Privilege and Stripping or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 33

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 33

America has Race Fever. It's not an actual race war, but a sort of racial Cold War. A grinding war of nerves. And it's impossible to escape. A race war would be anticlimactic at this point... Let's cool down just a tad. We don't need MORE sensitivity. If we got any more sensitive, we'd all break out in a rash. --Jim Goad (copped from another of my columns)

Privilege and Stripping

or

Stripping the Privilege

by Mykel Board

Part 1: Privilege

It's the circus... an arena for kids and adults to be amazed by some performances... amused by others.

A small car comes from the tent-wing and drives toward the center. Smaller than a smart car, it's somewhere between a kiddie pedal car and a remote controlled drone car. The door opens... out comes a man... tall... a red fringe of hair around a bald head... face and head painted white. Then comes another... bright colored clothes... big shoes. Then another... and another... all faces painted white. So many people from such a small space. How do they do it?

One of the men whacks the other on the ass. It's a slap stick... makes a loud sound and the kids laugh. A mother next to me talks about the slapper.

“What a clown!” she says, casually as scratching her ass.

I cringe.

I think of the make-up... the caricatures... faces painted white in a parody of European-Americans. Whiteface... people playing the fool... the victims of violence from a slapboard to a rug pulled out from underfoot.

Happy clowns, mean clowns, evil clowns, every cliché of the dumb, malicious, whiteguy book...there... accepted by the world.

In never ending parades of whitefolk clichés, clowns tell the world that European-Americans aren't like other people. They're either scary or funny-- evil or stupid-- but not like the rest.

Google “white guys” and you'll see Donald Trump in an open-mouthed harangue... or Clint Eastwood... with a gun.

Watch any TV program... cop show... major movie. Unless it's a Jackie Chan film, most of the dead guys will be white. White lives don't matter. They're as disposable as tissue paper: bleached white to show that you should throw it away.

Half of the murder victims in the US are European-Americans. We don't hear about that.

What do we hear?

Flash to a blond girl... long Prell hair, blue sweater tied loosely around her neck.. She looks directly in the camera. “Fresh is a walk through the woods on an early spring morning.” Cut to a more housewifey lady in a white gossamer gown. Her skin just this side of pink. “Fresh is a gentle breeze, that takes you by surprise.”

 

And what exactly is so fresh? Their twats! They're pushing SUMMER'S EVE, “feminine deodorant” now available in “doctor recommended vinegar and water.”

After five minutes of Walking Dead or some other show I'll never see, comes commercial two:

Cut to an elevator. A young guy-- whiter than Justin Bieber-- shares an elevator with an older crewcut European-American... the latter very boss looking.

“Sam,” says the boss, “glad you got the memo.”

Sam looks at his phone. Sees MEETING CHANGED TO 8AM... in red... on the screen. He puts his briefcase on the elevator ledge, opens it, pulls out the Gillette Deodorant, runs it under his shirt... no sweat!

What do these commercials tell the world? WHITE PEOPLE STINK.

Google PRUDE and you have to scroll down mighty far before you see the first person who isn't white. Clowns, prudes, nerds... these are the images that the world has of white people. These are the images in the brains of people who look at you as you shop for cereal or scratch your balls on the street. Those are the glasses coloring the vision of everyone you meet... or don't meet because they're afraid of you... or you disgust them... because of your race.

What's written in history books? What do we see? WHITE Vikings slicing through the bodies of their helpless victims. Invading flotillas of WHITE people, conquering the peaceful Redman in America. European-American pilots dropping atomic bombs on helpless Asians.

Check out mass murderers for entry after entry of white people. Charles Manson, Timothy McVeigh, The Columbine Killers. Their white faces are splashed across every paper in America. Think: Who are the killers? Answer: WHITE PEOPLE.

When the world thinks of BLACK, they think NELSON MANDELA, MUHAMMAD ALI, or HILLARY CLINTON. Who do you think has an easier time entering the Knicks' lockerroom, Jesse Jackson or Noam Chomsky? It's BLACK-PRIVILEGE.

The prude-clown-murderer... that's what the world thinks of EUROPEAN-AMERICANS. Selective history, stereotypes, non-stop bombardment with disparaging images... this has got to stop! I have a plan.

Put it in a museum. A single place... a monument to European-American stereotypes and cliches. The Betty Boops, the Bozo the Clowns, the John Wayne Gacys, the Elmer Gantrys. The statues of naked whiteboys with granite preserved genitalia. White boys as nutty professors and white boys nailed to a cross. WHITE HINDRANCE. Most European-Americans don't even know they've got it.

When people ask why European-Americans need their own safe spaces... point to that museum.

When they ask why white people can't associate with everyone else... or act in a human way... point to that museum. When people call that white kid THE CLASS CLOWN or say HE GOT AWAY WITH MURDER, it's time to call them out... to bring 'em to that museum.

Part 2 Stripping:

BOOM chaka BOOM chaka BOOM BOOM. The speakers blast at the usual levels. An inch and a half from my nose is a coffee colored ass. I can see every pimple... every spot of rippled flesh... every raised bump, looking like an unpeeled orange at nose level. Here in Miami, it's all the way. No pasties, no bikini bottoms, you got it all... the whole kit... the whole caboodle. I reach forward to put a bill on that little shelf where the beautiful brown buttocks wiggling in front of me attaches itself to her body.

I pucker my lips and place a smackeroo on the right cheek. Her face turns to me. She smiles. I put another dollar up there as I kiss the other cheek. She turns around, showing me her shaved taco... looking tight as a Florida parking space.

I look up at her. Her perfectly styled hair, curled to flow just past her shoulders. I look at her face... her smile. I look into her eyes... I see it... a negative it... something missing. Her smile is there, but something about those eyes. Like I'm a vampire looking into a mirror. No refection....blank... like the light behind those eyes dimmed... flickered... went out.

Something is dead in there. Something that her life... this display... this parody of love... has hurt. Every night... how many different lips on those ass cheeks. How many rides on how many laps? How much has what should be so close, become so mundane... so ordinary? Going beyond sadness... this enters the realm of something closer to death... to murder.

I feel my body begin to drip with sweat. I look around the room at the sad old men... the just post teens... the jocks out for a night of beer... at whose expense? This girl... looking at me...smiling... dead smiling.

What a load of bullshit! From the red I to the red g in smiling. What I wrote above is what feminists and Christians want to hear. And it's a lie.

I love strippers. I know strippers. I know the NYU students who would rather strip than waitress tables for a bunch of hipsters. I know the Thai strippers who would rather shoot an egg out of their twat than serve one au benedict to some farang tourist lady with no chin.

Human trafficking? You want human trafficking? Check the nail salons. That's where you'll find it. Check the maids, the au pairs, the people catering to the rich. More strippers like their jobs than do Walmart associates.... MANY more.

The only reason liberals and Christians get on their high horses about strippers (or prostitutes, for that matter), is SEX. Get it? Sex is bad! MEN are bad. These girls service men with sex... no one would do that willingly, right? It MUST be human trafficking.

Yeah, right.

No matter who has control, the PRUDES win. Liberal or conservative, the prudes, yeah the WHITE prudes, win.

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]

→Thanks dept: I want to thank my pal Tony “Anonymous Boy” Arena for telling me about the Jim Crow Museum that inspired the White Cliché Museum I wrote about in this blog. Tony also told me that Betty Boop was originally black! Hollywood whitened her up to make her more acceptable to the general population. It doesn't change anything in what I wrote, but it is an interesting bit of history.

-->Deep in the Heart Dept pt 1: California Republican Shannon Grove said that the first rain after a Texas drought was God thanking the legislature for the passage of a strict anti-abortion bill. Grove talks about the night of the passage:

“It rained that night,” she said. “God's hand is in the affairs of man.”

-->Deep in the Heart Dept pt 2: Texas police forced 7 and 8 year old sisters to shut down their lemonade stand because they didn't have a permit. They reportedly were raising money to buy a Father's Day gift, but the police said they needed to apply for a permit “because of bacteria that can grow in lemonade.”

--> Deep in the Heart Dept pt 3: Rick Allgeyer was the Director of research in the Texas Health and Human Services Commission. He co-authored an article for the New England Journal of Medicine on how state cuts to Planned Parenthood have reduced the ability of women to get health care.

        He was fired when the article appeared.

-->Nice new suit dept: Chicago cop Robert Rialmo murdered a 19 year old colored guy who had no weapon. He also killed a neighbor "by accident." Now the cop is... get this... suing the estate of the kid he killed for 10 million dollars. Why? He suffered "extreme emotional trauma" because of the deaths and he blames the kid for "forcing him to shoot."

--->Where exactly are you putting that pen dept: The BIC company has announced a new line of pens called "For Her." They come in pastel colors and are thinner than normal bic pens. They're also about 70% more expensive. Predictably, reaction has been cynical.

-->Going to your head dept: Massachusetts' law prohibits wearing hats or head covering in driver's license pictures unless, "they're worn for religious purposes."

So Lindsay Miller shows up wearing a pasta strainer on her head and demands a picture. Why? She's a PASTAFARIAN. After a threat of a court case, the Massachusetts DMV relented and she got her picture.

The actual name of the sect is "Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster."

Wait for MY picture with a nylon stocking over my head. "Robin Hood Church of Bank Robbery."

Got any other ideas?

--> 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.

-end-

TWO WOMEN or Mykel Board's Post-MRR Column 14

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

by Mykel Board

"I knew it was possible to objectify and not disrespect, to objectify and not wish harm upon a person. I wanted to share a pleasure. “ – Nina Hartley, pornstar, and pro-sex activist

Note: this month's column is a bit late. Two reasons:

First, I've been busier than the mopboy at a peepshow... with the New Year (5775) and fasting away my sins, planning my life and impending doom. Second, a trip to Montreal inspired me to change the whole... er... thrust of the column. You'll see why. This one is called,

A TALE OF TWO WOMEN

Usually, having a penis is a convenience. It's easier to piss standing up, for example, or re-dress after a bathroom quickie. But sometimes, having a penis is a pain in the ass.

Right now, mine is somewhere between overcooked spaghetti and the Washington Monument. I sit at Le Gentleman's Choice, a strip club in Downtown Montreal. I'm here with three of my friends from New York-- all Japanese guys. One of them, Kenji, sits next to me. A quick glance as he shifts on his seat shows that he, too, is al dente. Takeshi and Taro are in the back, in private booth lap dances.

There are girls galore here, from a full-mast inducing Ethiopesque to a downright scary biker babe. On stage now is a collegiate-looking woman with an athletic body and small, pointed nipples.

I walk up to that stage and lay a crisp US dollar bill on it. No one else is tipping, maybe because Canadian dollars are coins. I return to my seat next to Kenji. The girl on stage picks up my dollar, smiles, and flashes some gash-- directly at me.

A beautiful girl... barely twenty... smooth skin the color of (white) piano keys... wearing a blue wig and not much else... sits down on the other side of me.

“You want a lap dance?” she asks. “Just ten dollars.”

Her accent does not seem French.

“I don't do lap dances,” I tell her. “They don't work for me.”

She starts to get up.

“But,” I continue, “I'll buy you a drink if you talk to me. You get a commission on that, right?”

She nods.

I signal the waitress, a pretty, but not very friendly woman, dressed in black with a white

apron.

“Une bière, et ce qu'elle veut,” I tell her.

“Now,” I say. “First, tell me about your life. Start with your name.”

“My name's Veronica,” she says.

“Come on,” I tell her. “What's your REAL name?”

She smiles and shrugs, “It's Marta, in English, Martha.”

And then she talks to me.

MARTHA'S STORY

“I'm from Poland,” she says, pronouncing it like BOW-LAND, “You know Poland?”

“I may be American,” I tell her, “but I'm not an idiot.”

She laughs.

“My first dream was to go to America,” she continues, “but I have a cousin here... she works in Montreal.. It was a lot easier to come here.”

“Does your cousin work here?” I ask, nodding toward the stage.

Martha laughs, shaking her head. The wig shakes slightly slower than her head. “She would be afraid to do this. She's a waitress, in one of those tourist beer gardens... it's awful... filled with dumb French tourists... and Americans.”

She looks at me and pouts... a prostate-aching pout... “Sorry,” she says, “I didn't mean to say bad things about Americans.”

“It's all right,” I say, adjusting myself, “I say bad things about Americans all the time.”

She frowns again, then looks at my face and laughs.

“I love it here,” she says. “It's such a... how you call it... ego trip... dancing for all these guys. They all look at you. You're number one in their minds... you excite them. On stage, you are the center. You're like a queen.”

“Does it pay?” I ask. “I was the only one tipping.”

“No,” says Martha, “they don't tip here. The girls' money comes from lap dances. $10 a song. I take home nearly a hundred thousand a year. I don't need dollar tips.”

“Are there male strip clubs in Montreal?” I ask. “Either for men or for women?”

“There's Le Two Eight One,” she says. “That's guys who dance for girls. I guess there are some gay clubs too. But I don't know them.”

“You know anybody who works at one of those clubs?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Those clubs don't pay. Girls don't want lap dances as much, and the clubs are... I don't know... how you call it... slow Z.”

“Sleazy?” I offer.

“Oui,” she says. “Sleazy. The boys don't make much money unless they... you know... they have to...”

I nod, surprised at her modesty.

Just then Takeshi comes back... scowling. He ignores me, but sits on the other side of Kenji. They speak to each other in Japanese. I look at him, frowning a question.

“I was cheated,” he says to me-- in English. “I thought the dance was ten dollars, but it was only for one song. The girl didn't tell me when the next song came on.”

He says something else-- in Japanese-- to Kenji. I can't hear it, but I do see another girl... the one he went to a private booth with... jogging from the booth. She kneels in front of Takeshi. In her hand is a ten-dollar bill.

“I'm sorry,” she says to him. “I thought you understood. Here, take ten dollars back. I don't want you to feel cheated.”

Takeshi shakes his head. “I had the dance. You should get the money.” She smiles and leaves.

It's a little while later that Taro returns, grinning like a chimp on Animal Planet.

“I went,” he says in English as he approaches the table.

“I think you mean you came,” I correct him.

He nods.

Back in New York: I sit at a bar in Midtown... right near my school. It's a typical NY faux-Irish bar. Waitresses with Irish accents and breasts. Customers with jackets and loosened ties (men)-- or business casual skirts and sensible shoes (women).

It's 9PM. The woman next to me is slightly tipsy... about 30 years old... faint crowsfeet at the edges of her eyes... dark circles underneath. She's dressed like any midtown secretary. She looks at me looking at her... squints, as if trying to get me in focus.

“Hey, sailor,” she says. “...or whatever you are. How 'bout buyin' a girl a drink?”

“Sure,” I say. “If you'll tell me about your life.”

“You don't want to know about my life,” she says... surprisingly NOT slurring her words.

“Sure I do,” I tell her.

“Hey Maggie,” I ask the bartender, “give this young woman a drink on me. Nothing top shelf, but... how 'bout a Jameson's.”

“Well thanks... er...” says the woman.

“Mykel,” I say.

“My name's Justine,” she says. I don't ask her for her real name.

JUSTINE'S STORY

“How long've you been in New York?” I ask her.

“About a year,” she tells me. “I was born in Missouri... small town. It was my dream to come to New York.”

“So you did it,” I say.

“Hah!,” she answers, taking a sip of her Jamesons, “more like a nightmare than a dream.”

“You don't like the city or you don't like your job?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

She tells me about her job. It's with McKenzie & Cromwell, a law firm. She is a paralegal. “That means a secretary who has to kill time on LexisNexis.” She explains that LexisNexis is some kind of database for looking up precedents and court cases.

“Mckenzie and Cromwell?” I ask. “Sounds goyish. Do you like your job?”

“It's as boring as golf,” she tells me. “Oh, I hope you're not a golf fan.”

“Do I look like a golf fan?” I ask her.

She smiles and shakes her head.

“The pay is shit. The men make twice as much,” she continues shaking her head. “I know strippers who make more than me.”

“Me too,” I don't say.

“But that's not the worst of it,” she says, draining her glass. I signal to Maggie to bring two more drinks. Another Jameson for her and a Yuengling for me. “It's the... I dunno... impersonality of it all.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I'm like a cog in a wheel,” she says, mixing her metaphors. “I mean I sit in a little cubical with dozens of other people sitting in their little cubicles. I don't know their names. They don't know mine. I'm not a person. I'm a thing... a piece of meat. Nobody ever says nice job or even nice haircut. The company tells me how to dress. I might as well be working at McDonald’s for all the attention they pay to me as a person.

“And every day I feel like shit about myself,” she says. “The whole purpose of the company is to cheat people. We bill more than a hundred bucks an hour... for dicking around on the internet. I get home and want to wash the smell of scam off my body. It's awful.”

I nod.

“And I'm not the only one,” she continues. “There are girls working there... from all over... I think some recruiter promises them jobs with (she uses her fingers to make air quotes) A BIG LAW FIRM, and they sign the papers. Once they get here, they can't get out of their contract without being shipped back to Kabukistan or wherever the hell they're from. It's like slavery.”

““It's called Human Trafficking,” I don't tell her. “It's only illegal if you show your twat.”

“Thanks for the drink,” says Justine. “I hope I didn't bore you with my story. I wish I could invite you home, but I got a lazy boyfriend I gotta support. I hope the story was worth the two drinks.”

“It was,” I tell her. “just what I needed.... I went.”

“Huh?” she asks.

I just smile.

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]

-->Huh? dept: Jason Torpy, The president of the Military Association of Atheists and Freethinkers, said, "The lack of belief in a god should not be a disqualifier to access to chaplaincy." And in April 2014, the U.S. Army announced that "humanist" would be an officially recognized "faith," although so-far, they're not allowed to have chaplains. 

I say: a CHAPLAIN is a religious leader serving the military. “Lack of belief in a god:” kind of puts the kibosh on “religious” doesn't it? A lot of atheists are dogmatic and evangelical... but somehow I don't think that's enough to qualify.

-->Your private donations aren't dept: Brendan Eich, former CEO of Mozilla gave $1,000 in support of California’s Proposition 8, a constitutional amendment that would outlaw same-sex marriages. This was in 2008-- six years ago. Eich is a co-founder of Mozilla and only recently became the CEO. He has since resigned because of the stink raised by the donation.

-->Rush Limbaugh... again dept: The girls are on Rush Limbaugh for saying that every adolescent knows that when uttered by a girl “No doesn't always mean no.” You can read the petition here. Of course, Limbaugh's right... but that's irrelevant to the outrage. Something as mundane as the truth never stopped a feminist before... won't stop one now.

-->The good guys dept: Not In My Name is a group of Jews, some in Israel, some elsewhere, who reject the Israeli-caused genocide in Gaza and Palestine. They also reject the Jewish hawks and other rightists speaking for “all of us.” Mazel tov!

-->More about strippers dept: There a great article in This Week called Surprising Facts About Strippers. After reading this column, you won't be surprised.

-->Twisted numbers dept:I just read Michael Bloomberg, former king of New York, bragged that during his term "the life expectancy of the average New Yorker increased three years." He wanted to claim stupid anti-smoking and pro-bike lanes were making New Yorkers healthier.

The real reason? Rich people live longer than poor people on average. Mike Bloomberg threw out the poor and replaced 'em with rich. Violá! An increase in longevity!

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Send your comments-- to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

-->And: I'm on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, CDs and a few 7-inch singles. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway

-end-

 



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.

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