(MRR 353) Nice (Zombie) Ass

[This is the column BEFORE the one that MRR refused to print. It has never been posted.]



You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

Column for MRR 353 (Nice Zombie Ass, or Mykel Explores his inner Muslim)

""I see your point, but I still think you're full of shit." --The Improper Newspaper

It's a tight stall in the bathroom. From above, we see four highschool girls, all in Japanese school uniforms. They're crowded together in the stall. One is kneeling, head bent over the toilet. The others' hands push on that girl's head, forcing it into the bowl.

“EAT SHIT!” yell the girls.

“EAT SHIT!” they yell again.

What happens next is unclear, but after some splashing, the girls drag the poor abused one out of the stall on to the bathroom floor. The victim's head drenched, she shouts into the air.

“Sister save me! Save me!”

Another girl in uniform, cute in a slightly butch way, comes running... bursts into the bathroom... slams the door open against the tile wall. The three evil girls look at her.

“If you want to save your sister,” says one of them, “then fart. Fart right now!”

“Don't sister!” begs the drenched girl. “Don't lose your dignity. Don't do that for me... for anyone!”

The girl who had her head in the toilet breaks away from the other three. She runs upstairs. Apparently, they're in a gym, and she's now in the top seats... high up in the stands. She jumps, falling head first to her death.

Cut to a few weeks in the future: It's the first time out for the sister. She's on a camping trip with a few other girls. Along is an older 20-something who wears a low-cut blue dress. The valley on her chest separates bazzooms usually not found on Japanese women.

The crew is in a van driven by a sniffing cokehead: shaved bald, he has a perpetual runny nose.

Here they are, by the lake.

“Everybody out! We're going fishing!”

Little do these innocent hook-and-liners know that the fish from this lake host a tapeworm. Bazzoom girl knows. She also knows that those tapeworms steal food from their hosts' intestine. That theft prevents nourishment from reaching the host, making the fish thin, no matter how much they eat. Cleavage girl figures if she eats one of the tapeworms, she too can stay thin.

“I got one. I got one!” says our highschool heroine.

The cokehead yanks it off the line and slices through its belly. Inside is a tapeworm: white, wiggly and as long as a garter snake.

The woman with the tits snatches the worm and gobbles it down. Her stomach rumbles. She cries out in pain.

“I've got to fart! I've got to fart!” she yells, running to hide from the shame.

We hear the farts. She bends in stomach-ache agony. She farts again.

“I'm going to die!” she says. “I've got to find a doctor”

Our heroine checks the map. There is a small town nearby. They run. They come on a house... with an outhouse in back. The woman runs to shit in the toilet... but from beneath the toilet comes a zombie.

Before long the campers are dead. Murdered by zombies and tapeworm-laced spaghetti, fed to them by a mad scientist. All die horribly... except for the sister who was saved from farting. Now she's in a sword fight with an evil giant tapeworm. They're aloft, she riding on a tenuous strand soon cut by the evil worm.

She falls. Head first downward. Doomed! Suddenly the sound of a tremendous fart. A huge BRRRRRAAAAAP! An anal tornado... from the rectum of our heroine. The power of the wind saves the falling girl and hurls her back into space. A series of superfarts allows her to keep aloft and eventually defeat the evil tapeworm.

The movie is: ZOMBIE ASS, TOILET OF THE DEAD. I've just seen it with a Toshi, a Japanese pal, Bryan and Randy, my Trini friends from ANTI-EVERYTHING, and Taina, the Puerto Rican singer of COJOBA.

“That may be the best movie I've ever seen,” I tell the crew as we leave the theater.

“Was that really Japanese?” asks Toshi, shaking his head.

“I don't think so.”

“What a great movie!” says Bryan. “Shitty but great.”

“It was feminist!” says Taini.

“Huh?” grunt the rest of us, eight eyebrows raised in unison.

“Sure,” she explains. “Don't you get it? Girls are told they've got to be thin. So they'll do anything to stay that way... even eat a tapeworm... and you see what happened to her...”

“Okay, but still...” I answer.

Taina cuts me off, as she is wont to do.

“There's more Mykel,” she says. “Girls are told to be proper. Nice girls don't fart. That's a boy thing. Girls should hold it in, be feminine.... but being feminine killed the sister. And only when the heroine could let it out... could fart like a man... could she save herself and save the world from the evil tapeworm. She had to let go of traditional femininity and become natural, human, to fart is to win...It's empowerment. Get it, Mykel?”

At first my contrary nature refuses to accept it, but the more I think about it, the more I realized Taina is right.

Flash to The Gambia, Africa Spring 2012:

Yesterday's dinner has worked it's way through my bowels. I squat, my pants pulled down over my knees, trying to aim my asshole at the hole in the ground that is the toilet. I'm outside, in a fenced off area that marks the toilet's boundaries.

“You need water?” asks ST (pronounced Esty), my host and one of the coolest people I've met in Africa.

My several weeks here have taught me the code. If you're going to piss, you just piss, shake off and zip up. If you're going to shit, you wipe with your left hand, and then use the water to wash the hand, and wash away any shit that misses the hole in the ground.

“Do you need water?” is the polite way to ask Shit or piss?

Although I'm a cultural rebel, I cannot get used to the eco-friendly hand method. I carry paper with me. I use water to flush the evidence of my squeamishness.

“Yeah,” I tell him.

The door creaks open and a teapot full of water comes through the gate. I re-squat, and let loose yesterday's dinner... blissfully unaware of the zombies that may lurk below.

It's dark... the only light is from a cloud-covered moon and a faint glow through the windows of the compound. I have a bit of trouble finding the hole in the ground. I use the water to clean up. Then, I make my way back through ST's room and into the back yard.

A group of students has already gathered there. It's time for their nightly think-a-thon.

Flash to right now:

I write this column in the THINK coffee shop, eating an almond croissant sipping on iced tea. Around me, a sea of glowing apples occupies the tables. Bob Marley is too loud in the background.

Me? I occupy two tables: one for my computer, one for the iced tea and croissant. I munch the $3 sweet roll and sip the tea. Across from me sits an attractive girl with bronze skin and wavy black hair.

The girl sips hot tea from a coffee cup. The teabag string hangs over the edge of the cup... like a tampon string hangs from a bloody twat.

My tea is iced. Hers is hot.

The Japanese are famous for their tea ceremony... a ritual in which every step from pouring to stirring to drinking has a method and meaning. Though it looks robotic, the idea is to transform the activity from mundane unawareness to perfect awareness. I never had the patience for it, but I love the idea.

In Africa too, there is a tea ceremony. I saw it in Morocco and Senegal. I see it here in The Gambia. It starts with boiling water and tea together in on a tiny charcoal stove. While the mixture is boiling, you fill a small glass with sugar. After a few minutes, you pour the tea-water mixture into the glass... swish it around to dissolve the sugar.

Then you raise the glass and pour it into another glass the same size. You have to pour from a great height. Only a thin stream of liquid... from the right hand down into the glass in the left hand. Then left to right. Back and forth until the tea is cool enough to drink. When the tea is ready, it's handed to you. Then the host starts on the next glass. You only get a tiny bit... like a shot glass... but it's perfect.

A bubble of gas slides through my large intestine.

Let's shoot, gliding on my fart-- from the tea of THINK CAFE to the tea ST is making in the back yard. There are eight of us, crowded around a few benches, sipping the small glasses of tea ST hands us, one-by-one.

Babucar, whose fauxhawk could be on any teenager in America, likes to gangsta-gesture, extending the pinkie and forefinger of both hands-- pointing downward.

“Mykel,” he tells me. “I want to visit America... to live there maybe.”

“You need an American wife,” I tell him. “If you get an American wife, you can live there.”

“How 'bout an American SECOND wife?” he says. “You know Muslims can have five wives. My first wife should be Gambian.”

“I'm not sure that American women would like to be second wives,” I tell him. “I don't even think it's legal... Even if you're a Muslim-- or a Mormon-- or anything that starts with M.”

“Here it's okay,” he says. “Don't worry Mykel, we'll find you a Gambian wife.”

“I don't want a wife,” I tell him, “Gambian or otherwise.”

Babucar sucks down the rest of his tea.

“What if your parents said that?” he asks. “Then you wouldn't be here.”

“I'm not sure the world would complain,” I tell him.

ST chimes in, “I would complain,” he says. “I like you. You're a nice guy.”

The conversation continues through the night. The tea flows. Ideas jump from one person to another like tapeworms in zombies. Only nobody gets sick. Nobody gets angry.

“Mykel,” asks ST, “do you ever give money to beggars on the street?”

“Often,” I tell him, “I think begging is a noble profession.”

“See,” he says, “you're a Muslim.”

I wish I had space to include the whole conversation, the rational debate. The tea drinking on tea drinking. The participation of Adama, a local deaf-mute who is as much a part of the group as any of us. Just a guy... his “disability” as unnoticed as a nose pimple.

The key is the discussion: reasoned, in good humor, with laughing, farting, back slapping, but NO anger. No American-style “question my religion or my politics and you're THE ENEMY.” No making US and THEM. No WHITE and BLACK. No zombies and free-farters. Only WE, a bunch of guys hanging out in a back yard in The Gambia.

Maybe I AM a Muslim.

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]

-->Wouldn't want to be offensive dept: The New York City Department of Eduction is removing "upsetting words" from their standardized tests. They are afraid the nasty words might offend the test-takers, or their parents. The words include "dinosaur" (might offend creationists), "Halloween" (might offend Christians because of its pagan origins), and "birthday" because Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate their birthdays.

-->3some Thanks dept: I don't know how you got the PO Box address, but I'm glad you did. Not that I believe the names: Connor, Kale and Trixie? Come on! But I sure believe the video. Thanks a lot!!! I've used up half a dozen tissues so far. You've even inspired me to include my postal address in every column. Thanks again... and I'm waiting with baited cock for the rest of my readers!

-->More thanks dept: I also want to thank Vanessa X, the editrix of Asswipe Zine (POB 82010, Los Angeles CA 90008) Not only did she send me a copy of her cool little zine, but she also wrote a personal letter... in pen... by hand! She says she loves me! Yowsah!

-->True Game App dept: http://tinyurl.com/phonegame1 connects you to a game you can download for your iHell. In the "game" you get to see the shit people go through to make the phone. In the words of the creator:

Phone Story is a game for smartphones that attempts to provoke a critical reflection on its own technological platform. Under the shiny surface of our electronic gadgets hides the product of a troubling supply chain that stretches across the globe. The game represents the process of device creation through four educational games that make the player symbolically complicit in coltan extraction in The Congo, outsourced labor in China, e-waste in Pakistan and gadget consumerism in the West.

Let's see how long before Apple puts the kibosh on THIS one!

-->What's good for business dept: The Wisconsin state legislature has repealed the Equal Pay Enforcement Act, that guarantees equal pay for men and women doing the same job. State representative Glenn Grothman said, “This is an important bill because it improves Wisconsin's business climate.”

-->Ungrateful dead dept: There are very few famous people whose death would bother me. We all gotta go sometime. Here today, plant food tomorrow. But recently deceased Alexander Cockburn was a hero. I never read anything he wrote that wasn't right. I don't mean sort of right or a little right... I mean EXACTLY right. The Gay Marriage scam, Obama as a banana republic dictator, and a ton more. I've mentioned him often in my columns. The world has lost an important voice.

(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.

(MRR 352) Mykel Learns How to Top Himself

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

[NOTE: I have translated a bit of French here for the linguistically untalented. The translated part is in BOLD CAPITAL ITALICS]

"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

I love the way my white penis looks against black flesh. The way its blue veins contrast with the smooth bumps of tight dark brown skin.

1998: THE HELLFIRE CLUB: a notorious New York S&M bar. I'm a regular... took Jennifer Blowdryer and Dave Diktor here... an exciting and painful place... blaring disco music... the slap slap slap of the patrons keeps the beat.

I like S&M more for the novelty, the weirdness, the adventure, than actually giving or receiving pain. I mean, I enjoy rubbing alcohol on my balls as much as the next guy, but I don't like them in a vice. Fuck, if it's an adventure... and it gets me laid... it's what I do.

Tonight, I meet this incredibly beautiful Negress. Half-foot taller than me, slim, with Grace Jones hair, skin the color of Africa, and a face that would harden a eunuch.

She wears, when I meet her, something between a bikini and a harness. Bright red leather, cross belts, the good parts barely covered in leather and metal ringlets.

FLASHBACK A FEW SECONDS: I'm watching a very ordinary-looking white woman getting fisted by a somewhat less than ordinary-looking white guy. The woman is saddled in a sling... her legs wrapped around chains hung from the ceiling. The man stands between her legs with his right hand wrist-deep in her twat.

A crowd grows around the couple, as it often does at The Hellfire Club. Voyeurs out-number performers by at least twenty to one. I stand in the middle of the watching crowd, trying to look over the shoulder of the tall hippie in front of me.

Then I see her... the Negress... Actually I don't see her at first, I feel her. There's pressure... a squeezing on my crotch.

“I want this,” demands the velvet voice next to me... Then, I see her.

“It's yours,” I say.

“I'm Tanisha,” she says.

“I'm yours,” I say.

We walk to the exit. At coatcheck, Tanisha hands over a ticket and retrieves a bright red raincoat. Even in New York in the 80s, you can't walk around outside in just leather straps.

We don't have to go far.

Tanisha lives in a Hell's Kitchen apartment... a dangerous neighborhood. If you're as horny as I am, danger means nothing.

We walk up the creaky stairs to the third floor... a classic tenement... bathtub in the kitchen... tiny room for a toilet, no sink in the toilet room. It's the bedroom, though, that interests me.

The bed is an old metal cot with a thin mattress. Attached to all four corners of the bed, where the legs meet the spring frame, are leather handcuffs. Padded, black, each with a pair of shiny buckles.

Yes! Lie me down on that mattress. Strap me down. Use me! Abuse me! Just do me! Press your naked blackness against my hairy whititude.

That's not what happens.

Tanisha takes off her brief body belts. Then, she lies naked, face down on the bed.

“Cuff me,” she whispers, “and don't be gentle.”

She's so beautiful, I'll miss seeing her face as I lay myself down... but that ass. Wow! It'll be my blue-veined hardness against that double black mound. That'll more than make up for lack of face.

I struggle with the buckles, opening and closing the cuffs until she's in tightly. Then, I peel off my clothes and nestle in to seek that brown hole within the blackness.

“Not, so fast,” she says. “Abuse me. Talk to me. Call me a slut. Slap me around. Use me. I'm your slave.”

My hardness begins to wilt at the word SLAVE. I can't treat a colored girl like a slave. That would be... I donno... WRONG.

Okay, I concentrate on the task at hand. Rub my hands along her risen mounds. Reach around and grab handfulls of nipples. I bring one hand to my mouth and wet my middle finger. I slide it between her delicious glutea, seeking to soften that inviting hole.

“Talk to me!” she says over her shoulder. “Call me a slut, a whore! Tell me how bad I am. Abuse me. Don't soften me... go in dry! Hit me! Spank me! I'm your slave!”

I feel myself slowly drooping.

“I... I can't,” I say.

”What the fuck?” she yells. “I don't have to put up with your white guilt shit. This is the 20^th century, not the civil fuckin' war!”

“But, I just feel so bad...” I stammer.

“Your bad feeling is your racism,” she yells back. “Pure and simple. If I was a white girl, you'd spank me in a second. Oh yeah, that red handprint on a white ass..... But Mr. Namby Pamby liberal can't top a black girl without shriveling up to pig-in-a-blanket. You can't call me a slut and a whore because all you see is a black girl! A former slave, someone you should take pity on... Fuck you! I'm not A BLACK GIRL! I'm ME, Tanisha!”

“But... I just can't,” I say.

She looks between my legs.

“I can damn well see you can't,” she half says, half spits. “Unhook me, get dressed and then get the fuck out of here. Go fight oppression someplace and feel sorry for The Poor Colored Folk. I don't want to put up with your racist baggage. You disgust me.”

FAST FORWARD: Senegal, West Africa May 2012... Goree Island. It's right off the coast. You go by ferry. Tourists pay about $10 for the boat. Senegalese pay half that. I'm with my pal and host Osman.

Goree is an artist colony and home to a Senegalese history museum. There's a beach. Several fishing crews work out of the place. There's an old fort that used to belong to the Portuguese. But that's not why Goree is famous.

Goree Island is home to the Maison des Esclaves, the House of Slaves, a slave holding pen during the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Slaves were brought here from all over Africa and kept in very tight quarters... men and women separate... ready for shipping.

“YOU'RE OLD MYKEL...” says Ousman.

I wince at the introductory phrase.

“YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO REMEMBER AN AMERICAN BOOK,” he continues. ROOTS, IT WAS CALLED.

DURING THE 1980S, BLACK AMERICANS CAME TO THIS PLACE EVERY DAY. THEY ENTERED AND CRIED. THEY SAID THEY COULD FEEL THE PAIN OF HISTORY. MY FATHER TOLD ME ABOUT IT.

We approach the maison, a non-descript colonial building, near the beach. I walk in with Ousman. I'm nearly in tears. Not for the emotion, but from the need to take a fierce piss. I had two Cokes on the boat, and I need to let them out.

I buy us both an admission ticket. Inside, mostly white people with big cameras take pictures of the bare adobe walls.

Just inside the entrance... to the left... is a sign that says HOMMES. Yes! Just what I need.

The sign is over an archway. I walk through. On the other side is nothing. Just an empty brick room with very small windows. Am I supposed to piss in the corner? All the tourists can see what I'm doing.

“Sont il les toilettes?” I whisper to Ousman, pointing to the sign.

He looks... and laughs.

“Les toilettes sont à l'étage,” he says, pointing to a curved staircase. At the head of the stairs is a door with a sign TOILLETTES over it.

Sheepishly, I head upstairs and relieve myself. Then, I leave the bathroom and look out the window on the second floor. I gaze over the ocean that confronted the chained cargo shipped out those hundreds of years ago. I think about the packed conditions, the chains, the family separations into hommes and femmes, the crying children, the rebellious ones forced into a tiny Cellule des Recalcitrants as punishment.

I think about the actual ocean voyages. The sickness, poor food, the unknown future. And I feel nothing. Zero. No emotion. No tears. No heavy heart or lungs.

That racial baggage that Tanisha complained about when I went limp twenty years ago... it's gone. Maybe 200 years ago this was a chamber of horrors. Now, it's a piece of history and a tourist trap. It has nothing to do with me.

I expect (hope) I'd feel the same way at Auschwitz... a place I've never been, and one I want to avoid. It's a museum of the past. It has nothing to do with my own life. It's a bunch of buildings. Some ovens. Pffft. It has as much to do with me as this HOUSE OF SLAVES. The rationale is that if we remember the past we somehow prevent its repetition.

Bullshit.

Remembering the past CREATES repetition. Remembering the past is the basis of revenge. The Hatfields and the McCoys.. they remember the past...Remembering the past lets Israel torture Palestinians with impunity and keeps colored people victims in the American mind.

At this moment in the Senegalese slave museum... I can feel my baggage lost. I can feel the ability to call ANYONE a slut if that's what they want. I'm ready for Tanisha now, the little whore! I can feel myself harden at the thought.

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]

--> Heart Attack Dept: My 20 year old niece gave me her old iPod. As I didn't pay for it and it would end up in a landfill... and as it's pinkish so no one else would buy it... I'm keeping it, using it while I use the treadmill at the gym. Since all music I listen to is loud and fast, I expect a heart attack soon. Right now, here's what's on the box:

-->THE DESTRUCTORS sent me their SEX, DRUGS & ROCK'N'ROLL CD. It ROCKS. Sometimes I'm not sure how pro-Sex or pro-Drugs they are... but that's part of the fun. In any case, I can't get the song I'M IN LOVE WITH A PORNSTAR out of my head! It may be a cover, but it's a great one. Info is at www.destructors666.com.

-->Let's get tough to get votes dept: I've mentioned often that the US has a higher percent of its population in jail than any other country in the world. You probably already know that the private prison industry benefits from that, as does the Republican party which knows that once jailed, the mostly Negro and Hispanic population lose the right to vote... forever. Now there's ANOTHER benefit to having all those prisoners.

The Prison Policy Initiative has found out that several, mostly Republican, counties in New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, New Hampshire, Virginia and others are counting their prison populations as citizens. That means they can get more representatives in state and federal offices... plus more federal funding! That prisoners can't vote is an added bonus for the Republicans.

With slaves, the constitution said to count each of them as 3/5 a person. The NEW slaves get a full ONE person. Isn't that great?

--> Can they Photoshop the West Bank? dept: A new Israeli law requires magazines to identify models who've been Photoshopped. It's a kind of truth-in-advertising. An interesting idea, although PC World reports that it is not necessary to reveal real-life cosmetic surgery.

-->That takes REAL balls dept: Speaking of Israel, a former Israeli soldier has renounced his Israeli citizenship and move to a Palestinian refugee camp in the occupied West Bank. Andre Pshenichnikov, a 23-year-old Jewish immigrant from Tajikistan, says he plans to live in the Deheishe Refugee Camp near Bethlehem. He used to work there as a waiter and a construction worker. He began questioning Israel's policies toward Palestine while he was still serving in the military.

-->It's always “Protecting the Children” dept: It's called: The Protecting Children from Internet Pornographers Act of 2011.

What it does is force any business offering paid Internet access--airports, hotels, coffee shops, and ISPs--to keep records of users’ online activities. If the government wants to inspect them, it easily can.

Americans are such suckers... Call anything “protecting the children” and they'll cut their own toes off to do it. Makes you hate kids EVEN MORE, doesn't it?

-end-