Mykel's Blog for August 2019 or Someone Special

Mykel’s Post-MRR Blog

Number ??? August 2019

Someone Special

by Mykel Board

Sometimes it’s hard to explain how great it is being Mykel Board. It’s complicated… like explaining humor to a feminist. I’ll give you an example. Here’s an email I got early last year:

Dear Mr. Board,

I feel funny calling you Mister, maybe UNCLE or PROFESSOR would be better. I feel like I’ve known you for a dozen years. I read your column in MRR since I was 15. (Yeah, When they bit the dust I was happier than a liberal at a book-burning.) I’ve been following your blog since you were fired. I feel like I know you. And I also feel like you’re the only person in the world who would understand —maybe appreciate— my uniqueness.

I’m telling you about this now, because I’ll be in New York City for the first time ever. I’m arriving at the beginning of September and staying a week. I hope we can meet up. I’m as big a beer fan as you are —ALL Buds are for me— (LOL) so we’ll hit the bars. But that’s not what I want to tell you It’s something I’ve never told anyone else. Yeah, my mother knows but she never talks about it. We pretend there’s nothing special to talk about. LOL

Okay, I’ll stop beating off around the hairy bush. LOL. You ready? Well, here it comes:

I HAVE TWO ASSHOLES

No, I’m not talking about relatives. I’m not talking about a surgical drillhole for some artificial hanging shitbag. I’m talking about biological, rectal, anal me! I don’t know how it happened. One doctor said it could have been an undeveloped twin, like those two-headed babies in sideshows. Whatever it is, there are two of them.

Both are puffy, rectal rose-shaped. Both are sensitive to the touch. About 3 inches from each other. One is in the normal asshole position. The other about 3 inches up the crack. In case you’re wondering, I only shit out of one of them. But both of ‘em give me pleasure when I stick stuff in ‘em

I hope I was right in deciding to write to you about this. You’re the only person I “know” who would think this was cool. Everyone else would just go YUCK!

See you soon,

Jorge Matias

Holy… er… shit! Who else would get to meet a guy with two assholes? Despite prostate, penis, hairline, and stature problems… there are really some advantages to being ME.

Our email goes back and forth. We set up a date. He’s going to visit in September. I warn him against coming too close to Yom Kippur.

“What’s Yom Kippur?” he asks. “Is that a kind of fish? And why shouldn’t I come too close to it?”

I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. He does live out in the boonies. Besides, who knows what sense of humor a guy with two assholes might have?

He arrives just after Sukkot… knocks, doesn’t ring the bell like a native would. Um yeah, there he is. I hoped he’d be better looking… a modern version of a young David Cassidy… or with a name like Jorge… some skinny dark boy from the DR. Nope. It’s not that he is ugly. He’s just… I donno… plain. Light brown hair, just starting to recede. a chubby face that’ll probably droop into jowls by the time he’s my age. Taller than me… but who isn’t? Not fat, but soft… like a teen muscleman gone to seed at 30. His skin is the kind of white that nobody in New York is.

He’s smiling, but doesn’t say a word... just walks in the door holding an ART record.

  “First thing,” he says, “before we talk you gotta sign this. My friends’ll be jealous when they see it.”

“Are your friends better looking than you are?” I don’t ask.

I sign the record and we sit on the couch.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Sure is hot in New York,” he says.

“It’s September,” I tell him. “It’s 65 degrees outside.”

“Yeah,” he says, “hot isn’t it.”

“You want a beer?” I ask, getting up and walking to the refrigerator.

“Sure,” he says.

“Allagash or Founders?” I ask.

“Naw,” he says, “I’ll just have a beer.”

I laugh and bring an Allagash for him and a Founders for me.

We click bottles. “Baka yaroo!” I say.

His eyebrows move closer together.

“It means CHEERS in Japanese,” I tell him. (Actually it means you fuckin’ idiot in Japanese, but I like to tell people it means cheers.)

“Besa mi culo,” he says back. “It means cheers in Spanish.”

“Where are you from?” I ask. “You speak Spanish, have a Spanish name, but are whiter than a Klanman’s sheet.”

He laughs.

“I’m from Idaho,” he says. “You can’t get more backwoods than me. My mother picked the name. I guess she had a lot of choices…. I think it comes from some TV show or something… never knew my dad…. but enough of that. I want to show you my assholes.”

As he speaks, he unbuckles his belt buckle, unsnaps his pants and lowers them to his shins. Then he lowers his boxers, turns away from me and bends over… hands resting on his knees. Normally this is a guest position I’d relish, but there is something oddly… I donno… non-sexual about this.

“Come on,” he says, “look close. You can touch ‘em if you want.”

I bend to inspect that dark crack. Right in the middle —where you’d expect it— is an asshole. I rub my finger against it, and it puckers as rubbed assholes are wont to do. And sure enough, there’s another one a few inches toward the backbone.

I put my middle finger in my mouth getting it nice and wet. Choosing the uppermost of the two holes I press it against the puckered muscle.. The sphincter sucks it inside. It feels softer and wetter than when I do it to myself.

Jorge groans.

I remove the finger so I can bring my hand to my lips again. I suck on the previously inserted finger. There’s a faintly familiar taste… something like... marmalade? This time, I also wet my index finger and bring both to the same opening. I press them in together.

“Yaaaa!” he moans sounding more in pain than in pleasure.

Then I pull out and move up to the other hole.

This one is looser… the slide in is easy. Both fingers… deep and immediate. This must be the poop chute. It’s more relaxed… more flexible.

I unbuckle my belt and drop my pants. I’m hard and ready… I spit into my right palm… twice… then rub the spittle onto my throbbing three inches of love muscle.

Then I plunge in.

Grabbing him around the waist I push my hips forward, burying myself in his lower hole. I can feel him tighten around me. It feels like a fist… a very friendly fist.

Oh yeah, baby! Ride ‘em cowboy! Buck that bronco! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

I pull out and hand him a kleenex, taking one for myself.

“Thank you for that, Mykel,” he says. “Until just a few minutes ago I was a virgin.”

“You’re shitting me,” I say… instantly regretting the phrase.

He wipes himself... pulls up his pants... and turns to me shaking his head.

“Mykel,” he says, “I’m a freak. A side-show attraction that didn’t happen… How many people do you think want to screw a mutant?”

“There must be a ton of ‘em,” I say. “Back in the days where people actually looked at things on paper… turned pages… there were whole magazines devoted to sex with freaks. You have no idea how many pages got stuck together from semen spilled over freaks.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he asks, still shaking his head. “I’ve read you for years. I know you grew up in a normal family, in the suburbs, near the city. I know you acted weird because you were afraid of being normal.”

“My father only had one arm,” I tell him.

“I know that,” he says. “But that wasn’t you. That was a war vet… almost normal for the time. You tried to be different to avoid normal. But you don’t get what it’s like BEING different, and trying to pass for normal.”

I must look puzzled, because he sits on the couch and sighs deeply… taking a slug of Allagash. He talks to me like a special ed teacher trying to explain algebra to a retard.

“Look Mykel,” he says, “the reason I never had sex before is because I’ve been hiding my difference. Screwing… guys or girls… anybody… would give away my secret. How long do you think I could last in Podunk Idaho as the guy with two assholes?”

I shrug, trying to figure out what percentage of girls are willing to fiddle with your asshole. A small number according to my own peter meter… but I let him talk.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me put it this way. You write about how people should celebrate their differences... how homos… as you call them... should demand the right to flame, rather than the right to get married and be like everybody else… how Negroes… as you call them… should demand the right to be different… celebratory… unique in culture… rather than the right to work as a clerk in a law office. That’s because you’ve been normal your whole life.”

“Hey,” I say, “that’s not fair.”

“But it’s the reality, Mykel,” he answers. “You can deny it, just like some straight guys did the homo thing because of David Bowie… But the reality is… you’re one of THEM. A little shorter than average… a little smarter… a little more sawed-off, maybe… but when push comes to shove, you’re one of THEM.”

I can feel tears welling up. Normal… every day… average… these words are curses to me. Maybe the only taboos I have. And now... someone I’ve just fucked in the ass is… if not saying those words... at least implying them. No fuckin’ LOL here! I blink and hope he doesn’t notice the eye liquid.

He continues, “Before now, I never even tried to have sex. I’ve been afraid that once someone finds out I’m… you know… different... our relationship will change. Either they’d back off because I’m a freak… or they’d want me more… because I’M A FREAK!”

He’s shouting now.

“I picked you,” he continues, “because you have no fetishes, or maybe all fetishes, I donno. And you have no fear.”

“I’m afraid of getting Alzheimer’s,” I tell him.

“Come on,” he says. “You visited that girl in the hospital who just had a kidney transplant… You wanted to look at the stitches. You never met her and —for you— what people don’t talk about… their taboos… that’s what fascinates you. That’s what you go for first.”

“Did I write about that?” I ask. “I forget.”

He nods… and continues almost whispering, “I knew I’d be an adventure for you. I’ve done it. It felt good, but what now? Why can’t I just be normal?”

Me? I’ve spent my literary life celebrating not being normal. I’ve scolded homos for wanting to get married, have children, live like every suburban clone. I’ve complained about women who take offense at being complimented by strangers on the street… instead of just ignored like everyone else. I’ve railed against punkrockers who take jobs on Wall Street. The idea of being normal has disgusted me for almost three-quarters of a century.

And now what do I do?

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email to god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to:
Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003.
If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group:
readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-→Full of shit dept: Japan Travel reports that a new museum has opened in Yokohama. It is a TURD (unko, in Japanese) museum. Its focus is on attractions rather than academics. The travel site says it’s designed for the Instagram generation, Unko Museum is less education and more interaction. Step on turd-shaped projections in an interactive game, try your hand at unko mini games, explore unko art and poop-inspired goods from around the globe, and come face to face with feces at the photo section.

-→Kill the Messenger dept: Facebook has come under fire for its super-duper face recognition software that will soon not only identify everyone on the platform, but all their friends… whether they’re on facebook or not. And even if facebook doesn’t sell that information… or the technology (yeah, right)… It can be hacked. Just this month hundreds of facebook users were infected with the MESSENGER virus. It was transmitted by a link to a fake YouTube site. IS THAT REALLY YOU? Asks the fake message over the link. Click on it and you’re infected. From there, the virus sends similar messages to all your friends. That means your face too is now in the hands of… I.C.E.? ISIS? Who knows?

-→Have your cake and eat it too dept: The Times Record News reports that a woman in Texas was banned from Walmart after she ate half a cake in the bakery section. Then she brought the other half to a cashier and demanded to be charged half price. In what appears to be a new non-police policy, the store didn’t call the cops. Instead, they banned her from Walmart for the rest of her life. I’d like to know how they KNOW which banned people are trying to enter the store. Are they getting their facial recognition software from facebook? Can you say shoplifter database?

→ Pimp yourself dept: I’m rebuilding my LINK CONNECTION database. If you have a cool blog, or newsletter, or something else with a URL, let me know (even if you’ve already done so). You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. If I like it, I’ll link to it and let you know. Then you link to me. It’ll give us both two extra points in the Google search engine. If I’ve linked to you in the past, send me the link again and I’ll relist it. Send the link via email to god@mykelboard.com Subject: LINK EXCHANGE. No YouTube links allowed.

In the meantime, I’m pimping a couple links here. Ones that I’m sure of.

My spiritual foil, who calls me on my shit Richard Goldberg has a great photo-centric blog at: https://goldberg.wordpress.com

Jailbird noise musician and intense critic, Kyle Nonneman has a blog at: https://apothelema.blogspot.com

→Belated Thanks Dept.: I want to thank my editors Marlene W and Ray D. Between them they have straightened out my writing, though that may not be the best verb to use considering the topics.

See you in hell,
Mykel Board
 

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-