What's in a Girl's Mind or Mykel's Post MRR Blog #24

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

MYKEL BOARD'S POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COUMN 24

Mykel Confesses He Doesn't Understand How Girls Think

by Mykel Board

"Women have an instinct for labyrinths... for ins and outs. It's order that stymies them!” --Louis-Ferdinand Celine

I'm more at home than a rabbit in a briar patch. My chin rests about half an inch north of her immaculate anus... my nose presses her pubic bone. The sublime smell of yeastless twat stiffens my ferocious five inches pressed into the bed. I lick forward... sucking in... my clit-clenching lips push back the hood... the part that Muslims circumcise. My tongue tastes the tip... she squirms... tightens her legs around my head.

“Het guys cannot possible be any good at eating the hairy clam,” I think. “This is like giving a miniature blowjob... How would they know?”

As I suck, I thrust myself against the bed... merging the two of us in ecstatic union... feeling the same rising rapture... the same tightening... My breath rustles from my nose through her pubes... like wind in high grass. My groin pushes harder against the bed.

“Mmmm mmmm mmmm,” her voice... her little whimpers... sounds made completely through her nose... as if she were afraid that opening her mouth would let loose a scream loud enough to wake the neighbors... the tourists... the dead. Her legs grip my head like a pair of fleshy pliers.

I hear my own sounds... breathing... panting... moaning into the woolly valley cleft between her legs. It's howling into a cave. I half expect an echo to return to me from the womb. The sheets beneath my groin are suddenly wet. And YES! I feel that final tighten... taste that sweet juice... hear that choked moan to know she's matched me in rapture.

“Wow!” she says. “You don't NEED a big dick. You do the satisfaction!”

I'm guessing that's a compliment.

I kiss her from her pubes up to the navel... an innie... up further... between her double amplitude... her chin... her mouth. Then I lie down next to her and allow the sleep Gods to carry me off.

“Hey Mykel,” she says, “talk to me. Say something.”

“Mmmm,” I say, desperate for sleep.

“Say something,” she says again. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“I'm thinking I want to go to sleep,” I tell her.

She elbows me in the ribs.

“What the fuck?” I don't say. “We had twin orgasms. Wet the sheets. Genital juice. You want to talk about Donald Trump?”

“What should I say?” I do say.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” she says. “I want to know what's in your mind.”

Huh? We both just had an orgasm... cum... ecstasy... mind explosion... what is there to talk about? Why talk? This is a girl thing that I just don't get. A sunset over the Pacific: it's beautiful without saying

Gee, a sunset over the Pacific. Isn't it beautiful?

What is it with girls? Why do you have to SAY everything? Aren't the stains in the sheets enough? I don't get it.

FLASH TO: Rick's Cabaret, my favorite strip club in New York. 

I'm here with a couple Japanese friends and some Latinos. Next to me sits Maxine, at least that's her stripper name. She's a beautiful Negress wearing a long red wig and not much else. As I don't do lap dances, I buy her drinks so she'll talk to me and touch my arm every once in awhile. We discuss George Orwell, and Russian mafia owned strip clubs in Florida.

My Japanese friends, half of them married-- wives in Japan-- are off in various corners of the club... their one-eyed unagis massaged by the tender tushes of the other strippers. $20 a song... the usual price.

$40 later... one-by-one... the guys return... big smiles, thumbs up, and a wink.

Jiro is gone. Disappeared... gone off with a blond white girl... Slavic accent... Olga is her stage name... he's been gone for 20 minutes!

“I think he went upstairs for special service,” says Ricardo, the italics clear in his voice.

We all smile. I wink at Maxine.

FLASH TO SCHOOL: The next day, I tell the other teachers about the strip club, laughing at the story of the missing Jiro.

“That's awful,” says Madeline. “His wife is in Japan and he's screwing around in New York.”

“What?” I ask. “His wife is in Japan! Why SHOULDN'T he screw around in New York?”

“Maybe because he loves her,” she says.

“Huh?” I say, my forehead wrinkles deepening. “He's in New York. Would you mind if he went out to eat with another woman-- or man? Would you mind if he went to a ball game with them?”

“That's different,” says Madeline. “This is sex.”

“And why is sex different?” I ask. “What's it got to do with love? It's just friction! Less energy than a night of mastication.”

“Mykel,” says Madeline, “you're just trying to stir the pot... causing trouble... You know the answer.”

But I don't. I don't get it. Eating dinner is pleasure. Screwing a stripper is pleasure. Taking a huge beer shit is pleasure. Throwing a birthday party for your 90-year-old mother is pleasure. What the fuck? Why is one forbidden pleasure? Why is one love and one NOT love? Do girls fall in love only through their cunts?

How girls think is beyond my ability to understand. What is in their minds? Someone should write a book called What's Love Got to Do With It? and actually answer that question.

FLASH TO WASHINGTON DC 1994: Then Senator Joe Biden introduces a Violence Against Women Act. One of the results is:

“All states have authorized warrantless arrests in misdemeanor domestic violence cases where the responding officer determines that probable cause exists.”

In New York, when there is a “domestic violence” complaint, THERE MUST BE AN ARREST. Women support the law, though it's clearly a violation of presumption of innocence... the foundation of the American justice system.

The victim of a woman's wrath... Bang! In jail... no trial... no defense... just off to the big house. Kerpow!

“But Mykel,” says Claudine, a friend visiting from Portland. “Women need these laws because they're weaker than men... and in more danger.”

“I'm five foot three inches tall!” I yell at her. “There isn't a woman under fifty who can't beat the shit out of me. How are women weaker?”

“Average, Mykel,” she says. “We're talking about average.”

“Average shmaverage,” I say. “How can you put AVERAGE in jail? Do they measure your averatude before they throw you in the clink? I don't think so.”

“Besides,” I add, “we're supposed to have presumption of innocence. You're forcing the cops to arrest someone they presume is innocent.”

“It protects the woman,” she says.

“So would wrapping each female in a suit of armor... with a chastity belt!” I answer. “This law gives all women an incredible weapon! Any time they're pissed off at a guy they call the cops... BLAM! The guy's in jail. It's crazy. It's like an every-woman dictatorship... You don't like me... a phone call and I'm in jail... with a record!”

“It's better to save one woman from one black eye than to keep a dozen so-called innocent men out of jail,” she tells me.

WHAT? In high school we learn that it's better to let ten people go free than jail one innocent. Who switched that around? Why is it switched just for women? How is saving a black eye more important than saving the freedom of a dozen innocents? Is that how women think? I don't get it. How can women think this way?

FLASH TO: Tucker Max, an author my jailbird pal Kyle told me about. Tucker wrote an entertaining book called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. At first I thought he was a kind of preppy GG Allin... a guy who lives for drinking, fucking and the occasional fight. But there's one section where he writes about a visit from some girl who sucks him off before going to see her boyfriend.

At first, he's thrilled that he somehow put one over on some other guy. HE got it first. Then he thinks a bit more and wonders how many girls he's kissed/screwed/ate out have just come from giving OTHER guys blowjobs. This repulses him. Disgusts him. Gives him the heebee jeebees. He can't stand to think about it, but he's obsessed by it.

What the fuck? If I think that someone I'm kissing might have just given a blowjob to someone else... it thrills me. The idea that I might be tasting semen in someone else's saliva makes me hard. I imagine a threesome. Me having withdrawn that semen myself. The more people, the more erotic the situation. It's just logical. What is this Tucker-guy talking about? Do people really think like that?

Boys! Sometimes I just can't understand how they think.

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]

-->Kindness is illegal dept: 77 year old Sam Samsonov was fired from his job as a Florida toll booth collector because he took $6 out of his own pocket to pay for a driver who didn't have the cash.

Says the official highway agency "the action of personally funding or withdrawing cash to make it correct before it is turned into accounting is considered fraudulent by the auditors and a terminable offense"

-->Provoking Matters dept: This Week Magazine reports that Richard Valdez, a former employee of conservative activist James O'Keefe said that his old boss “instructed an undercover operative to goad Black Lives Matter protesters with statements like 'I wish I could just kill some of these cops.' Few were goaded.

In related news, some Negresses jumped on stage at a Seattle Bernie Sanders rally. They harangued the crowd, complaining that Sanders did not address Black Lives Matter issues. It later came out that these girls were in no way connected to Black Lives Matter.

Maybe they were working for O'Keefe. My bet, though, is they were Hillary operatives.

-->More provoking dept: It's lucky it didn't work in this hyper anti-Muslim atmosphere. Jason Paul Smith, from West Virginia, was charged with a fake bomb threat to the Statue of Liberty. He phoned 911 claiming to be ABDUL YASIN, an ISIS terrorist.

Lucky there was no REAL Abdul Yasin around for some loony veteran to shoot in the head... and be proclaimed A HERO by FOX News.

-->Where's my cash dept: The manager of a Popeye's Chicken in Texas was fired for not paying back $400 stolen during an armed robbery. The manager was behind the register when the robber burst in.
The boss said he fired her for “keeping too much cash in the register.”

-->Naked anger dept: A teacher who won a national award for teaching Shakespeare in Los Angeles was suspended for reading a passage from Tom Sawyer that mentioned nudity.

“. . . the king came prancing out on all fours, naked. He was painted in rings and stripes all over in all sorts of colors and looked as splendid as a rainbow.”

The act of reading was deemed inappropriate for the young children, who probably bathe with their clothes on.

-->Long overdue dept: Sid Yiddish reminded me that I should thank my friends at PORK magazine in Portland for printing some of my columns. They're quarterly, so they can only do one out of four... but THAT'S a big help. Thanks guys. It takes balls.

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: And on the side of the ball-less... take Maximum Rock'n'Roll... please!

I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. 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.

-->Just heard dept: The former editrix of MRR quit the zine to become editor of REVOLVER magazine. That's a pop punk zine with ads for Nike and major labels out the wazoo. Maybe I should ask for a column there.

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

-end

US and THEM or Mykel's Post MRR Column 23

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COUMN 23

Mykel Divides the World

by Mykel Board

At one extreme, a person might step into a social identity and BE it. Another might step into the same one and surprise you because they struggle against it or play it down in light of their unique biography. --Michael Agar

Ah, finally, he's here... visiting from Morocco... my pal El Habib. We met in Agadir, a city on the North African coast. He's coming to New York. In Agadir, he took me all over the place... cooked for me... great guy. All he gets in return is my couch.

When he told me he was visiting in July, it hit.

“Uh...” I profoundly start my email. “That's Ramadan. Isn't it going to be tough for you to hang out and not eat? In New York... in America... everything goes around eating and drinking... all day... every day. Ramadan? Most Americans think Ramadan is a city in India.”

He sends me back one of those laughing “stickers” that facebook uses to disgust readers.

“I'm tired of Moroccan culture,” he says. “I'm tired of Islam. I'm sick and tired of the whole thing. Let's eat!”

“What about drinking? Are you gonna drink alcohol?” I ask.

“Mykel, I'm gonna get drunk with you!” He says.

There is no facebook sticker with a grin wide enough to react. I love drinking with Muslims as much as I like eating ham with Jews... and that's a lot.

The plane was due at 3:30. I figure it'll take an hour to get through immigration. They won't know he isn't celebrating Ramadan. Then, if he comes by subway, that'd be another hour. He should have rung my doorbell around 5:30... It's coming on seven... no sign of him.

BEEP BEEP... the doorbell!

I buzz him in... take the elevator downstairs to meet him.

He's there... in the lobby... with someone else... two someone elses... each with a huge backpack... and instruments... a large conga drum... animal skin, Senegalese style, a guitar, and bags... half a dozen of 'em... two as big as my stove. They're all staying here... in my tiny apartment. We squeeze into the elevator and I reach around to push the button.

My apartment is now so crowded I have walk ON suitcases to get from the couch to the bathroom. The drummer sets up the drum in the only 2 square foot open space. It's the table for their stay.

“Hey guys,” I say. “I want the perfect photo. Mykel and 3 Arabs eating pork together. You up for it?”

They look at each other. I wonder if I went too far. [ASIDE: Actually, I NEVER wonder if I go too far.]

“Mykel,” he says, “I guess you forgot. We're not Arabs. We're Amazighs. You might call us Berbers. We were in Africa BEFORE the Arabs... before the Muslims. We're the Indians of Morocco.”

“Okay, Chief,” I say. “Let's you and me drink the peace pipe and eat some pork belly. And what happened to the word Berbers?”

“We don't really like it,” says El Habib. “It comes from Latin. From the Romans... You know Barbarians. Anyone not Roman was a Barbarian.”

“I see,” I tell him. “It's like Goyim.”

He doesn't get it.

One of the guys... the guitar player... speaks up.

“I donno, Mykel,” he says. “I am a Berber, but my name is Mohammed. Don't you think I should change it? How far will I get in America with a name like Mohammed?”

“You should call yourself Osama,” I tell him.

He elbows me in the chest.

He gets it.

We have plans to meet later that night at Bar 13 where El Habib will read poems of The Beats that he's translated into Arabic. He'll also read some poems he's written directly in English.

FLASH TO THE CLUB: We're at the door. Ready to go in and Rock the Casbah to Allen Ginsberg with guitar and drum backing.

The doorman, a huge black doorman-looking guy, sits on a stool outside the bar. We approach... Me in arm boots and black jeans. The Berbers in shorts, with Moroccan equivalents of yarmulkes.

“Ok, fellas,” says the doorman. “I need to see your IDs.”

They stop... freeze. The color drains from their faces. They look at each other... then at me.

Habib whispers to me, “Is he speaking Amazigh?”

“Somehow I doubt it,” I tell him. “Most doormen come from the Bronx, not the Sahara. Just show him your ID.”

I reach for my wallet. The three of them are somewhat panicked, conversing in Berber.

“Is this the American way?” asks the guitar player.

“This is America,” I tell him. “Everything is ID, ID, ID.”

“It must have a different meaning in English,” he says, shaking his head. “Aidee in Berber... er... Amazigh... means penis.”

I share this information with the doorman. He laughs.

“He's right,” he tells the guitar player. “Everything in America is Aidee, Aidee, Aidee.”

Inside the bar, Habib greets the hostess.. a short Semitic-looking woman who hugs him on arrival.

“This is Sarah, I met her at the Kerouac school,” Habib tells me. “We've stayed in touch ever since. She runs these poetry things here.”

Sarah turns to me, gives me a big hug... like I'm a family member.

“I'm guessing you're a poet too,” she says to me.

“I'm not exactly a poet,” I say, “but a lot of people consider me some kind of artist.”

“Poet. Artist. It doesn't matter,” she says... exuding such a love of life... of enjoying every second... I nearly cum. “Any friend of Habib's is a friend of mine.”

Then she hugs me again. I cum.

FLASH TO TIMES SQUARE: There is a big black guy... Not very black... more bank clerk black than club bouncer black. He wears khaki pants, a gray t-shirt, black moccasins with no socks. In his left hand is a piece of thick white paper... oaktag. He holds it high. On it... written in thick marker... is:

JEWS FINANCED BLACK SLAVERY... GOOGLE IT!

At first I'm pissed off... then confused... wondering if FINANCED means something different in Negro than it means in English.

I know the history. Some Portuguese and a lot of Dutch-- through the Dutch East India Company-- funded most of the slave trade in the West. Some major backers of the D.E.I.C. were Jewish. That's who lent money to the corporation at the time.

BUT, the D.E.I.C. controlled the tea trade, the salt trade, the furniture trade. They were a TRADING company, for G-d's sake! Why not say THE DUTCH funded the slave trade? Or The Dutch East India Company funded the slave trade? My ancestors in Kiev had nothing to do with it.

FLASH TO AUSTIN TEXAS: I gotta take a piss. BEERLAND is living up to its name. Shiner Bock... almost makes up for G.W.B. Shiner's a great beer, but it does what beer does and I need to get rid of mine before the next round.

I stagger over to this very Texas-looking (blond, large and jiggly on top) girl. Brushing against her prominent-though-covered nipples I slur, “Air da mess oom?”

“Excuse me?” she says, stepping back a bit.

“Men's room?” I say forcing my mouth into proper linguistic position. “This is an emergency.”

She laughs. “This is Austin,” she says. “We don't do men's rooms.”

A trickle begins its decent down my leg.

FLASH TO THE NEWS: Austin has become the first city in America to legislate gender-free bathrooms. When you gotta go... you find a stall and go. That's it. No penis-bound division. Just go... just restrooms... just toilet... stand... sit... or hover... no one checks the danglies.

FLASH TO THE THEORETICAL: You probably get it by now. I'm writing about the way we divide up the world: us and them... Jews and goyim... Romans and Barbarians... gays and straights... men and women... trannies and cis-men. This division does not only come from our view of the world... it CREATES our view of the world.

Some Saudis and a couple of their buddies fly 747s into the World Trade Center. KAPLOW! Suddenly, they become ISLAMIC attackers. Not Saudis. How come?

Israel with several American Jewish volunteers kill thousands of Palestinians in Gaza. The attack was an ISRAELI attack, not a JEWISH attack. How come?

Homosexuals try to show scientific evidence they “are born that way.” What way? Every time a new sex or gender group defines itself, another letter gets added to the LBGTQ alphabet soup, expanding US, but not changing the whole view of US vs THEM.

I'm a Jew, a writer, a punk-rocker, a social libertarian, a contrarian, a pansexual, a short old bald guy with a bad hair transplant. No, that's wrong. I'm NOT a (fill in the blank). I DO (fill in the blank). I write. I shit. I fuck when I can, jerk off otherwise. I fast on Yom Kippur and don't eat bread on Passover.

I want to suggest a wee change to the paradigm... I mean a WE change. It's about how WE divide the world. It's about how WE see US and THEM. It's about how there is only US. THEM is a myth... an artificial arbitrary result of picking a few characteristics and using those to draw a line between US and THEM. It's about identity politics... where the politics should be about erasing identity.

Humanity is a hodgepodge of individual characteristics, tastes, genders, religions, skin colors. There is only US.

White Pride, Black Pride, Islamism, Jewish Nationhood... they're all dangerous divisions that come from dividing up the world in into US and THEM. Take down those MEN and WOMEN signs from the toilet world. Learn that THE JEWS (White People, Africans, Germans, The Arabs) didn't do anything-- good or bad. PEOPLE did things. And that's all the dividing we need.

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]

-->Free means you don't pay dept: 11-year old Margaleet Katzenblickstein in Weston MA applied for a permit to hold a rally against the police murders of unarmed colored people. The police of that town said she needed to pay a hundred dollars (a couple hundred according to other reports) for the police presence at the demonstration.

Amazingly enough, the town declined the police request for cash and allowed her to hold the demonstration without charge... though I wouldn't want to be little Margaleet walking through the city on her own on a dark night. Look at what happened (6th arrest!) to the NY good citizen who filmed the police murder of Eric Garner.

-->Compassion trumps religion dept: This is the way it should be! Harman Singh, a Sikh student in Auckland New Zealand took off his turban (something forbidden by Sikh law) to aid a 5-year old who had been hit by a car. He tucked the turban under the child's head to help him ease the pain. That's the kind of US I've been talking about in this column.

-->Productive dept: Representative Steve La Tourette announced his retirement from congress by saying, “I'll go back and find something productive to do with my life... as opposed to the last eighteen years.”

Three days after that announcement, he joined a lobbying firm based in Washington DC.

-->It was on Fox News so it must be true dept: Thanks to D Keith Dobson Jr. for this Fox News Denver report: A Chinese man successfully sued his wife over “an extremely ugly baby girl.”

Jian Feng filed the lawsuit after his wife gave birth to the girl. Why did he win? Apparently Feng’s wife underwent more than $100,000 in cosmetic surgery before they met and never told him. He said she tricked him into thinking she was beautiful.

Feng sued on the grounds of false pretenses and a judge agreed with him. The judge also ordered Feng’s wife to pay him $120,000.

Since Fox News reported this, Snopes has investigated and found it to be complete fiction.

Fox, reporting fictional News? Who wudda thunk it?

My question: When will the viewers of FOX NEWS sue for being made stupid-- on the grounds of false pretenses?

-->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 their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. 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.

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

-end

Inner Beauty or Mykel's Post MRR Column 22

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

Post MRR Column 22 aka

Inner Beauty

by Mykel Board

Problem, problem

Problem, the problem is you

What you gonna do?

--Sex Pistols

It was more out of place than Hillary Clinton at an anti-war rally. On facebook... Zine Chatter... an answer to a random comment about the value of old issues of Maximum Rock'n'Roll... some random feminist:

I've never met you Mykel, I don't think I'd want to. But I need to ask you when are you going to get over it. Let MRR go. Get on with your life. Instead of harping on the past... always looking for answers OUT THERE...on the outside. Examine yourself. You'll find the problem there. Stop looking out. Start looking in. You'll find the problem inside.

In haiku, they call the discovery of a MOMENT... a unique insight into something... something usually banal or taken for granted... an a-hah! moment. Finding these moments are one my life's many joys. This facebook moment, though, is not an a-hah! moment. It is a huh? moment... I just don't get it.

Then, I do.

This is how America works. If you get sick, it's YOUR fault. It's not the poison spray on your vegetables, the antibiotics in your meat, the sulfur dioxide in the air... it's YOU. You smoke. You don't watch your diet. You don't take vitamins. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE. If you're poor, it's YOUR fault. Not your race, or the lack of meaningful (or any) work, or your parents' income. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE. Don't look to the government for answers... look inside yourself.

Flash ahead to my worst hangover of the month... a brainbuster... a stomach pumper... a body wrencher. Sunday morning... thrown out of bed by the need to pray to the porcelain goddess... I turn... fall the two or three feet from the couch where I passed out last night.

I'd returned from The Patriot... best bar in New York. She was back.. that bartender who sets her nipples on fire and lets the birthday boy blow them out. I only wish it was my birthday. Whose birthday was it? I forget.

No time to worry about that now. Naked, fresh from bed... I'm kneeling next to Big Mariam... the porcelain goddess. I just manage to reach her. I trace yesterday's beer... and Buffalo wings... and dollar hotdogs... and sliders... follow them on their passage from my stomach... heaving in a painful bulk... upwards... around the bend... burning... burning... into my throat... exploding from my mouth into the toilet... the force pushing... prodding upwards... into my nose... filling my sinuses with an acrid poison.... running out my nose... dripping downwards... self-processed food... mixing with yesterday's liquid remains... dripping into the toilet as my stomach empties its contents.

A post-orgasmic collapse... facedown in the toilet. I don't want to die Elvis style... I won't get a postage stamp with my picture on it. I've got to lift my head out of the mire. It's getting hard to breathe. Small chunks of things hit my cheek... puke-filled water squirms up my nose... I slump... fall back on the bathroom floor.

I lay prone, barely aware of the hard tile and vomit splotches. Then it hits me... I have just emptied my insides. The contents of ME! Right there, available for my examination.

Using the toilet rim, I pull myself up to a half-sitting position. I look inside: the beer-colored former contents of my stomach. Great chunks of red, green and brown float at their respective weight levels. Blotches of mucus... translucent and viscous... rise to the top.

I reach into the slough.

Plunging my hand downwards, I scoop up the most solid of the goop. Some chunks of red... a few identifiable peas and carrot pieces... something white and very thin... shaped like a babushka. I bring my hand toward my face... my nose, now clear enough to smell... the unmistakable smell of puke but with overtones of beer and jalapeño.

I stick out my tongue and touch it to the mess in my palm. It stings-- not like eating a Mexican pepper stings, but like the up-chucked bile of too much pepperoni stings. I suck some of the glop into my mouth... re-chew... re-swallow... the ultimate human recycling. I eat more of it... Smear it over my face... my body... rub it between my legs... the liquid is cool and sticky against my skin.

I scoop more from the toilet. Suck it in... something gets caught... goes down the wrong pipe... I cough up... spew more... this time over my naked chest... Another scoop... this one with more green than the last. Look! A kernel of corn... whole... undigested. I suck it in, chewing well, making sure next time out it'll look different.

Then, it hits like a punch, knocking the wind out of me. This is pain... not the nausea of vomit... but the pain of a rumbling large intestine... begging for release... a piercing exploding pain... a pain like giving birth... a screaming bulge that forces me to stand... slide in the floor vomit... skin a knee in the slop... stand again... just poised... frustrated sphincter bulging. My insides tear to fight the release. Relax, don't fight it... push... a drip.. a drop... two. Push more... a stream squirts downward splashing itself and the vomit below... up onto my hovering twin cheeks.

More... great gushes... clods, wads, globs... assonance up the ass... or out of the ass... Here it comes... it's ripping me open.. a huge hard one... like it's coming out sideways... bigger than my thigh. Down it comes, like a soldier whose parachute didn't open... like a building cornice in an earthquake... like an angel, fallen from God's kingdom to hell.

I look between my legs at the mess in the toilet. My ripped rectum bleeds softly into the morass... the red mixing with the shit brown and multicolored heave-itude... swirling in a psychedelic blend... It's postpartum ecstasy. I do nothing but sit... breathe... eyes closed... the ebullience of evacuation outweighing the pain of my torn sphincter.

For a second... a minute... an infinity... I sit in bliss. Then I realize what I have to do. I reach between my legs... into the liquescent rainbow swirling below. I strain the liquid through my hands picking up one solid log... about the length of a slice of pizza... the width of a hearty twig. I roll it between my hands, like making a snake out of clay. Faster and faster... it breaks off, the top end... spinning... leaping over my leg on to the bathroom floor. I try again. Picking up a similar piece... a bit shorter and thicker... sturdier than the other... made of stronger stuff... I think about how this fine turd was once a Buffalo wing or maybe a piece of calamari.

Holding it in one hand, I bring it close to my nose. The obvious line would be it smells like shit... It doesn't. It smells like puke. The contents of my stomach... at least nasally... overcome the contents of my large intestines.

“This came from me,” I think. “My body made this, changing through some mysterious process... things I put in... coming out on their own. How did my body choose... separate nutrients... change colors? What happened and why did this particular turd decide to leave me at this particular moment?

I push forward on the toilet seat... lean my chest against my thighs... turd in hand, I reach back and push... relax... push again... reinserting that product... product of my body... back into its recent home.

It feels good... this fecal dildo... pressing the prostate from the inside.

Reaching back into the multi-colored stew, I look for tiny bits... grape-sized. One-by-one, I grab them... lean over... force them back inside... where they came from. I reach down and grab another one. This one breaks... shatters into tiny nubs... like Oriental nipples... before it can re-pass the sphincter threshold.

I put the pieces into my mouth. They taste... neutral... like white bread... like mashed potatoes... like rice... like nothing at all. Swallowing, I wonder how my body will treat its already-sorted waste... now a new entry. Will it be confused? Will it change it back to a Buffalo wing or a piece of calamari?

I lean back again and reach for a bigger coprolith... this one the size and shape of a large carrot. Perfect. Leaning forward once more, I force it back into its ancestral home... past the prostate... tickling, eroticizing... I feel my little friend rise between my legs.

Using more of the water as a lubricant... I rub myself hard... harder... One hand manipulating the excremental plug, the other manipulating me... yes... yes... yes! I spurt hard and white, adding yet another color to the psychedelic solution.

Yes, I've seen it... the real me. And it made me come!

Ok, I've done it. Looked inside... examined myself... penetrated my inner core... tasted, smelled, reused. I've analyzed and anal-ized. Macro-ed and micro-ed. Seen it all and... without a trace... have not found the cause of my discontent. I have not found the reason the stand-on-your-own-two-feet-personal-responsibility conservatives say I'm poor. Or the reason MRR lied to me. I've looked inside myself... gotten as close as I can to the inner me and the problem is not there.

Get it MRR and libertarian conservatives? Get it anti-welfare-ites and get-a-job-ers? Sometimes the problem is NOT inside. Sometimes the problem is outside. Sometimes we've got nothing to do with our problems. We can't control the circumstances. Sometimes it's just luck. Sometimes we're lied to, abused, taken advantage of and it IS NOT OUR FAULT. It's NOT from us! It's NOT INSIDE. Problem? Problem? The problem is you!

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]

-->Trans-racial dept: You know about the Spokane Washington organizer for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People who was outed by her parents as White. She claims to be “trans-racial.”

Amazingly, she was supported by a ton of liberals who said that trans-race was fine. Anybody can be any race they choose... just by saying so.

I don't think so.

-->Trans-racial part 2 dept: Then there is Dylann Roof who kills nine people in a church in South Carolina. The reason? They're black. Dylann doesn't like blacks very much.

Hah, the joke's on him. He didn't know that the people he shot were actually WHITE. Trans-racial... you could ask any of them. (Now, you can't.) They'd tell you right out they were white. Whoops, I guess Dylann didn't know. You gotta ask questions first, THEN shoot. Otherwise, you may be shooting the wrong race. Right, Dylann?

-->Whoops part 2 DEPT: The US Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee no longer classifies cholesterol as a "nutrient of concern." The decision, which reverses four decades of advice, reflects recent research suggesting that eating foods high in cholesterol does not significantly raise cholesterol levels in the blood. All those people avoiding the vitamins and sight-saving lutein of egg yolks... sorry about that.

-->TEXAS Drinkin' DEPT: Quintin Walker was suspended from high school and barred from graduation. Why? School officials saw a can of Bud Lite in a cooler in his truck. His mother had packed the cooler for a family picnic, and Quinton was just bringing back the leftovers.

Bud Lite? It's not like he had beer or something.

-->TEXAS Drinkin' Part 2 Dept: Meanwhile, also in Texas, a new University of Texas study found that drinking two cups of coffee a day lowers the risk of erectile dysfunction by 42 percent. There's no word on what a can of Bud Lite does for that.

-->TROLLS DEPT: Richard Valdes, a former employee of right-wing activist James O'Keefe, reports that he (O'Keefe) instructed undercover operatives to participate in BLACK LIVES MATTER protests and shout things like "I wish I could just kill some of these cops." Then fellow right-wingers use the quotes to show that #Blacklivesmatter is really a bunch of advocates for cop-killing.

->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 their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. 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.

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

-end

This Column Sucks (Part 3) or Mykel's Post MRR Column # 21 V.3

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

Column 21¾

Better Than God PT. 3

by Mykel Board

[NOTE: I promised this column as a supplement, to be done before my usual. I flaked. Too much facebook, and autoerotic procrastination. So here it is... maybe late... but here it is.]

"Although real and troubling lawlessness... had occurred, rumors of homicidal gangs and "zombies".. were revealed as overblown. Looters were sometimes foragers, searching for food and water. Gunshots assumed to have been aimed at rescuers may have been gunshots aimed, however misguidedly, at alerting those rescuers to the presence of desperate survivors.” --Sheri Fink in 5 Days at Memorial

To refresh: Picture Amanojaku, tiny... horned... ugly...born of semen and dustbunnies... on the cusp of a vacuum cleaner hose...

He challenges me to replace the chasm left when the old morality died. I complained about the current replace-ments... identity politics... totalitarianism... over-sensitivity... privatization... Me... Me... Me.. I rejected THE TEN COMMANDMENTS (too egotistical / God centered) and THE GOLDEN RULE (encourages masochists to hurt people). So Amanojaku asks me for my own set of commandments. 

 When last we left, I was giving my commandments. I gave them while the little demon lay squished on my naked leg... murdered by me... crushed like a fly on a TV screen. Last month I gave my first five commandments-- aka Basic Rules. 

 “Okay you little fucker,” I tell the mess on my thigh. “Here are the last five. If there's reincarnation, you can follow them in the next life.” 

BASIC RULE NUMBER SIX: Thou shalt SOLVE PROBLEMS BY OPENING RATHER THAN CLOSING. In politics, it's easy to see how this works. You're worried about the rebels in Syria? Offer them visas and free passage to the US or wherever else they want to go. “Supporting” people means giving them a place to go, a place where they do not feel in danger. You think the Russians are giving the Ukrainians a raw deal? Don't give 'em guns, give 'em houses in Brighton Beach... open up. You don't solve problems by killing people. Nothing is more “closing” than death. 

In personal relations, OPENING means, giving up your headphones and i‑Whatever and letting the street sounds and views and random people come into your life. Much of it you won't like, but I guarantee a few grains of corn in with the general shit. Open up! See the world... your neighborhood... your neighbors. 

 Mentally, it means not being so wedded to a gender, race, or ideology that it colors everything you do. Let in the outside world: 

Flash to Venezuela: I'm here because Chavez is in charge... the great liberator... called GW Bush Satan at the UN. Yeah! The country is a paradise: Happy workers with free land, healthcare and a leader they can trust, no? 

NO! 

Chavez is a ruthless dictator... the conservatives are right... at least on this one small point. 

 In Caracas, I stay with a 35-year-old geologist...fired from her government job. Why? She signed a petition asking Chavez to follow the constitution. That's it. Bang! Unemployed! 

I walk the streets of the city...  see dozens of people squatting... eating out of ripped-open garbage bags. These are not punk dumpster divers, but families, stuffing their skinny bodies. I walk to a store... buy a towel... pay cash... “¿Puedo ver su identificación?” 

 People don't talk to each other... to strangers. They're hostile and afraid. A teenager, dirty blond hair... an HOLA! t-shirt... worn jeans... behind me as I walk. I turn the corner. He's still behind me. I turn another corner... still there. Down into the subway... he's right behind me. A cop in the station... I head toward him... the teen is gone. It's creepy and symbolic of a crime-ridden, corrupt, totalitarian Venezuela. I was wrong about it. My open life, this time, pointed to FOX not MSNBC. 

BASIC RULE NUMBER SEVEN: Thou shalt BE CIVIL. I don't fucking mean to be polite, dainty and drink beer from a fuckin' glass. I mean don't be an asshole... be AWARE OF OTHER PEOPLE. 

I'm on a queen-size escalator... the DOWN side... running for the #7 train. I hear the rumble of the train... its approach... I run faster... the multicultural line of people on the right shifts slightly to let me pass. Down that left side... there she is in front of me... a white girl in a too short skirt and too styled hair... standing on the steps...thumbs flailing... feet fixed to the step. 

I pound down the stairs behind her... stomping... clomping... thudding... each step catching glances from everyone on the escalator... except her and her iPhone. I'm right behind her. My arm on the escalator rail... right next to her... if I were a kidnapper... I could nap her right now... encircle her waist. She's oblivious. The train leaves. I don't push her down the remaining stairs. 

 CIVIL means considering the people around you. It means not standing on the walk side... not pushing to get in the train before the people inside leave... not going the just speed limit in the left lane. BASIC 

RULE NUMBER EIGHT: Thou shalt ASSUME ANYTHING THAT “EVERYBODY KNOWS” IS WRONG. This is not only “everybody” as in textbooks, but everybody as in your friends... your fellow liberals... punks... feminists. 

 Wikipedia says: The universe is 13.77 billion years old. Everybody knows that, right? And the solar system is 5 billion years old? Huh? 

What is a YEAR? It's one revolution of the earth around the sun. One year is one trip. If there is no sun, there are no years. We can't measure time if there's nothing to measure it against. It is meaningless to say one BLARF is the time it takes for a kryptonite bullet to pierce Superman's skull. There is no kryptonite and no Superman. Measuring ONE YEAR, when there is no earth or no sun is meaningless. 

 Everybody knows: Smoking tobacco causes lung cancer. You take it for granted... even if you smoke. Smoking is bad for kids and their parents. A smoker is a bad person. Ok, let's see. 

The 10 countries with the highest lung cancer rates (in order) are: 
1. Hungary 
2. Serbia
3. Maldives
4. Poland
5. Armenia
6. Denmark
7. Netherlands
8. Croatia
9. The United States
10. Cuba. 

The 10 countries with the highest percentage of smokers are (in order)
1. Greece
2. Serbia
3. Bulgaria
4. Russia
5. Moldova
6. Ukraine
7. Slovenia
8. Bosnia
9. Belarus
10. Montenegro 

The US is number 51. 

Only Serbia has both a high lung cancer rate and a high smoking rate. If smoking is the main cause of lung cancer, something is wrong. 

 What's wrong is how you think! 

Looking at only one aspect... one cause... one effect... is not how the world works. Cigarette companies, in the US, are the great corporate scapegoats. Asthma? It's cigarettes. Emphysema? Ditto. Companies of all kinds can spew garbage of all kinds in the air. Workers can be exposed to the worst kind of industrial pollutants... but if they get sick... IT'S CIGARETTES. One industry takes the blame for the evils of the others. Worse, it's YOU who takes the blame. You're sick. YOU DID IT. YOU SMOKED! 

That's wrong. 

BASIC RULE COROLLARY: If there's a proverb, cliché, or saying about it, it's probably wrong. 

Examples: 

The early bird catches the worm: WRONG! Recent research shows that early birditude or night owlishness is genetic. If you're in the worm catching business, and you function best at night... catch those worms at night. You'll do better. 

 Women make 77 cents to every man’s dollar. WRONG! That statistic only takes into account JOB TITLES. It does not include the number of hours worked (statistically much higher for men). It also does not include the danger and therefore work years of professions at higher pay. How many garbagewomen have you seen? Pressurized can explosions, exposure to sharp objects, medical contaminants, make this a much more dangerous job than, say kindergarten teaching. The average work life of garbage MAN is much lower than that of a (mostly female job) elementary school teacher... with disease and accidental death a major reason. 

Even in the same job, individual paychecks may be different but money earned per year, during the average work life, is the same for men and women. Variations of length of work hours, previous experience, length of time at the job, all are pay factors. The 77¢ figure is bogus... a relic of the way its supporters do the calculation. 

 BASIC RULE NUMBER NINE: Thou shalt GO ANALOG. Digital is a bunch of ones and zeros... a BINARY system. If you're not NUMBER ONE... you're a big zero. Most Western Countries are digital: one or zero. No in between. It comes from Christianity: God or Satan. You see it everywhere: Cowboys or Indians. Good guys or bad guys. Men or women. Black or white. 6 million in the ovens or holocaust denier. Conservative or liberal. Punk or mainstream. Gay or straight. No middle ground... nothing in between. Yo buckaroos, the world isn't that way. 

Why do so many transsexuals think of themselves as “a woman trapped in a man's body?” That assumes there are only women and men! Digital thinking. Why not be YOU, a unique person, a unique gender, a little of this, a little of that, and something neither this nor that? You are YOU in your body. Why change to conform to a digital idea? Why cut it off if it's there for you to use and enjoy... as any gender you'd like. 

Between black and white is an infinitude of gray... not to mention red or sienna. More than BEING an infinitude, the universe is a SHIFTING infinitude. Today this. Tomorrow not quite this. The next day that.

BASIC RULE NUMBER TEN: Thou shalt (often) TELL THE COMMANDMENT GIVER TO FUCK OFF. 

 The year is 1970. The place Beloit College. I've organized the first meeting of OPERATION MAXWELL, our political action group on campus... embarrassingly (in retrospect) named after a Beatles song. We're meeting outside, on a small concrete strip in front of a wall on front of THE QUAD... an open area when hippie students picnic, folk dance, and try to find a joint. 

Gavel-less, I bang my fist on the wall. 

 “Okay,” I say. “I'm calling this meeting to order. We've got a lot to talk about. As your leader...” 

“No leaders!” comes the call from someone. POW! A PIE IN THE FACE.... Custard.... 

“No leaders!” comes the call again... to be picked up by the others. 

NO LEADERS! NO LEADERS! NO LEADERS! 

 Yeah, I engineered the whole thing. Planned it from day one... my one and only act as leader of the group was to overthrow myself. As your new commandment giver, I want to continue that tradition. 

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] 

 -->What is it with Indiana and "freedom of religion?" dept: An Indiana Catholic school teacher was fired after she applied for insurance to cover in vitro fertilization. The church had already paid for MALE infertility treatment. The teacher sued the diocese. The diocese responded that having to go to court would be a violation of "the church's religious freedom." It didn't work and the jury awarded the woman 1.9 million dollars. The church plans to appeal the verdict. 

-->I swear, sort of, dept: A Pennsylvania judge prohibited a Muslim woman from swearing on the Koran before taking the witness stand. The law in the state requires witnesses to either swear on the Christian bible or make a non-religious "affirmation." Jeezus! Can't we just get the bible out of court completely and be done with it? 

 -->Fuck school do something useful dept: The LA Times reports that an estimated 100,000 Mexican children under 14 work on farms that supply produce to US stores. The children don't go to school and work in 100^o heat for your corn. Their parents, mostly Mexican Indians, are often in debt to company stores run by the farm owners, so the kids' "earnings" go right back to the farm. 

 ->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 their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. 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.

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

 -end