The Importance of Being Ernestine or You're STILL Wrong, Mykel's February 2022 Blog

 

The Importance of Being Ernestine
or You're STILL Wrong,
Mykel's February 2022 Blog

 

The Importance of Being Ernestine

or You're STILL Wrong,

Mykel's February 2022 Blog

by Mykel Board

Emotionalism, irrationality, softness and weakness are more symptoms of a man's own feminine side than they are characteristics of women.  – Robert A. Johnson

A man does not learn very well. Women, yes, because they are used to bending with whatever wind comes along. A woman, no matter the age, is always learning, always becoming. But a man stops learning at fourteen or so. He shuts it all down. A log is capable of learning more than a man. – Edward P Jones

Old women who go around thinking sensible thoughts should be apprehended with bear traps. – Daniel Kharms

Those who know me know I have a special effect on women. After some time with me, women cut me off like a moyl with a foreskin… no contact with me again… ever… telling my friends to hate me… blocking me on facebook… sending my email directly to the spambox… walking out of any room I walk in to. 

Maybe it’d be wrong to say there’s a legion of twatted Mykel-haters, but it would be fair to say there are enough female Mykel-100%-avoiders to arm the Ukrainians for the 21st century. 

But wait! There’s more! Women who don’t ditch me like facebook ditches the politically incorrect… become lesbians. It’s my Midas touch. I change them. 

My sister, Gayl, says it comes from “the type of girl you like.” She may have a point. I didn’t name the second ARTLESS album Boy With A Cunt because I like handkerchief-dropping, gown-wearing, lip-pouters.

“If you like butch tough-girls who can beat you up,” Gayl tells me, “you’re gonna find a few lesbos in the woodpile.”

SWITCH GEARS: Blessed are you, Lord, our God, ruler of the universe who has not made me a woman. This is a rather notorious prayer that traditional Jewish men say every morning, striking their chests. It’s been the cause of much discussion, and much anti-Jewitude. I ask my rabbi about it. 

“That prayer is an acknowledgment of the pain of childbirth,” says the rabbi. “In order to bring us into the world, women have to suffer in a way men cannot imagine. It is through their pain that women keep humanity in the world. We need to give thanks to G-d for both that we, as men, don’t have to suffer that pain. And that there are women who DO suffer that pain so we can live.”

Until then, it seemed to me that giving birth was nothing more than taking a huge constipated shit through your muff. Push… push… push… spew it out. It hurts a bit… then… maybe a pussy fart… Then... aaaaah, it feels so good. That’s it. Until that rabbinical moment, I never thought of it as anything more. 

BANG! What a change! One of of the many strikes of satori that makes me glad for the rabbis in this world. All that suffering that mom went through just to make the world a better place for having my sister and me as part of it. Who wudda guessed?

FLASH TO NOW: I sit naked on the wood floor in my apartment. To my right lies a half roll of duct-tape and a knife. My crossed legs not as lotused as they used to be. I steady my breath… feel the air come into my lungs through my nose... leave through my mouth. 

I focus my mind between my legs… yes, my mind is often focused there, but now I have a goal. I want to feel the world like a woman feels it. 

After a couple minutes of breathing, I pull my belly inwards… toward my spine…. tightening the muscles between anus and gonads… trying to pull the twin cullions… up… back into my body… back to their ancestral home… pre-pubescent. 

I can’t do it. They just lay there like a couple of oversized boyscout beans in a hairy bag of skin. I reach between my legs to give them a boost… a nudge… a push… Ouch! That hurts… but I got one in there… just gone… Now the other… this one easier… right next to its twin... somewhere inside me... near my appendix, I think. 

I shift my weight… slowly… making sure I avoid picking up splinters… or being stabbed by a 40-year old flooring nail, loosening from its own ancestral home. Yes! Yes! I did it!

Now to take care of the half pickle… the Vienna sausage… barely visible... afraid to show itself after the disappearance of its siblings. 

With my right hand I hold the base… pushing inward with the thumb of my left hand… uh… uh… uh… There it goes... inside… all the way! With my left hand, I hold the entire kit and caboodle inside me. My right hand grabs the duct-tape. Using my teeth, I pull out about a foot of tape. Still holding the end with my teeth, I use the knife to cut the tape from the roll. 

Quickly, I tape myself closed… shut the danglies inside… become WOMAN… at least half-way. I need lips. There’s all that flesh that just covers the prostate. I guess that’s how doctors make those lips when they do trans-surgery. Maybe I can get the feel just by moving the muscles right. 

It’s the in-between... the taint! Taint the asshole… taint the balls… The taint: where my lower lips should kiss the floor. 

Squeeze! Squeeze! Yes! I can do it. Yes! I can learn what it’s really like to have a hole in my body big enough for a human to spray out, wet, slimy, crying. Yes! I can take that huge shit and fall in love with it… bring that vaginal turd to my breast… suckle it… know the pain and Yes! know if there’s the post-natal joy that I see on all those diaper commercials. 

Yes! Yes! …..     No!

I can’t do it. My testicles squeal like trapped mice begging to be released. My limp gherkin leaks into the duct tape. 

No! I can’t do it. I’ll never know the pain that I’m supposed to thank God for not giving me. No! I’ll never experience more than the anal analogy of taking a shit. No! I’ve failed. 

I know. I know. I hear it every day. “You want to be a girl? Be a girl! Those chicks-with-dicks magazines by your bed! You could be one if you want! You’ve got the equipment… sort of.”

I press my palms against the side of my head. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t talk to me about effeminate men. I love them, but they are not women. There’s nothing feminine about them. The swish… the limp wrist… the eye-batting. Stiffens me right up, but it’s not LIKE A WOMAN. 

Once or twice in my life I’ve seen a real vaginated woman move like that. Hand on her hip… cigarette between index and middle finger… pouty sneer. She did not look feminine… she looked like a gay man… a man in drag… a femmy male homosexual. A woman screaming in the pain of childbirth… now SHE looks feminine. 

Soooo… I don’t get it. I don’t get why I make girls into forever Mykel-haters or forever lesbians. I don’t get why they call boys who move in a certain way or have a certain breathiness “feminine.” I have to accept the failure…  Know that sometimes rabbis have answers that scientists don’t. Know that some questions will never be answered.

What has changed is that my mind has gone from I don’t understand women to I can never understand women. And until men start having babies, equality is impossible… and probably undesirable. In the meantime, I’ll strike my chest… and thank God. 

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 in the subject line.  Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

-->Lick This Dept. The BBC reports that “a prototype lickable TV screen that people can taste has been invented… in Japan, of course. Taste-the-TV, works by spraying flavors onto a "hygienic film" which is then rolled over the screen. Viewers then are invited to lick it.

The inventor, Homei Miyashita of Meiji University, suggested it could be used to train cooks or sommeliers remotely, though I can think of other uses. 

Of course, Covid makes a nod in the initial sales pitch. "The goal is to make it possible for people to have the experience of something like eating at a restaurant on the other side of the world, even while staying at home," Miyashita told interviewers.

I hope it comes with smell.

-->Just because it’s The Post doesn’t mean it isn’t true dept: The NY Post reports: Canada’s federal government admitted to secretly surveilling its population’s movements during the COVID-19 lockdown by tracking 33 million phones. The Public Health Agency of Canada secretly tracked the devices to assess “the public’s responsiveness during lockdown measures.” 

Meanwhile, here in NYC, the city has TV ads urging people to download the Contact Tracing App. Yeah sure, I’m right on that one. You bet!

-->Prayer from the other side dept: I’ve been watching a lot of movies during the Covid isolation. One of the many great ones is THE MISANDRISTS, written and directed by my long-time pal Bruce LaBruce. It’s the story of a group of militant women who want to destroy all men and reproduce by cloning.

At the start of every day, the women pray. “Blessed be the goddess of all worlds that has not made me a man.” They’ll never know what it’s like.

See you in hell, redux,

MB

LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

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. I add you. You add me.

Here's a start:

Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

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.

Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.

Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.

Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.

George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.

And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

And connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.

Here are a couple video links.

This from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low

And this one from my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.

Jim Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere awhile back. You can read it here. Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera. You can stream the album here.

Kyle Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped by the secret police… I think. I post his blog for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or repulse you… or both.

My long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here it is.

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

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.)

 



YOU'RE STILL WRONG
POST MRR COLUMNS
Post MRR Column 2
by Mykel Board

Strip clubs don't appeal to me... If I was inclined to seek the company of a bunch of angry drunk women who hated me, wanted all my money, and were determined to tease me but not have sex with me, I would just open a bar in Edinburgh. --Craig Ferguson

 

 

I follow an actual red carpet to the inner room. Plush. Plush. Soft red chairs, like in the corners of a romantic restaurant...by the fireplace. White table cloths, thick carpeting... inviting me to take my shoes off... run the shag between my toes... I don't. The host is dressed like a Russian hitman. but softer and friendlier. The lighting says QUIET... not dim, but diffuse... like looking through gauze. On stage is Ona. Vaguely Oriental, she's beautiful. Not make-up-silicone-centerfold beautiful, but a real-girl beautiful. My sleeping mini-me begins to awaken.

There is no pole on this stage. The lighting (black light?) makes Ona's skin glow indigo. Her now visible nipples are only slightly darker than the perky, but natural breasts supporting them. I take a bite of my eggs benedict.

The place is two-thirds empty. Who (else) goes to a strip club for brunch? Even if it is the bacon and legs special. I take a single out of my wallet and walk up to the stage. Ona doesn't notice me. I quietly lay a bill on the stage floor and walk back to brunch.

Next up is Kirsten, a colored girl wearing a blond wig that glows in the stage lighting.

Meanwhile, Ona comes over and sits in the empty chair next to me.

“Sorry,” I tell her, “I can't do lap dances... just had a hernia operation.”

“That's okay,” she says. “I'm happy just to talk. How come you're sitting at such a big table by yourself?”

Her voice is as soft as the lighting. Not a trace of an accent.

“I'm expecting friends,” I tell her. “Sometimes my friends are flaky.”

She laughs.

“Sounds like my roomates,” she says. “I had to move out of Brooklyn... to K-town. They just forgot to pay the rent.”

“Are you Korean?” I ask her.

“No,” she says. “I don't understand much Korean. I'm Chinese... from Shanghai.”

“I tried to learn Cantonese,” I tell her. “My favorite movies are from Hong Kong.”

“That's tough,” she says. “They have eight tones.”

“I know,” I tell her. “I gave up on it.”

“Shanghai-ese has five tones,” she continues, “Mandarin four. The levels are different too, Mandarin only has moving tones. Shanghai has a plain high and plain low tone.”

The conversation continues. Here I am, in a strip club, talking with a stripper NOT about a lap dance, but about Chinese linguistics! Yowsah!

By now, Kirsten is down to her g-string. I pull another dollar out of my wallet.

“Excuse me,” I tell Ona, “I gotta tip the girls. It's a pretty thin crowd today.”

“You're telling me!” she says.

When I get back to my chair, Ona's off, giving a lapdance to some fat white guy at the bar.

Kirsten soon leaves the stage and-- you guessed it-- appears on the chair next to me.

I give her the hernia story.

“No problem,” she says. “Could you buy me a drink? I just need to talk.”

I nod and call over the waitress. I know strippers earn commission on these girl drinks, but the club is empty and she needs the money.

By this time, my pal Richard, his 30-year old son and friend have shown up.

“I'm having trouble with the Florida Condo,” he tells me.

“You're from Florida?” asks Kirsten.

Richard nods.

And she begins her story.

I was working in a club in Florida, The bosses were all Russian mafia. Well, I had a private dinner with one of them... took me to a fancy place... you could smell the money... oozed out of the wallpaper... women in dresses that'd cost a year's rent... and I live in New York... so the boss buys me a fancy dinner... caviar, wine, the whole caboodle... this guy comes over with a spoon around his neck. Pours a little wine... into the spoon, then tastes it.... makes a smacking sound... then offers me a taste... Jesus! I don't want to taste from that spoon, it's been in thousands of mouths.... It IS a good dinner, but I know the piper is gonna ask me to pay.

'So,' says the big muttha, 'think it's time we go to my place?'

I'm sure the guy has a gun, I gotta get out of there.

'Sure Boris,' I tell him, 'just let me take care of a few girl things.'

I stand up. He pats me on the ass. I head for the ladies, lucky... it's out of view of the table. I split. Bang, out of there. Take a cab to my place in Miami. Grab a few clothes... Bang. I'm on the train, running away. Bye bye Florida. You think the LAW has a long arm? It's a baby-prick compared to the long arm of the RUSSIAN MOB.

“Yow!” I tell her. “You should write about this. It would make a great book. You know that book Girlvert?”

She shakes her head.

“This pornstar wrote it. She started as an actress and then went on to direct. You should read it.”

“I'm already writing a book about my life,” the Negress tells me. “It's called Homage to Catatonia.”

“What?” I ask.“That's a play on a George Orwell book, Homage to Catalonia. Three people in America know that book. And you've got a parody?”

She smiles. “I'm glad you know it. Most of my friends don't get it.”

“I'll bet,” I tell her. And we go on talking about writing.

The conversation continues. Here I am, in a strip club, talking with a stripper NOT about a lap dance, but about writers and writing!

In my experience, most strippers are just taking care of their families.... paying for the kids. It's a living... making ends meet... for those who can't do anything else. This is a room full of intellectuals with tits and twats! Not one of the (other) customers in this place has half the brains of these girls. Yowsah!

What a commercial for heterosexuality, huh?

FLASH ACROSS THE ATLANTIC: Russia has the Olympics and America's homos call for a boycott. Jeezus fuckin' Sodomy! You've got citizens of the most mass murderous country of the millennium: America! America, who has killed A MILLION PEOPLE in Iraq and who knows how many more in the rest of the world... America, who right now is asking for permission to bomb Syria for killing the same Al-Quidists that America has killed. To kill Syrians for … I donno. And citizens of this most evil country want to boycott the Russians because Russians are unfair to homos??? Can you say misplaced self-righeousness?

They can do that though. They're GAY. GAY is the new Negro. Everyone talks about my gay friend. No party is complete without the PARTY HOMO, not prancing, not faggy, not Freddy Mercury butch, but just like you and me... only talking about MY HUSBAND (if a guy) or MY WIFE (if a girl)... and being congratulated by the other guests on the legalization of gay-marriage... and how finally the world is realizing that gays are just like everybody else.

In the 60s, there were rent-a-Negro agencies. You could make your party ethnically complete. Be hip! Too bad they don't print the yellow pages anymore. There'd be pages of PARTY GAYS. Ouch!

PICTURE THIS: Citizens of Luxembourg feel discrimination. No one appreciates their tiny country. They have protests. Write letters. Complain because they get no respect from the bigger countries. Then there are Germans. They feel discrimination. Other Europeans don't like Germans: leftover grudges from World War Two. Then, the Belgians join in. The Belgians feel insecure. They have two main languages: French and Dutch. People say they have to choose... that there are no real Belgians, only French and Dutch who haven't made up their minds.

Then, there are the Turks. Turks live all over Europe, but because of their name and language people still call them Turks. The Turks are calling for the right to choose their nationality. Just because they were born a Turk doesn't mean they have to stay one. They might be a Belgian, trapped in a Turk's body. They want the right to identify as any nationality they please. To vote in any election. To free themselves from the restriction of one national identity.

Based on who knows what, these groups decide to hook up. They unite and call for Luxembourg, German, Belgian, and Turkish (LGBT) rights. What do they ask for? The right to BE LIKE OTHER EUROPEANS, get respect, pay taxes, run for the European parliament, own mansions in Spain. Other than being Europeans (debatable with the Turks), these groups have nothing in common. But they all demand to be included in THE CAUSE. 

 The Luxembergers, Germans, Belgians, and Turks have more in common than any two letters of the groups glommed together under GAY CIVIL RIGHTS.. But wait. There's more. The Civil Rights group has a new letter. As if LGBT weren't oxymoronic enough, now there's LGBTQ.

Q??? Queer???? GAY is as queer as a five-dollar bill. GAY is marriage and the “right” to spawn / adopt human tadpoles! GAY runs for mayor of New York, on a 100% yeah big-business platform. Oh wait, that's LESBIAN.

Then there's Bradley Manning, the hero of WikiLeaks. Tortured horribly by the army and the CIA. Stripped, strapped down, the unimaginable... all for revealing to the world how horrible the government is. His treatment proves his point. So what happens? The liberal press, says it's all because of hormone imbalance. He's really a girl trapped inside a boy's body. They want him sent to women's prison. The government should pay for sex change surgery. Oy vey!!! He shouldn't be in jail at all!

You've got a great human being. One who should be honored for risking everything to tell the truth. And LGBTQ are saying the reason for his actions is that nobody called him Chelsea. It almost makes me want to give up anal sex.

We don't need EXCUSES for Bradley Manning's actions. His were acts of greatness. Pushing them off on hormones diminishes them. He did the right thing. He acted with integrity and courage. Those nouns don't NEED hormones.

So buckaroos, last month, at least in my life, has been a great one for hetitude. Homos, on the other hand, have been an embarrassment.

ENDNOTES: [Contact: Send those... er... private videos..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003 You can also contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. You can comment on the blog version of this column at http://mykelsblog.blogspot.com/. I will delete personal attacks or violations of Godwin's Law. Everything else is fair game.]

-->Taking a bath naked dept: The National Coalition Against Censorship reports the children's book, THE DIRTY COWBOY was removed from the school libraries in Annville-Cleona Pennsylvania. The book had a picture of a dirty cowboy taking a bath... just sitting in a bathtub... no goodies showing! Why was the book removed? "Children may come to the conclusion that looking at nudity is OK, and therefore pornography is OK."

-->Ban the converts dept: Under the headline CHRISTIE SIGNS BAN ON GAY 'CONVERSION THERAPY, amNewYork reports that New Jersey governor Chis Christie signed into law a gag rule that "prevents therapists from counseling gay and lesbian youths to change their sexual orientation." His reasons include "medical research that sexual orientation is determined at birth."

I'm waiting for the law against Christian Conversion Therapy, since it's clear, that being JEWISH is determined at birth. The gay establishment is apparently happy at the signing, again not realizing that laws that shut OTHER PEOPLE up... can turn around and bite you on the a***. I'd write the word, but by the time you read this there'll be a law against it.

--> The Progressive Magazine reports that the drug company Pfizer hired private investigators to find evidence of corruption against the attorney general of Nigeria. They wanted to blackmail him into dropping legal action against the company. This according to WikiLeaks. The Nigerian government had filed a lawsuit against Pfizer alleging fraudulent drug tests on children.

-->It's for your own good dept: Schools in Fort Wayne Indiana are introducing the fingerprinting of all students. Recognition technology, they say, will allow students to pay for their lunches. School officials excuse the privacy invasion by saying the fingerprints will "reduce the risk of a student's ID card getting stolen or lost, help eliminate clerical errors, and speed up the process so kids have more time to eat.”

Yeah, right. See what the cops match when they find that next bag of weed. Eliminate clerical errors, my ass.

-->It had to happen dept: Just when a fad diet hits, another fad diet comes along telling you that not only was the first one wrong... it was actually dangerous. Eggs were healthy, then bad, now good again. Margarine was good, then bad. Diet sodas, they now say, make you fat. And the newest? CHOLESTEROL IS GOOD FOR YOU. It had to happen. You can see the details here.

-->Letting Go dept: I've said it before. It's time for Jews (and Armenians, and whoever else holds a half-century grudge) to let go of their holocaust. That period has been used as an excuse for some of the most heinous crimes of the millennium... and a good deal of them from LAST millennium. It's time for some cultural Alzheimer's. The excuse was “we remember so it never happens again.” But it DOES happen again. Over and over... just to different people.

Well, in a last ditch attempt to exploit the victims, Israel has crowned Ms. Holocaust Survivor. I shit you not. Check it out here. I wonder how she did in the swimsuit contest.

-->Not letting go dept: I still want to keep the pressure on Maximum Rock'n'Roll. They've got a new dictateress, but as far as I can see, no changes planned. If you'd like to see me back there... or if you just want to comment on my getting fired. Post on the MaximumRock'n'Roll facebook page (though all comments about me have been quickly censored). You can also email them directly at mrr@maximumrocknroll.com.

-end-

The First True Post MRR Column

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

by Mykel Board

I feel like I've been freed from a strong and terrible master. --Socrates, when he found he could no longer maintain an erection.

-----------------------

“I want you to imagine your ideal vacation spot,” the anesthesiologist tells me. “Warm. The waves lapping. You're lying... basking in the sun. Nothing to do but relax and sleep.”

“My ideal vacation spot is a jungle in Africa,” I tell him, “with naked natives begging for a crack at my white little body.”

He chuckles.

“Shouldn't I be counting back from 100 or something?” I ask.

“You could try that,” he says.

“100... 99... 98...” I start. I get to 45.

“Something's wrong,” he says. “You should have been out by 89.”

“My arm is killing me,” I tell him.

He walks to where the IV is puncturing a vein in my arm. A clear, slightly viscous liquid drips from the vein onto the floor.

“Shit!” he says.

Not exactly what you want to hear from a doctor.

The surgeon speaks this time. “Bring it around this side,” she tells him. “Here, put it in his hand...in the back of his hand.”

The sleep doc walks the needle around to my right side. He pokes it into a vein in the back of my hand... tapes it down.

“100... 99... 98..” I say. I get to 92.

AUGUST 2013 It's been a few hell-months for me. Besides getting fired from MRR, I develop a hernia. Then, WITH the hernia (in my body, not as a tool), I have to move furniture so the bedbug guys can bedbug-proof the apartment. My neighbors have 'em. Soon, I'm suffering a bloody scalp where books and a heavy speaker tumble onto my head as I move a bookcase. A few days later, I lose a best friend, an Israeli, because I've posted a facebook article critical of Israel. Then, I have the hernia operation and awake with horrible pain... in my shoulder! I needed the Oxycontin for THAT! Not for my balls! Then, I find that the Oxycontin is stupidly mixed with Tylenol so that if I have a beer and take the pills my liver will dissolve. I can barely crawl out of bed. I can't use my stomach muscles to sit up. My shoulder pain won't let me use my arms to push myself up. Then, lying in bed, my apartment fills with red dust... like a Gobi sandstorm... so thick I can't see. (They're renovating the apartment next door and sanding down the bricks to make them look authentic.) Then, I start coughing from the dust, and the cough tears at my just repaired abdominal muscles making the blood trickle downward so my cock and balls turn black from collected hemoglobin. (Photos soon on flickr.)

My pal Wanda stops in to nurse me. She has the keys. We've been friends for more than two decades. Just friends... She's a lesbian, of course and she lives just down the street. It's a pleasure to see her leather-jacketed crew-cut self swagger in through the bedroom door. She brings me a cup of coffee from the Korean deli downstairs, and for some reason a bean burrito.

“I can't fart!” I tell her. “Gas just bubbles around my intestines... like a juvenile delinquent... just hanging out...no place to go.”

“It's a breakfast burrito, Mykel,” she tells me. “It's good for you. Let me microwave it up.”

FLASH TO TWO YEARS AGO. I'm with my top-tier pal Sid. We're eating at a Mexican place in some state that does not border on water. I order pig's cheek taco.

“Why do you always have to get the most disgusting food?” he asks.

“What do you mean disgusting?” I say. “How do you know it's disgusting? What if I like it?”

“I was just asking?” he says. “Just asking.”

BACK TO NOW: “Where's the microwave?”asks Wanda.

“I can't eat a burrito!” I cry. “I'm in pain. I can't fart. I'll explode.”

“I was just asking,” she says.

FLASH BACK TO SID AGAIN: This time we're couch-surfing together... somewhere in the South, I think. The hostess is a beautiful Latina. I can see both of us eying the parts she shows when she's leaving.

“Mykel,” says Sid, “do you ever think that you're too old for some of these girls. I mean, how can you expect anything more than a smile when you're old enough to be her father... her grandfather?”

“What the fuck?” I say. “Let a girl wiggle her ass and the insults start flying.”

“Insults? What insults?” says Sid. “I was just asking. That's all.”

RIGHT NOW: Yeah, I KNOW, just asking implies motive behind the question. Yeah I KNOW questions themselves can be irritating. (What's it like living your whole life as a short person?), insulting (Don't you think that people would have more respect for you if you didn't act like a 60-year old baby?), racist (Why don't Jews ever want to split the bill? ). and just asking doesn't make them any less so. But ASKING opens a door. Allows discussion. An answer, even if it's that question is :irritating/insulting/racist. It starts a dialog-- or should-- even if the dialog is about the question itself.

Lisa Carver (formerly Lisa Suckdog) posted in Facebook how she lost friends by simply asking if CLASS WAR was the same as CIVIL WAR. Just asking the question, lost her friends, probably with accusation of you're conservative, a sell-out, or who-knows-what else. She's not the only one.

Only in The Gambia have I met people who could talk about anything, answer any question with a smile and another helping of tea. Only they were not offended by the question, but offered a thoughtful answer without taking ANYTHING personally. This is NOT The Gambia.

Now, I'm writing my first column outside the yoke of Maximum Rock'n'Roll. I'm responsible to my readers, and them only. I'm gonna ask a lot of questions here. I hope I don't lose friends... but it's a writer's dilemma: ask the questions or BE NICE. The first choice will lose you friends. The second will make you a bad writer.

Some questions need to be asked. For all but two years after Timmy Y's demise, MRR has been ruled by a cabal of Iron Ladies. Like my Israeli friend who saw my criticisms of Israel as “permission to kill Jews,” critical questions about women at MRR are met with everything from vague hostility to charges of ENCOURAGING RAPE. So now that I'm relatively free, with friends, not a vocation, at risk, I will ask what needs to be asked.

FLASH TO BEDSIDE: Wanda sits on a step ladder next to the bed. She holds the coffee, with a straw for me to sip. I lay on plumped up pillows.

“Hey Wanda,” I say. “Can I ask you a bunch of questions?”

“Sure,” she says, “no harm in asking questions.”

“Okay,” I tell her, “but the questions might make you mad. I don't want to risk your pouring hot coffee on my testicles.”

“Mykel,” she says, “I've known you for 20 years. I don't think you could ask anything to offend me. Besides, you're only asking, right?”

“Right,” I tell her.”And even more. I don't want you to answer the questions right now. I want you to take 'em home with you. Sleep on 'em. Bring me some answers with my morning coffee tomorrow. You can ask me if you don't understand something. But don't answer. You can ask a question, but no comments until you think it over. Okay?”

She doesn't answer.

Wiseguy.

FLASH TO LAST MONTH: City Court. I'm here... called for jury duty. In the first case I'm called for, a drug possession case, I don't even make it to the jury box. The second case is a rape. I make it to the final stage on this one. It's a charge against a homeless guy, brought by a drunken college girl. I'd better not get on THIS jury. I might not survive.

During the person-by-person questioning, one of the prosecutors reads New York's definition of RAPE: Penetration, no matter how far, of the penis into the vagina... without consent. And I think, what the fuck?

If rape is defined as penetration, no matter how far, of a penis into a vagina, without consent... that means only men can be rapists and only women can be victims. Women cannot rape men or other women. Men cannot rape other men. If a woman is drunk she is considered unable to give consent... if she has sex, it's rape. If a man is drunk, it doesn't matter. Only the woman's condition matters. Is there another crime so divided that only one gender can be the criminal, and the other the victim? Could you imagine a crime where only one RACE could be the criminal and another the victim? What would that say about such a society?

BEDSIDE: “Okay Wanda,” I say. “The first question comes from some thoughts I had in court.”

“What were you on trial for?” she asks me.

Wise guy.

I explain the situation and ask her the question. She keep her composure.

“So you want me to go home and think about this? Right?”

“That's right,” I say. “Otherwise it'll just turn into a stupid argument.”

She nods, tapping her unpainted nails against the step ladder. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “You know I'm pro-abortion. Look around. It's obvious we need more of them. But there's something else. If abortion is legal, who should decide if the woman gets one or not? The father? The pregnant woman? If it's the woman who makes the sole decision (In my opinion, it should be), then why should she be able to sue for child support? If a man says, ABORT, but the woman says I'LL KEEP IT, then it's the woman's choice ONLY. Should the man be forced to pay for something he had no say in? If the baby were a 50-50 choice to make it and keep it, okay... split the costs 50-50. But if it's only up to ONE SIDE to have a baby or not, why should the other side pay anything?”

That's a lot to get out in one breath... too much. I inhale and my lungs fill with brick dusk. I start coughing. The pain is unimaginable. I feel like I'm going to split open. Stitches tear. My entire large intestine slide down the inguinal canal. At least it feels that way.

Wanda comes to the rescue, sliding the coffee-with-the-straw under face. I take a sip. Spit up all over my pajamas. Wanda gets a paper towel from the kitchen and pats up coffee. I'm breathing hard now. My lungs whistle with each breath.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I nod.

“Did you get that question?” I try to say, dribbling more coffee into my beard..

She nods.

“Anything else?” she asks.

I nod... and hold up a finger to tell her I'm trying to get my insides together. More gas rumbles through my guts. It presses against my anal sphincter in a desperate bid for freedom. Freedom denied.

I talk some more.

“If abortion is legal,” I say, “then a mother choosing to destroy her fetus is not a murderer. BUT, the law says that making a pregnant woman lose a baby, (say someone hits her in the stomach), is MURDER in the eyes of the state. How come? Either killing a fetus is murder, or it isn't? If it ISN'T murder, than why is the fetus destroyer charged with murder? If it IS murder, than why do mothers have the right to murder their children in the womb and not after they're born?”

“Does it matter that I'm a lesbian in answering all these abortion questions?” asks Wanda.

“Naw,” I tell her. “It matters that you're smart and you're a girl... It also doesn't hurt that you're here nursing me.”

“Okay,” she says, “Is there a way you can get more girls to nurse crotchety old men with hernias? I think it'll help make more lesbians.”

I laugh.

“OW! OW! OW! Jeezus fuck that hurts,” I groan, “Please, even a chuckle makes it feel like my insides are tearing themselves apart.”

“Okay,” she says, “you have more questions?”

“Yes,” I tell her, “Why are liberals outraged at U.S. MILITARY RAPE? Why is that more important than military murder? Why are we worried more about soldiers abusing each other, than about soldiers (or drones) murdering non-soldiers? Why is equality among killers more important than preventing killing in the first place?

“You finished Mykel?” she asks.

I can see that she's not very pleased.

“You're not going to hurt me?” I ask. “Roll me onto the floor, make cough, do something that will pull at my delicate sutures?”

“Of course not,” she answers. “What makes you think that?”

Then, she tickles me.

--------------------------------------------------

NOTE TO READERS:

Ok, I know that I'm not just asking. Behind each question is a motive. Maybe the question itself is the wrong question. But now that I'm free from the constraints of a strong and terrible master... er... mistress... I can ask these questions. Your comments are welcome, either on the blog, on facebook or in an email. Personal attacks, however, will be deleted and GODWIN'S LAW will be ruthlessly enforced.

I'm looking for civil rather than hysterical conversation. Maybe that's not possible on the internet. Maybe it's not possible outside of Western Africa. Let's see what happens.

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email (god@mykelboard.com). Postal contact (send those... er... private videos..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003]

-->Credit where it's due dept: MRR finally ran a pro-Mykel letter and my letter to the editor where I explained the facts and lies of my being canned. They did it without mentioning my rather childish mis-spelling of the editrix, Mariam's, name. And so far, it seems that I've remained on their comp list. New issue, fresh as a daisy, in my PO Box. Ten punk points guys. As usual, I urge you to express your opinion about my firing to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com.

--> Salon reports that the Tennessee state legislature is considering a new bill. It would allow graduate student counselors to refuse to offer services to clients with "goals, outcomes or behaviors that conflict with the sincerely held religious beliefs of the counselor.”

The bill was created specifically for counselors to be able NOT to work with gay students, I hope some smart kid waits for a student who wants to become a priest!! No service for him, buckaroo! It's against her religion to service future priests!

--> The return of the anti-porn feminist monster or the what good is jerking off department: Just when you thought the beast was dead, it rises like a penis at a porn convention. AM New York reports that feminists now argue that internet porn is “rewiring boys' minds.”

That's bad for the boy, the report says, “Eventually his brain wires itself to everything associated with porn such as: Being alone, constant clicking, voyeurism, shock and surprise. This conflicts with learning about real sex, which involves interaction with a real person, courtship, commitment, touching, being touched and emotional connection.”

I'm not sure how much REAL SEX the report-writer has had, but a fuck of a lot of it doesn't involve courtship, commitment, or emotional connection. Prostitution and one-night stands, you know, are slightly older (several thousand years), than internet porn.

-->And who abolished slavery? dept: The Nation reports that England has fined companies hiring "interns" at zero dollars... er... pounds per hour. This is a violation of the UK minimum wage law. Several of the UK's leading universities are now refusing to advertise unpaid internships. These include Oxford, York, Leeds, Liverpool, and more. Check out InternAware.org for more information.

-->How do you spell Kangaroo dept: 3 years after hero Bradley-Manning was captured and tortured for WikiLeaks revelations, his trial finished in Meade, Maryland. Manning was being tried on charges including "aiding the enemy" that could result in life in prison or even the death penalty. The Obama administration continues being the worst in history at the persecution and torture of whistle-blowers and truth-tellers. As of this writing, they still haven't gotten poor Edward Snowden for revealing how the US has broken into Chinese government and company offices... while complaining about China doing the same to the US.

-->The Week magazine reports that Afghan president, Hamid Karzai, has threatened to boycott US talks with the Taliban. The talks are scheduled in Qatar and the Afghan government is pissed because they wanted the talks based on a Taliban recognition of Karzai as the president. Karzai has threatened to suspend negotiations to allow US troops to stay in Afghanistan after next year. I wonder how long before Karzai will suddenly be struck with some kind of "incurable cancer." Don't these guys ever learn?

-->Thanks dept: My friend Sid Yiddish is one of the most inventive people I know. You can see his current radio project on facebook. His newest band is Sid Yiddish And His Candy Store Henchmen. Watch for them in a place of creative weirdness near you.

-->Downsizing dept: During the huge move for the bedbug prevention guys, I realized how much stuff I have. I'm almost dead, so I'll never get to it. Though I like it, I gotta ditch it. SO, here's a bunch of stuff I'm giving away. You've gotta fork over the postage, but the merch is free. You can see the whole deal at: http://tinyurl.com/MykelsFreeStuff. I hope you want some of it.

-end-