TRUSTAFARTI or Mykel's APRIL Blog/Column

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or
Mykel's

APRIL 2026 Blog/Column
by Mykel Board

TRUSTAFARTI

April is a dreary month that leads to a spring opening… a reawakening… the joy of nature. Fools are quick to judge a rainstorm or two… a sudden chill after a day or two of warmth. In my 76+ years on the planet, I’ve learned never to trust the calendar… or the weather. But what else have I learned? That’s what I want to write about this month. And it starts with a phone call.

People who know me know I HATE the telephone. I almost never answer it and prefer leisurely texting over the evil busting in of a ringtone and flashing phone screen.

But this month starts with a phone call that I answer… Home alone... nothing special to do for once. The phone flashes with a 646 number… probably meaning the caller is a NY cellphone user.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Is this Mykel?” She pronounces it “my-KELL”, so I figure she’s reading it from somewhere. She’s got a late-adolescent voice.

“This is MY-cull,” I respond. “What can I do for you?”

“I got your number from Dale Ashmun,” answers the voice, referring to a former friend and guitar player (after Crackers) for my first band, ART, THE ONLY BAND IN THE WORLD. Dale died early last year.

“Dale Ashmun is dead,” I reply.

“I know,” answers the voice, “I talked to him a couple years ago and since lost the reference. I just found it in an old NYU notebook. I meant to call you a very long time ago.”

“Okay,” I say, “what can I do for you?”

“Dale told me you were a smart old guy,” says the voice.

“Well,” I say, “I’m at least one of those things. How can I help you?”

“My name is Zorigtoi Teneg. I’m writing a book called Sagely Advice For The 21^st Century. And from what Dale said, you seem like a sagely advice kind of guy.”

A laugh snorts through my nose… along with a little mucus.

“What I want to know,” continues the voice, “is: What is the most important thing you’ve learned during your 78 years...”

“Seventy-Six,” I correct her.

“Seventy-Six years here on earth. If you could distill it down to one sentence, what would that sentence be?”

The request gives me pause… but I’ve been asked the question… in various forms… several times before. I have one set answer that usually keeps the conversation short.

“Never trust a fart,” I say.

There is a moment of silence… then one of those fake coughs people give when they’re stalling for time.

“Your whole life?” she says, “and that’s the only lesson?”

“No,” I answer, “there are lots of lessons. But that’s the one that’s most important. It’s saved me embarrassment in 72 countries.”

“I know you’ve traveled a lot… you lived in Mongolia, right?”

I nod, then realize a nod doesn’t count for much over the phone. “Yep, Mongolia was great. They often greet each other by saying ‘Amdrar jama bein’ which means You should have a good body. But even that works. Your body will function better if you don’t trust your farts.”

Zori sounds disappointed, “That’s it for 78 years?”

“Seventy-six,” I say and hang up.

Around a week later, I’m at the post office collecting my mail. There is a plain white envelope with the return address of Zorigtoi Teneg… and a Brooklyn address. The envelope is thick... as if several sheets of paper were inside… or maybe a small zine.

When I get home, I open the envelope and pull out what, in fact, looks like a small zine. In large type on the front page is the word BELIEVE. Under that, in small type, is the phrase: Monthly Magazine of The Trustafartians. Then there is graphic... type in a picture format. It says Pffffffftttt.

With the zine is a small hand-scribbled note. I knew what you were going to say. That’s the REAL reason I called and THIS is what I wanted you to see. Join us… love, Zori.

When I get home, I take the zine, lay down on the couch, grab a tissue box in case there’s some good porn in it… and open it up. On the first page is

THE PRINCIPLES OF THE TRUSTAFARTIS

1. Your body is a temple of God. If it says FART, God wants you to believe it and fart.

2. A fart is a fart is a fart. It may be quiet. It may blast. It may be solo. It may be accompanied by something browner or more loose. But it’s still a fart.

3. Respond to farts… your own and others… Respond with a smile, applause, congratulations… Most importantly with TRUST.

4. Know that, except for a few minutes immediately after, dead people don’t fart. Realize that your farts show that you’re alive.

5. In America, people are yelling NO KINGS… but we know that’s wrong. Like Jesus for the Christians, we have a king who has not died, but still lives, for our sins.

I skip to another page. There is a picture of a guy in what looks like a military uniform. His face, looks… I donno… Bozo-ish…. Pasty white complexion… fat pink lips… a bulbous nose. He’s wearing brown pants and a brown military-collar jacket with a number of patches on it. Underneath the picture is the caption The Divine Haile Unlikeli, King of the Trustafarti.

On another page, I see a picture of a jar filled with what look like tiny white shrimps (prawns, not short people)… packed together tightly. The jar seems to be about the size of one of those plastic water bottles that top (or used to top) office water coolers. Underneath the picture is the caption: Omnes reliqui sumus. I’ll look that one up later. I’m guessing it’s Latin and means “Everyone (or everything) is released.” It’s only in Possum Grape that I find out I’m wrong.

And speaking of Possum Grape, the back cover has nothing but a name and address:

Trustafarti
POB 0001
Possum Grape AR 72020

I look it up. It turns out to be a real place… in Arkansas

I have a goal! My life has meaning. I have to meet, socialize, eat with these guys. Trustafarti!

So here’s what happens:

I look for transportation. Find none. But I know I can take Amtrak to Little Rock. It should be a hop skip and ride hitch from there.

FLASH TO MIDNIGHT AT THE END OF MARCH 31, 2023

I’ve just arrived at the only hotel in Possum Grape... after a long Amtrak trip from New York to Little Rock. Then a two-hour uber ($145!!!!) to Possum Grape, where the stunned driver asks “Why the hell would you want to go there?”

When I arrive at the TRUST Hotel, where I made an Internet reservation, the night-clerk, a chubby young man with a hillbilly beard, gives me a I know why you’re here smile as he hands me the key to my $30-a-night room.

In the morning, I plan to ask the hopefully different, more attractive, hotel desk clerk how to get a cab or an uber or SOMETHING to the Trustifartian temple.

The next morning, I see that the clerk is indeed more attractive than the one from the night before.

“Mr. Board,” he says when he sees me, (How does he know?), “your car is waiting.”

“I didn’t order a car,” I tell him.

“We know why you’re here,” says the young man, gesturing to the front door.

I walk out and there… parked on the street… is a bright pink Tesla. Standing outside the car… holding the door open… is a skinny middle-aged woman with shoulder length blond hair. She sees me and says, “Right this way, Mr. Board.”

I get in the back seat of the car and the blonde takes the driver’s seat. As she walks around the car to get in, I notice she seems like she has a slight limp… a weakness in her right leg, I guess. I guess wrong.

As soon as the car-door closes, we’re off!

“I hear you’re interested in us,” says the driver… once we’re on a very back-road-looking back road.

“Are you a Trustifartian?” I ask.

“We prefer to say Trustifart-eye,” she replies. “And yes, of course I am. We’re delighted to have someone from New York join us. Today, you will be lucky enough to meet Haile Unlikeli, king of the Trustifari survivors.”

There is something familiar about her voice… I've heard it before…

"Survivors of what?" I ask. Then I recognize the voice. It's Zori!! And she sounds a lot younger than she looks.

"Zori!" I say. "I recognize your voice. What kind of survivor are you and the rest of the Trustifarti?"

“Survivors of birth,” she answers. “You know point five percent of all US born babies die within the first year… most at birth. That’s not even counting abortion. If you’ve made it past year one, you’re a survivor.”

There follows one of those uncomfortable silences… I break it. “Are we going far out of town?” I ask, looking at the bare stretch of scenery on either side of the road.

“We’re almost there,” she answers.

In a few minutes, we turn on to a dirt road and then drive up to a building that looks like a barn. Standing at the sliding door is a tall heavily-tanned man wearing Western clothes and a cowboy hat... as if he planned to ride a bronco in a rodeo.

He walks over toward me as I get out of the car. I see he limps slightly favoring the left foot.

“Howdy brother,” he says. “I heard you was coming to visit our lord god Haili Unlikeli. I wish you welcome in your quest to take pride in farting…”

And it’s right here he lets out a massive one. Not a pfffft… but a big burbling sonic anal growl… the likes of which I’ve never heard before. Then, of course, he smiles… motions for me to approach the building and enter through the sliding door. A dozen or so people inside turn as I enter.

Just to the right of the door is a large jar. Probably the same one in the picture I saw in the zine. I stop to take a better look. One of the older men in the inside group watches me staring at the jar. He walks over. I see a slight limp on the right side.

Then It hits me…. Not physically, but psychologically. Those things I saw in the jar are not prawns. They are the little toes of scores of people. Dozens of little toes, cut from dozens of feet.

He puts his hand on my shoulder… I involuntarily jerk.

“Purdy amazin', ain’t it?” he asks. “All them people givin’ a piece of theyselves… to thank the livin’ God that they survived.”

“You mean,” I ask, “that in order to be a trustafarti I have to cut off a toe?”

“You don’t HAVE to do nothin’,” he says. “You WANT to do it, see? That toe makes you a survivor… well, you’re a survivor anyway, just ‘cause you’re livin’… but that toe makes it your will... your strength... like forcin’ out a fart shows you can VIOLATE the rules, you can trust your body to do the right thing… no matter what the hell you do to it.”

I guess he can tell that I’m not quite ready to join the voluntary limpful.

“Why doncha come in and meet the Godman. We got the sharpest knife in the neighborhood… you be out in a couple hours.”

Well, now it’s up to you, dear readers. Do I step inside? Do I step inside then out with a limp? What’s your guess?

See you in hell,
Mykel Board

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

→ I Don’t Expect The Goyim To Know dept; Passover starts on the first of the month this year. And I’m shocked to find a Slivovitz shortage. For those who don’t know. During the 9 days of Passover, we don’t eat or drink anything with leavening or yeast in it. To be sure of that, we don’t eat anything with wheat or any other grain... except matzos… as we’re sure matzos are yeast-free. Slivovitz is a Czech plum wine that is a traditional beer/whiskey substitute during Passover. But it’s gone! Every liquor store I try is either sold out of it… or what’s that? Never heard of it. I wonder if it has anything to do with the war in Iran. Another tragedy?

→ They Found It Dept: For decades, I’ve been reading about the search for the foreskin of Jesus. I didn’t exactly know what they planned to do with it when it was found. But I guess you’ve read about that finding and am as surprised as you are at the plans. I’ve got a pretty strong stomach, but writing about it here could get me banned from the blog. Yuck! It’s disgusting.

See you in hell, redux,
MB

LINKS:

It’s About Time dept: Finally, a book about Hungarian Punk put out by Puke and Vomit records. Great scene there and I was glad to have contact with bands like Der Trottel and Tizedesz. Glad to have been a (very small) part of that scene. 

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

Here are some other contacts to make:

Teddy Lobato’s band can be found at

https://www.facebook.com/THEBASSMANsPSYCHEDELICNOISE

Karl De Winton sent me a link to his bandcamp DJ stuff. https://share.google/5sTnXjgMkFbiWQvzA

NSFW… but that depends on your job.

Dan Hetrick asked me “How 'bout us punk rawk programmers?”

And offers http://merk.chat

Free chat for the people!

I’ve talked about Bob Cutler before. But he has more to offer than DYSTOPEKA https://chrometuna.com/ https://theklusterfux.com

Riot Division makes its musical offering at: https://www.facebook.com/riotdivision

Barstool Revolution Zine is on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/people/Barstool-Revolution-Zine/61557909822199/

Rina Borei shows off her inflatable Octopus on Instagram: @oona.frost

Jim Testa, a long-time friend, journalist, editor, musician and wordsmith, has an interesting substack about music and more. You can find it here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(MRR 354) The COLUMN THEY WOULDN'T PRINT

 



MAXIMUM ROCK'N'ROLL refused to print this column. That is their right. They did so without comment, or explanation. That is their wrong. If you disagree with their decision, or if you agree or if you have any other comment, please email  MRR at: mrr@maximumrocknroll.com. Thanks, Mykel

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

(Mykel's Column for MRR 353, November... not printed)

by Mykel Board

"These self-anointed Protectors of the Overprotected endlessly yammer about breaking the "cycle of abuse," oblivious to the concept that imprisoning someone is a particularly vicious perpetuation of that cycle." --Jim Goad

"In a patriarchal society all heterosexual intercourse is rape because women as a group are not strong enough to give meaningful consent.” --Catherine MacKinnon

I'm madder than Putin at a Pussy Riot show. I get a letter from Amnesty International... one of the few charities I donate to. (Not counting the guys on the street with a cup. Them, I give to every day). A.I. fights torture and government abuse all over the world, usually without giving a fuck about ideology.

But now? What's the first paragraph of their appeal letter?:

I regret to inform you that more than a decade into the 21^st century, women and girls are still being raped, beaten, killed by family members and trafficked every day.

What the fuck?

Flash to Abu Ghraib prison: An Arab man lies naked, face up, on a sheet of plywood. His hands and feet are tied to the corners. He's stretched like someone ready to be drawn and quartered. Pulled tight over his face, a cloth immobilizes his head. An American soldier holds a giant watering can. He pours it down... over the man's face... into his nose and mouth. Involuntarily gasping for breath, the tied man inhales the water. His lungs fill. He gags... pukes... inhales his own vomit... chokes... then more water. It's like death... he wants to die.

Says Wikipedia: Waterboarding can cause extreme pain, dry drowning, damage to lungs, brain damage from oxygen deprivation, other physical injuries including broken bones due to struggling against restraints, lasting psychological damage and death. Adverse physical consequences can manifest themselves months after the event, while psychological effects can last for years.

Google Waterboarding Women and the only reports you'll see are people arrested for the CRIME of torturing women. For women, it's abuse. For men, it's business as usual.

Flash to 21^st century American laws linking Selective Service registration (compulsory military service) with getting a driver's license.

Here's the scoop:

Federal law (50 U.S.C. App. 451 et seq.) requires virtually all male U.S. citizens, as well as immigrant men residing in the U.S., to register with the Selective Service System (SSS) when reaching age 18. In an effort to ensure compliance among young men, many states have enacted legislation which links SSS registration with the process of applying for a driver's license or state identification card.

MEN, get it? Check out the war reports. When they talk about horrors... evils... who gets mentioned? Women and children, of course. Killing men? It's all in a day's work.

The Amnesty International letter has a PS that says:

Mr. Board, (I HATE being called MR. BOARD) when you hear of girls in Sierra Leone being genitally mutilated against their will... I'm sure you think “What can I do to help?”

Jeeezus fuckin' Christ. BOYS are genitally mutilated against their will in the U.S... thousands every day. It's called circumcision. And is there a PEEP against it? Maybe, but not from Amnesty International.

And don't give me this shit that it's different because boys only loose the tips and girls have to give up the whole shebang. That's wrong! With very few exceptions (and these are evil, I'll grant that), so-called female circumcision is just that. The equivalent of female foreskin. Snip. Snip. Gone. That's it... not the whole kit and caboodle. In any case, it's certainly as painful and as involuntary in boys as in girls.

Even this punkrock magazine is guilty of survivor syndrome... at least the letters section.

I sit on the toilet, a beer shit survivor, reading a letter from a woman who is an inappropriate touching survivor. I don't have the exact quote, but it doesn't matter. Just the idea of a touching survivor should make you puke.

You name it, and some female is a SURVIVOR: a cancer survivor, survivors of “Intimate Partner Violence,” domestic violence survivors, an alcohol abuse survivor, a partner of alcohol abuse survivor, sexual harassment survivors, and, of course, touching survivors.

Some feminists (see the Catherine MacKinnon quote at the beginning of this column) believe every woman who has ever had sex with a man is a rape survivor. Oy vey!

Listen buckaroos, if you get through someone calling you a name... you are NOT a survivor. If someone touches you in the wrong place... you are NOT a survivor. If someone shows you dirty pictures at work... you are NOT a survivor. If some construction worker makes sucking sounds when you walk past... you are NOT a survivor.

FLASH TO THE TURN OF 21^st THE CENTURY: I stand on the sidewalk in front of Sophie's bar... fishin' for drinks. The NY SCUM cassette just came out. It's a documentary of a CBGB scumrock festival. I'm the head producer, yah dee dah... man of the hour... now buy me a drink.

Also hangin' out are now columnist George Tabb, and then columnist Jane Guskin.

“Hey George,” I say, resting my arm on his shoulder, “pretty good cassette huh?”

“I'm not buying you a drink, Mykel,” he says.

How'd he know I was gonna ask?

Behind me I hear a voice... loud... threatening.

“Where's Mykel fuckin' Board?” it says.

I turn.

BLAM! A fist to my jaw. I'm down... lying fetally on the sidewalk. CABLOOEY! A boot to my ribs. I curl deeper into the helpless position. Above me is TC, a local who did some postering and organizing for the scumrock festival. He wants money from the tape... for his work... for his effort... I should pay him from the tens of dollars I got from ROIR for producing the cassette.

His foot draws back for another boot to the ribs. I tense. A pair of legs appears between TC's boot and my chest.

“STOP! NO!” shouts the voice belonging to the woman ofthe legs. It's Jane.

“NOW STOP IT!” she yells.

TC cowers... mumbles something... walks away.

In this culture, it's okay for guys to whack away at one another. You gotta be good with your fists. If you don't fight back, you're a sissy. (I'm a sissy.) But girls? Oh no, you should never hit a girl! You just can't hit a girl. That's abuse. It worked for me. Thanks Jane!

Jane is my hero... my heroine. But I'm not in danger of dying.

I was punched and kicked, but I'm a punching-kicking VICTIM at best... not a survivor.

[Note: Being punched or kicked repeatedly by someone you live with does not make you a domestic violence survivor... It makes you an idiot. Get the fuck out of there!]

I am neither a jock-itch nor a hemorrhoid survivor, though I've had both.

Survivors are people who barely beat death and live to tell about it. Those guys tortured in Guantanamo Bay... THEY are survivors. Pakistani families that live through American bombing... THEY are survivors. George Tabb who lived through the World Trade Center attacks and had half his intestines removed because of the aftermath poison air... HE is a survivor.

Foreigners (almost all MEN) forced into the US army to kill in Afghanistan or Pakistan or who-knows-where's-next-stan... THEY are survivors.

[Note: Many U.S. courts give political and economic refugees (men only) the choice of possible death by entering the US military and killing Afghanis... or returning to their home country to a more certain death. Which would you choose?]

FLASH TO NOW: I sit at my desk in nothing but my underpants... boxer briefs. I type with my left hand as the thumb of my right hand digs into my right nostril... fishing out the discomfort. As a booger survivor, I know the strain, heartbreak and suffering of intranasal offal.

I'm thinking about the victims of the Christian shootings at the batman movie in Colorado. And how about the one at the Sikh temple in Wisconsin? People killed. People survived.

[Note: with one exception ALL the mass shootings and other terrorist murders in the last 20 years have been by CHRISTIANS! Why don't the NY cops have a Christian task force? Why aren't they monitoring churches? Infiltrating the Salvation Army? Don't they understand Christianity is a VIOLENT religion? It's very symbol, the cross, is a weapon of death!]

I'm wondering what those who lived through the Sikh attacks... those with bullets in various body places... with friends and family killed or maimed... I'm wondering what they think of survivors of inappropriate touch.

A bubble of gas rises in my bowels. I can feel it on the lower right side... it rises up crosses from right to left... settles above my anus where I blow it out in a burble... a very long burble. As a flatulence survivor, I know I need to make adjustments, to get beyond my pain and get on with my life.

FLASH TO NEWSPRINT: As if survivoritis weren't bad enough, the same issue of MRR as the I-was-touched letter has an interview with some NYC group whose job it is to help survivors. 

Now, if some one is injured, raped, beaten, shot, they need support. I'm happy that people volunteer to help... though from the sound of this one it's women only as victims... er... survivors, and men as perpetrators. But that's not the worst of it.

Oh no, one of the prime functions of this group is not help, but REVENGE. Helping the victim... er... survivor is not enough. But they've got to PUNISH the perpetrator. Give 'em the old backhand. Put 'em in jail. Break 'em. Let 'em get raped by some big stud. That'll cure them of their violent thoughts, right?

Jeezus fuckin' Christ! Prison BUILDS rapists. Your push for revenge MAKES MORE VIOLENCE. (Please don't call it justice. That's what everyone calls revenge.)

Girls, if you don't like being touched, slap that hand. If you want to prevent violence and abuse then act like Jane acted when she bravely stood between me and that kicking boot. More than anything, learn to defend yourselves... to fight back like I never did. That's VICTORY. There's no survivor about it.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or blog viewers (mykelsblog.blogspot.com/) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column. Your zines, Cds/records, and... er... private videos... can and should be sent to me at: Mykel Board, POB 137, Prince Street Station, New York NY 10012]

-->A horse is a horse, of course, of course dept: The Progressive Magazine reports that Rafalca, the Romney's horse, costs about $29,000 a year in housing. The average American family spends %16,000 on housing. Hey, turn that barn into cheap accommodations. The horse? Dinner for ten!

-->Are they news agency survivors? dept: Reuters reports that The Japanese Atomic Energy Agency devoted a page on its website on how to "make the hard words used in the nuclear power industry easier to understand, particularly for women."

-->Another report about America's worst hip company dept: Democracy Now says that two Iranian Americans in Georgia were barred from making purchases at local Apple stores. Why? Employees overhead them speaking Farsi. Apple employees cited US export laws on Iran to justify their actions.
          My question: How the fuck did the shlubs who work at Apple identify FARSI when they heard it?

-->Makes perfect sense dept: As I write this, the Presidential campaign wages on. It's as predictable as the hate mail from this column.
       Romney has just named Paul Ryan as his running mate. Ryan is a handsome right-wing lunatic, who likes Rage Against The Machine. He's a wacko who Romney picked for the same reason Obama said he supported gay marriage. Gotta shore up the fringes... balance the ticket. Conservatives would stay away from Romney like Lefties from Obama. Gotta have some bait to bring 'em back to the fold. Let's hope it fails... on both sides.

        Jill Stein already won the Green Party nomination. Her running mate is another woman... a great fuck you to “balancing the ticket.” They've got my vote. Maybe after November, Stein and her running-mate will call themselves election survivors.