't I know it?” I say. “Wanna fuck?”

She laughs, shaking her head.

She says. “I started to say you're lucky because I almost didn't make it today.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Last night,” she says, “remember that girl I told you about. The one who introduced me to The Brazilian Wax...”

“I remember,” I lie. “Best name for a punk band in a long time.”

She laughs, spitting her beer up through her nose. It's so cute... almost makes me cum.

Ilsa shakes her head and takes a breath so she can talk again.

“No,” she says finally, “I mean a REAL Brazilian wax. You know, right down here.”  She touches me on the good part.

“You mean you and her....” I start.

She nods.

“How'd you know?” I ask. “I mean how can you tell... I mean you know... if she's....”

“You mean Gaydar?” she asks.

I nod.

“I don't have Gaydar,” she says. “I have LAYdar.”

I wrinkle my forehead... even more.

“I can't tell if someone is gay, straight or in-between,” she explains. “But I can tell if they want ME! That's all I need.”

“How does LAYdar work?” I ask her. “You need to work to get people to want you. You have to know who it's worth pursuing, so you don't waste your time.”

Then I look at her again... up and down... Oh yeah!

“Ok,” I say. “I can see how it works for SOME people.”

She laughs again.

I figure it must be related to my inability to believe in gay or straight in the first place.... my insistence we all have some of every kind of sexuality and an infinity of opportunities. We can consciously or unconsciously suppress one or the other urge.  (In the case of rape... sometimes it's probably a good idea that we do it.) But there are no GAY or STRAIGHT people. There are only people who do or don't do stuff.

Starting from that, it's as hard for me to identify gay or straight people as it is for every-day adults to identify THE BOOGYMAN. Or for atheists to identify GOD... or for Anti-fascists® to identify FREE SPEECH... or for capitalists to identify COMPASSION. How can you recognize something if you don't believe in it in the first place?

Wait! I've got it! LAYdar is the clue. Hairy ears or not! The ultimate way to determine a straight guy is.... IF I LIKE HIM. If I want to plug his fudge tunnel... wet his whistle... teabag him in the mensroom... if I find him attractive in any way... HE'S STRAIGHT.

Shakey shoulders or bouncing buttocks... IF I LIKE HER... If I want to dip my noodle in her soy sauce... slip my tongue into her taco bell... nestle my nuggets between her lower limbs... SHE'S  A DYKE.

What is the perfect homometer? I am the perfect homometer! 100% accuracy. Money-back guarantee. I got it.... Now, what do I do with it?


ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.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 by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Can't lose business proposition dept:MYKEL BOARD'S GET RICH QUICK PLAN: (I'm looking for investors)

The problem:
1. You call the bank to check on a strange charge, or get some information. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
2. You call the IRS to ask where you can get some forms, or if this or that is tax deductible. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
3. You call Time-Warner aka Spectrum to complain about service or schedule a service call. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.

THE SOLUTION:
One number, let's say 1-(800) EVR-YTNG...  for everything... banks, the government, tech-support, insurance, everything.
    Just dial that number and a recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
NO NEED TO CALL ANY OTHER NUMBERS. JUST A SINGLE NUMBER FOR THE SAME SERVICE YOU GET ANYWHERE ELSE!!
Waddaya think?

-->Mandatory Politics dept: So the Republicans are taking a page from the Democrats' playbook. The Pubs can't pass their Health Destruction Bill, because the ounce-of-compassion people in the party think it's too hard on poor people and the Tea Partiers think it doesn't give enough to the rich. So it fails.(Let's hope.)
    Sounds like Obamacare, where the right didn't like it because it was Socialist, and the left didn't like it because it wasn't Socialist enough. But that one didn't fail.(Too bad?)

-->Same troubles dept: I want to assure Donald Trump that he's not the only one with wiretap problems. The FBI has been wiretapping my phone for years. Not only do they listen in to my phone and record what goes on... they they play it back to me:
    Your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual.
    Just awful.

-->Speaking of bisexuals dept: My pal Tony sent me an article about a British Bisexual Student Union that has voted to change the name... from Bisexual to Bi+. The latter, they say, “is more inclusive” and would include people only attracted to a gender, not actively fucking that gender.
    I say, you want inclusion? Change the name to EITWWW (Everybody in the Whole Wide World). I mean, what the fuck? Bisexual already includes everyone. Check out your window. At any given time... even during Santa Con... MOST people are actively fucking NO ONE! Bisexual is the human condition... not who you're shtupping at any particular moment.

--> Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.
    As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.
    Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

The End of Homosexuality As We Know It or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 31

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 32

Why is it socially acceptable - as a form of entertainment - for men to put on dresses, make up and high heels and act out every offensive stereotype of women (bitchy, catty, dumb, slutty, etc.) -- but it is not socially acceptable -- as a form of entertainment - for a white person to put on blackface and act out offensive stereotypes of African Americans? --Mary Cheney, lesbian daughter of former Vice President Dick Cheney.

The End of Homosexuality As We Know It

by Mykel Board

It was a new LOH point... Late Onset Hangover... you know: you wake up. Everything's hunky dory... you la-dee-da through morning coffee, jerk off to old videos of yourself with the one who didn't get away, then POW! Headache... a feeling in your stomach like a greasy pork chop... every cough turns into a multicolored splotch on your sheets... Yesterday's dinner... dripping through your nose... gagging... groaning. You just know a neighbor is going to be pounding on the door... “Are you alright?”

Fuck! I promised myself I'd go to the gym today. I'm old. If I don't dance on some treadmill, I'll get a heart attack. If I don't pump some cables and chains, I'll get waddles. Ok, one last trip to the porcelain goddess. Then I go! It'll feel so good. Yeah, right.

I stumble into the locker room and head for a corner... a little cranny far from the main lockerfolks. I'm in no condition to put up with the sideways glances and smug chuckles that usually accompany my undressing. When I have my pants down to my knees, I notice someone standing just two lockers down. A chisel chinned young man with a smooth-- yet six-packless-- abdomen. Trying to keep my eyes front, I fail. Jeezus, this guy is smaller than me. His rutabaga doesn't even make it out of the pubes. Nothing.....

Then I see it. The crack, the folded skin, the elongated Y. Yes! This guy has a TWAT! You heard that right: a cunt, a pussy. Yes, I'm talking a hairy taco, a snatch, a beaver, a muff. 

 

Here, in the men's locker room. Next to me. I'm talking a slit, a box, a pud. I'm talking the first results of a citywide law prohibiting discrimination on “gender identification.” Hoooey!

FLASH TO THEORY: America is a homosexual society. Not the most homosexual of societies, but a lot homo-er than many. In Finland, for example, you're invited to the home of a casual acquaintance... WOMP! There you are, naked with the whole family... in the sauna... beating your new friend's naked parents with birch branches. Dangly parts shaking to each thwack.

“Have a drink?” asks your hostess, her pert breasts, breast-like in the soft sauna light.

In Finnish, they use the same pronoun, Hän, for both sexes. Talk about gender equality! Maybe it's related to Sauna culture... the ease of nudity. (Interestingly enough, in Japan, they hardly ever use pronouns at all-- Just the verb, thank you. And, until the Americans forced a separation after WWII, the Japanese traditionally bathed gender mixed in outdoor hot springs.)

In America, we have separate pronouns for men and women... and separate restrooms. At gyms, at public pools, in schools, we have different locker rooms: MEN and WOMEN each sex homo-ed with itself.

Go to a bowling alley, a bar, a football game... you see homotude up the wazoo. Boys’ night out or the girls just getting together. Guys hanging with each other, har-har-ing at talk about girls, but not actually mixing with girls. Girls chat or engage in screamfests-- with each other-- a homosexual world. The only time people spend in each other's company is either some part of the mating ritual... or the actual mating itself. Otherwise, it's homo, homo, homo.

Wait a minute, Mykel!

Who the fuck are you? And why are you using that font? You think you're God or something?

Stop playing games, Mykel. You know me. I AM God.

God? What the fuck are you doing in my column? Can't you leave me alone for once?

Mykel, Mykel, Mykel. I'm am GOD! Remember? I don't leave anyone alone.

I concede.

“Okay,” I say. “What do you want this time?”

I'm just butting in to remind you. You're forgetting someone... some ones actually.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Gay men, says God, I'm talking about gay men. Their best friends are girls. They go shopping with girls. They talk about cooking with girls. They hang out with girls. The only time they hang out with guys is in the mating ritual... or in the actual mating itself.

“Hey,” I say, “you're stealing my lines.”

God laughs... a terrifyingly awful... dare I say satanic... laugh.

But when God's right, God's right.

“When you're right, you're right,” I say. “The only people in American who are not homosexual are gay men.”

But the trannie laws could change all that. They could destroy homosexual society as we know it.

FLASH TO THE CARMINE ST. PUBLIC POOL, WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM 2016: Little Ashley Goldstein is there for the first time. Her mom, Bethany, took a floor tier locker so she could be right next to her daughter. Ashley, ever the curious kindergartner, can't take her eyes off all the naked people.

“Mommy,” she asks, pointing, “when I grow up will I have hair down there like that lady?”

“Shhhhh,” says Bethany, grabbing her daughter's finger, and curling it from a point to a fist. “It isn't polite to point.”

“But will I mommy... will I?”

“Keep your voice down,” says Bethany. “You'll embarrass people... And yes, you'll have hair down there too.”

“And will I have big breasts, like that woman?” asks little Ashley... again pointing.

“Don't point!” says Mom. “And it's different for every girl, but you will develop. We talked about that. That's what happens to girls. When you get to the right age we'll talk about it some more.”

“And will I have those round, hanging things... and a floppy?” ask Ashley. “Like that lady?”

Bethany looks up, startled. A scream catches in her throat.

“That's a man,” she whispers.

No it's not and... Welcome to 2016!

What's a man anyway? Who decides?

I say, it's like buying a car.

“I only buy Ford products,” you say. “I buy American.”

“Stuff your Mexican-made Ford up your chocolate starfish,” I reply. “My Honda comes from Alabama.”

An American Car has no meaning-- no relationship to its place of origin or the nationality of those who put on its fenders. An American Car is anything it wants to be.

The word MAN will lose itself the same way. No relation to the glands between your legs or the glans that covers them. WOMAN will be a label pasted on whoever wants to wear it. Why have Men's or Women's locker rooms? Why enforce homosexuality in a world that's quickly losing it?

FLASH TO A LOCKER ROOM 2025. In 2025, there's only ONE locker room-- for everybody.

Same scenario up to:

“And will I have big breasts, like that woman?” asks little Ashley... again pointing.

“Don't point!” says Mom. “And it's different for every girl, but you will develop.... We talked about that. That's what happens to girls. When you get to the right age we'll talk about it some more.”

“And will I have those round, hanging things... and a floppy?” ask Ashley. “Like that lady?”

“It's up to you,” says Mom. “If you're grown up and decide you want them... you can have them. Some girls do and some girls don't.”

“How will I know?” asks Ashley.

“You'll know,” explains Mom. “When it's time, you'll know.”

Get it? It'll be the end of homosexuality. No more men's or lady's restrooms. No more men's or lady's locker rooms. At the beach, toplessness... for everybody. Who knows? Maybe the whole shebang... for everyone!

People will chose their friends, social partners and their sex partners on types, characteristics, personality, hair color. Homosexuality will disappear because homo will disappear. Too bad I won't be around to see it. Sounds like fun.

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.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 by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->It was in the cards dept: Livingston Parish (county) in Louisiana has repealed a law prohibiting "fortunetelling and soothsaying." The ordinance was challenged by local resident Cliff Eakin, a Wiccan who believed the ban violated his religious freedom. Talking about the future... and foretelling the future are an integral part of the Wiccan religion.

A Louisiana district judge agreed, saying the law was “unconstitutionally vague.”

I predict we haven't seen the end of this case.

-->Another prediction dept: I write this the day after the Brussels attack. And here's my soothsaying:

Prediction: After Brussels, instead of learning a lesson... NATO will harden its line, kill more people, make more terrorists and this will happen again and again. This is NOT a war where you can go to a country and just drop drones on people. Those people are living next door. Are you going to drone yourself? The proper response to killing people is to STOP killing people. The only ones who benefit from all this are the drone-makers. We never learn.

-->Two for the price of truth dept: The Cincinnati Municipal Zoo cut ties with a "creationist museum" in nearby Kentucky. The original plan was to offer two-for-the-price-of-one tickets to special Christmas shows at each venue. The deal was stopped in response to a boycott and facebook campaign against the zoo. The two-ticket plan lasted for exactly three days.

Of course, the creationist president was pissed off.

“It’s a pity that intolerant people have pushed for our expulsion simply because of our Christian faith,” he said.

No word if the museum will now seek ties with the Louisiana Wiccans.

-->Y tu madre tambien dept: According to TheGuardian.com, the US now has the second-highest number of Spanish speakers in the world, nearly 53 million of 'em. Spain, by the way, has a population of 46 million. So we've got 'em beat.

Colombia is third with 48 million. Mexico, of course, is first with 121 million gente... all of whom are welcome to sleep on my floor... and many of whom have already done so.

-->God finally gets some dept: The credit rating company Equifax is finally recognizing God. God Gazarov of Brooklyn, that is. The guy fought with the company for five years, but it refused to include his name in its database. They probably thought it was religiously offensive.

Finally, the money giant relented and now God can take out a loan and get a credit card like everybody else. Mazel Tov!

-->Too Political dept: Zazzle.com, an internet retailer, sells, among other things "custom postage." It's a service that allows customers to design their own stamps-- usable in the U.S. mail.

"Cruz for President 2016," has been, unfortunately, a popular one. But we gotta respect them. After all, free speech is free speech, right?

Yeah, right.

An anti-corporate stamp was designed by artist Anatol Zukerman. It said, "Democracy Is Not for Sale." It was rejected by Zazzle.
The reason? "It's too political.”

--> Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.

As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.

Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

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