Gaydar or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 44

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 44

Gaydar

I'm happier than an Anti-fascist^® at a book burning. I walk in the room and there she is. A foot taller than me... skin the color of a Hersey bar... tight black jeans... ripped at the knees... a natural rip... a Ramones rip...not a hoity toidy fashion rip. Tits not large, but perky... uplifting... like a gospel tune... a haircut somewhere between Morrissey and Grace Jones... an ass that'd make any whitegirl scream with envy... and yes... really... she's wearing a GG Allin t-shirt... I... er... shit you not. My four and a half inches of throbbing macaroni sprouts like a spring rose.

Mykel, you're mixing your metaphors... spring roses don't sprout.

Fuck you.

I'm not a shy person.. usually. I can even talk to a pretty girl at the bar. Not THE PRETTIEST, of course... the second prettiest, maybe... but still... I can do it. Now, here she is... in all her glory... standing by herself... surveying the crowd... just waiting for some bald little old Jew to come up to her and take her home.

I look at the ceiling... mosey toward her... controlling my eyes... trying to fill myself with a sense of nonchalance... project it. I edge closer.

She's by herself at the side of the stage.. one of those young punkbands on it... playing covers... Wow! NOFX! The song: Don't Call Me White ...She's singing along.. That's it... my entry line.

“I bet no one ever called you white,” I tell her.

She stops singing along... glares at me. I feel my face redden.

Mykel, stop this now! She's a dyke. You'd have more chance with Milo Yiannopoulos than with her.

How do you know she's a dyke?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

I don't get it! It's like I'm deaf or something... or lacking a sense of smell... something's missing in my biology. What's the key? How do you know a dyke when you see one? I've barked up so many wrong trees I can't even piss on 'em!

You mixed your metaphors, Mykel.

Fuck you... but I mean it. How do y know?

It's the shoulders, Mykel. You can tell by the shoulders. When het girls walk, they sway their hips... right up, left up, right up, left up. It's like watching a double basketball bounce. Lesbos don't do hips. They do shoulders. They walk with their shoulders. First the right one forward... then the left one.. like they're squeezing through a crowd on the subway.

What happens if they're just sitting down... or standing and singing with a drink in their hand. How can you tell then?

Back to square one.

FLASH TO The Peculier Pub... my favorite bar in New York: I've been stiffed again... my usual crew of fuck offs and no shows... fucked off and didn't show.

I sit alone at one of those booths along the wall in the back. I'm nursing a HE'BREW, thinking about No FX... and that girl. In the next booth... the one I'm facing... a young man sits by himself. Late 20s, he's just about the only beardless person in the bar... except for the girls. He drinks some dark beer out of a mug. Keeping the mug in his left hand, he turns the pages of a book on the table in front of him. He's got deep-set eyes, lips like on a Rolling Stones record... and cheeks... ahhh those cheeks... he couldn't grow a beard if he wanted to.

His long neck fades into his t-shirt... where it meets the collar bones... THOSE kind of collar bones, with hollows in the right places... on either side of neck. Under that t-shirt is a chest without muscles... without flab... just... I don't know... I can only imagine... I do imagine.

I look at him... trying to use the power of my projecting mind to get him to pull his eyes up from the book... to look at me... flash me a smile... move his hand in a come over and sit at my table gesture. My brain feels like it's going to pop out of my head with the mental push of Mesmer I'm forcing on this guy.

Mykel, stop this now! He's straight. You'd have more chance with Ivanka Trump than with him.

How do you know he's straight?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

No, I cannot fuckin' see it! I need a homometer.... a perfect homometer.

My homo friends call it Gaydar... a secret signal that tells you the gender preference of someone... just by looking. It's something I never understood... and something I certainly don't have.

“It's in the ears, Mykel,” explains Bradley... a homo pal of mine who I know is homo only from the fact that I've pushed my fluorescent bulb into his personal love socket. “Look ata guys' ears. If they're hairy, he's straight. Gay guys never have hairy ears. They take care of that stuff.”

“That's all?” I ask. “But what about Orientals. They never have hairy ears.”

Bradley is stumped.

So it's back to square one. 

Ilsa with my tape on her back
and an additional pair of panties
put on after leaving the cake

It's my 60th birthday party... Since my life is a series of adventures following my dreams... There will be a girl coming out of a cake tonight. It's a huge cake... constructed by a master bakestress...  hollowed out... filled by ILSA! (name changed to protect her recent family) wearing a red wig and fake pearl bikini... a 20+ barely legal girl with tattoos, brains, ass and tits... oh yeah!

And now... the cake opens... and BANG!! Out pops ILSA... scraping slightly on the side of the constructed cake. There she is... and whoa... the string on her bikini breaks... look what's coming out... a flash of nip... oh yeah!

Ever the chivalrous one, I rush in with the packing tape, and paste the top back on... taping the broken clasp directly to her back.

FLASH TO LATER THAT NIGHT: Ilsa and I sit at the bar.

“You're lucky, Mykel,” she says.

“Don't I know it?” I say. “Wanna fuck?”

She laughs, shaking her head.

She says. “I started to say you're lucky because I almost didn't make it today.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Last night,” she says, “remember that girl I told you about. The one who introduced me to The Brazilian Wax...”

“I remember,” I lie. “Best name for a punk band in a long time.”

She laughs, spitting her beer up through her nose. It's so cute... almost makes me cum.

Ilsa shakes her head and takes a breath so she can talk again.

“No,” she says finally, “I mean a REAL Brazilian wax. You know, right down here.”  She touches me on the good part.

“You mean you and her....” I start.

She nods.

“How'd you know?” I ask. “I mean how can you tell... I mean you know... if she's....”

“You mean Gaydar?” she asks.

I nod.

“I don't have Gaydar,” she says. “I have LAYdar.”

I wrinkle my forehead... even more.

“I can't tell if someone is gay, straight or in-between,” she explains. “But I can tell if they want ME! That's all I need.”

“How does LAYdar work?” I ask her. “You need to work to get people to want you. You have to know who it's worth pursuing, so you don't waste your time.”

Then I look at her again... up and down... Oh yeah!

“Ok,” I say. “I can see how it works for SOME people.”

She laughs again.

I figure it must be related to my inability to believe in gay or straight in the first place.... my insistence we all have some of every kind of sexuality and an infinity of opportunities. We can consciously or unconsciously suppress one or the other urge.  (In the case of rape... sometimes it's probably a good idea that we do it.) But there are no GAY or STRAIGHT people. There are only people who do or don't do stuff.

Starting from that, it's as hard for me to identify gay or straight people as it is for every-day adults to identify THE BOOGYMAN. Or for atheists to identify GOD... or for Anti-fascists® to identify FREE SPEECH... or for capitalists to identify COMPASSION. How can you recognize something if you don't believe in it in the first place?

Wait! I've got it! LAYdar is the clue. Hairy ears or not! The ultimate way to determine a straight guy is.... IF I LIKE HIM. If I want to plug his fudge tunnel... wet his whistle... teabag him in the mensroom... if I find him attractive in any way... HE'S STRAIGHT.

Shakey shoulders or bouncing buttocks... IF I LIKE HER... If I want to dip my noodle in her soy sauce... slip my tongue into her taco bell... nestle my nuggets between her lower limbs... SHE'S  A DYKE.

What is the perfect homometer? I am the perfect homometer! 100% accuracy. Money-back guarantee. I got it.... Now, what do I do with it?


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]

-->Can't lose business proposition dept:MYKEL BOARD'S GET RICH QUICK PLAN: (I'm looking for investors)

The problem:
1. You call the bank to check on a strange charge, or get some information. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
2. You call the IRS to ask where you can get some forms, or if this or that is tax deductible. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
3. You call Time-Warner aka Spectrum to complain about service or schedule a service call. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.

THE SOLUTION:
One number, let's say 1-(800) EVR-YTNG...  for everything... banks, the government, tech-support, insurance, everything.
    Just dial that number and a recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
NO NEED TO CALL ANY OTHER NUMBERS. JUST A SINGLE NUMBER FOR THE SAME SERVICE YOU GET ANYWHERE ELSE!!
Waddaya think?

-->Mandatory Politics dept: So the Republicans are taking a page from the Democrats' playbook. The Pubs can't pass their Health Destruction Bill, because the ounce-of-compassion people in the party think it's too hard on poor people and the Tea Partiers think it doesn't give enough to the rich. So it fails.(Let's hope.)
    Sounds like Obamacare, where the right didn't like it because it was Socialist, and the left didn't like it because it wasn't Socialist enough. But that one didn't fail.(Too bad?)

-->Same troubles dept: I want to assure Donald Trump that he's not the only one with wiretap problems. The FBI has been wiretapping my phone for years. Not only do they listen in to my phone and record what goes on... they they play it back to me:
    Your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual.
    Just awful.

-->Speaking of bisexuals dept: My pal Tony sent me an article about a British Bisexual Student Union that has voted to change the name... from Bisexual to Bi+. The latter, they say, “is more inclusive” and would include people only attracted to a gender, not actively fucking that gender.
    I say, you want inclusion? Change the name to EITWWW (Everybody in the Whole Wide World). I mean, what the fuck? Bisexual already includes everyone. Check out your window. At any given time... even during Santa Con... MOST people are actively fucking NO ONE! Bisexual is the human condition... not who you're shtupping at any particular moment.

--> 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.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

Origin of VOLTMAN or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 43

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 43

Voltman

I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. --Voltaire (attributed)

Free speech is the right to shout THEATER in a crowded fire. – Abbie Hoffman

You need to allow people to shout FIRE in a crowded theater. There might really be a fire. --Voltman

[NOTE: This blog/column introduces a new Superhero, VOLTMAN. This is the first episode in what I hope will be a comic or a graphic novel. If you'd like to illustrate the VOLTMAN series, send some drawings to me at: god@mykelboard.com]

I'm out to buy a 6-pack of McSorely's... Morton Williams has 'em on sale... eight ninety nine. Only 3 bottles left in the fridge... better stock up. I'm on the street, walking toward the grocery store... What's this?

Right outside the NYU student center... at least it was the student center when I was at NYU. These days... it could be the NYU MILTON FREIDMAN HALL OF CAPITALISM.

In any case, there's a fight... a doozie. Half a dozen big guys... black leather jackets... kerchiefs over their noses and mouths... pounding on the doors of the building. I figure it's a protest against free speech, because that's what guys in black leather jackets do in 2017.

Fists are flying, but they don't seem to be landing anywhere. Why? Standing in front of the door, arms catching punches and flinging them back... is a superhero. I shit you not... a real superhero with tights, a shiny white shirt with the letter V on it, a black cape and a mask... more like a washcloth with eye-slits... draped over his face.

His arms move in a blur, deflecting punches, returning kicks, sending the leather-jacketed thugs flying. A crowd has gathered to watch the battle.

“What happened?” I ask a very masculine-looking girl standing at the edge of the throng.

“We planned to shut him down,” she says. “And this clown comes and fucks it up.”

“Who is HIM?” I ask.

She looks heavenward, as if to summon enough strength to answer my stupid question.

“Him! Him!” she shouts, pointing to a placard with a picture of an attractive young man... very femmy looking. Under the nose of the young man, someone had-- rather unartisticly-- drawn a small dark mustache.

“It's Milo Yiannopoulos,” she says. “He's a Nazi.”

“Oh, I see,” I say. “He wants to kill Jews and homosexuals and invade Poland?”

“No!” she shouts. “You're an idiot. He's gay!”

By this time the fight is over. The sidewalk is littered with bloodied antifas. The superhero lords over them... his hands on his hips.

I walk up to the guy. We shake hands.

“Mykel Board,” I say.

“Voltman,” says he.

“I figure you're some kind of super-hero, like Super- or Bat-,” I say.

He makes a grunting sound, either laughing or the verbal equivalent of eye-rolling. I can't tell.

“I'm an... er... independent journalist,” I bullshit. “I'd just like to talk to you. I've never interviewed a superhero before, so excuse me if some of the questions are... um... naive.”

“No problem,” he says, “but I don't know how much time we have. I may be needed quickly. This crowd still looks a bit determined.”

“That's the first question,” I say. “What happened here?”

“Well, some students invited Milo Yiannopoulos to speak at NYU. Other students didn't like what they thought he had to say, so they wanted to stop him from speaking. They broke some windows, threatened violence... the usual.”

“So what did you do?” I ask.

“I chaperoned Milo... ushered him into the hall. Bashed a few of the censors... the usual,” he answers... as if I had any idea what the usual is.

“Okay, okay,” I say, “that means you're a right-winger who supports this Nazi guy?”

“Nazis are against homosexuals and Jews. This guy is a Jewish homosexual. Nazis build concentration camps, invade Poland and bomb England. What's that got to do with Yiannopoulos?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I just heard he was a Nazi.”

“He's not,” says the superhero. “But that's beside the point. Even if he were a real Nazi, he still should have the right to speak. My job is to insure that right.”

“That's what I want to ask you about,” I say. “What exactly is your job?”

“I can't talk about my day job,” he says. “You know, it's like you tell me I'm an actor... I answer Yeah? What restaurant?“

“You mean you have a Clark Kent identity?” I ask.

He nods and laughs.

“Okay,” I say, “tell me about your planet Krypton... and why you're dressed so dorky... and how come you have your face covered... and you have a tight suit with a V on the front. Is that for Victory or Voodoo?”

“It's for Voltaire,” he says, “Volt for short. You can call me VOLTMAN. You know, I may not agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it. THAT Voltaire.”

“That quote's in dispute,” I tell him. “It's not clear Voltaire actually said it.”

“Don't be so pedantic,” he says, shaking his head. His mask wrinkles with the action.

“Come on,” I say, “superheroes don't use words like pedantic.... You can't be real.”

He picks up one of the bricks dropped by a protester, probably intended for a nearby window. Holding one end in each hand he twists. The brick crumbles into little pebbles.

“Real enough for you?” he asks.

I nod.

We sit on the stairs that lead up to the building he just defended. Voltman sits very close to me...our thighs touch. Then he starts talking. He has a raspy voice, like someone who has done a lot of yelling... or a lot of drinking.

“Let me tell you how it started,” he says. “You remember the Nixon Theater fire... in DC... about ten years ago?”

I nod, having a vague memory of something like that.

“Half a dozen people were killed... roasted alive. Others escaped with major injuries.... a few with minor injuries...” He clears his throat. “It was an electrical fire. Started with a short circuit in the motor that opened and closed the curtains. I was sitting in the third row, and thinking back now, I realize I could smell the plastic insulation melt from the wires before there were flames. I guess that guy in the front row could smell it too... he gets up... stands on his chair... shouts FIRE! FIRE! … This being DC, there are cops everywhere. They rush the guy.”

“They thought he was making it up,” I say, “the classic shouting fire in a crowded theater. But there really was a fire?”

Voltman nods.

“Just after the cops usher him out, there's an explosion... a horrible POW! Then a roar... like a freight train passing... a huge ball of fire engulfing the audience. I could feel my face melt like the wire insulation. When I brought my hands to my cheeks, the skin stuck. The horror of realizing what happened was worse than the pain... I didn't have time to feel pain... I was blown back by a ball of fire... I landed somewhere... on top of some wires... high voltage... super high... I could feel the electricity course through my body... but with the pain, I felt a power... like I was absorbing the electricity rather than being destroyed by it... After that, I blacked out and woke up in the hospital.”

“I'm beginning to get it,” I say. “The fire destroyed your face, so you have to wear that mask. The electricity gave you superpowers... electricity... Volt... I get it.”

“Sort of,” says Voltman. “I didn't become Voltman right away... but as I spent time in the hospital, I saw that I wasn't responding to things the way other people were. The other theater-survivors were screaming in pain... I couldn't sleep at night, but I felt nothing. Doctors pressed my body here and there... I felt nothing. I could see the faces of the doctors and nurses when they came to check on me. They tried to hide their horror in a smile, but I could see the revulsion in their eyes... I felt nothing.” He pauses.

“Okay,” I ask, “how long before they let you out?”

“They never let me out,” he says. “I just left. In the middle of the night... I took off... I can't tell you where I spent the next 36 months. Let's just say some sympathetic people protected me, trained me and educated me. I trained my body to use my new powers and to learn that, when I'm injured. I no longer feel physical pain.”

In his right hand, he picks up another brick from the street. He puts his left hand on a concrete step, brings the right hand over the left... about 2 feet above it... and drops the brick onto his hand. He doesn't even flinch.

“Nothing,” he says.

“During my stay,” he continues, “My hosts brought me stories about censorship by government, by economics... by mobs.... all fascinating. But what put the whole thing in focus was my encounter with the Supreme Court decision that said Free speech does not give you the right to shout fire in a crowded theater. That is just soooo wrong! You have to be allowed to shout FIRE! Sometimes there IS a fire... Then there's the quote from Voltaire....”

I start to speak. He anticipates.

“Attributed to Voltaire... the one we talked about before.”

“I spent three years...” he continues, “I can't tell you where... training, honing this terrific power... While training, I read: Voltaire, Nat Hentoff, Alexander Cockburn, Proudhon, stuff from the ACLU and NCAC... more... I was obsessed with free speech and how every group supports free speech for itself, but not for anyone who disagrees.” He rests his hand on my thigh. I involuntarily tighten my muscles.

“After those three years,” he says, “I became VOLTMAN, super-hero of free speech.”

“Can you fly?” I ask him.

“Did anyone ever tell you you were an asshole?” he asks.

“My middle name,” I answer.

He slides his hand between my legs.

“We'll see,” he says.

“Is this your first gig?” I ask. “I mean have you only been in New York to support Milo?”

“I started at a shopping mall in Florida. Freedom of speech, of course, includes religious freedom to express your beliefs. The Boca Raton shopping mall, in response to a complaint about a Christmas nativity scene, allowed a Satanist group to... er... erect a pentagram. Wowie... the locals didn't like that one...”

He seems to drift off into memory... and his voice changes... more... I dunno... ethereal.

“Once the pentagram was up, the local good ole boys decided to knock it down. I know, ya figure Florida... it's gonna be a buncha old Jews with walkers.... but it wasn't. It was a buncha skinheads... flight jackets instead of black leather... and no kerchiefs... otherwise, they were just like these antifa guys I just fought here in New York. They came with crowbars... sledgehammers... they were gonna crush this thing... the symbol of Satan... and anyone supporting it.... I heard about the planned destruction...”

“Searchlight beaming into the sky with a big V on it?” I ask.

“You really are an asshole,” says Voltman.

I smile.

He pushes his hands up between my legs.

I cough.

“I was there half an hour before the thugs arrived,” he continues. “They must've confused my Voltman drag for something satanic. As soon as they saw me, the crowbars came out and I was dodging metal. Then... I cleaned the floor with them. Local security called a couple ambulances, and the pentagram stayed throughout Christmas.”

“Ever do anything big? I ask. “Like against the government?”

He nods.

“Last month I was in Africa,” he says. “Right after Trump issued his abortion gag order. Charities couldn't even use their own money to tell the locals about abortion. Well, I'm sure you read about “the mysterious distribution of abortion information” after the clients left the NGO offices... something that happened in the jungle.”

“You?” I ask.

He nods and smiles.

That's all the space I've got this month. Look for the manga as soon as I get an artist-- and a publisher. Don't forget, if you can draw... I WANT YOU!

-end-

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]

-->Speaking of publishers Dept: Word is that a doctored YouTube video of Milo Yiannopoulos talking about his early sexual experiences... and how he actually ENJOYED them... caused Simon and Shuster to drop his book contract, after they had agreed to publish it.

Imagine if someone doctored a Planned Parenthood YouTube to make it seem that that the organization was encouraging abortion to harvest body parts. The left would have a fit over that. Whoops... that happened.

Then, the “libertarian” CPAC, disinvited the mighty Milo to speak at their convention. I guess, FREE SPEECH^® only goes as far as the next YouTube Video.

Imagine if... whoops, that happened too.
As Voltaire said, A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES. Whoops, that was Shakespeare.

-->Oh No, Can't Say Anything Nice! dept: Censorship news reports that Scholastic publishers has withdrawn a title A Birthday Cake for George Washington. Why? There is a page where the slaves make a birthday cake for George Washington because they like him.

The censors complained that the book might present an image that slavery was nice. Any touch of humanity for slave owners is a BIG taboo. Take a look

--> 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.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

Trannies & Trumpers Mykel's Post MRR Column no 42

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 42

Trannies and Trumpers

by Mykel Board

PISSY (& SHITTY) SECTION: I rarely use the ladies'... either at work or in a public place. Usually there's a line... I figure if someone wants to piss in the W, they've got to wait for a stall. In the M, the guys who can use the urinals, do. Stall pissers like me, have more chances.

Tonight is different. I rarely go out on Saturday night... too many tourists... but tonight I'm meeting my pals, Toshi, Pedro and Sven at Harp... the local Irish seafood place... (almost) all boys.

My bladder's three Harp-pints full, I gotta go. There's a line at the Men's... from the door to the bar... no amount of knee holding is gonna take care of me. The Ladies' seems empty...not a surprise since the drinkers here are mostly guys. Why not? I'll be in a stall. Who's gonna know?

A couple quick over-the-shoulder glances and I slip inside. It's empty. Whew! I run for a stall and close the door. There's a crack between the stall door and the frame. From my seated position, I have a full view of the front/sink part of the room. I have other fish to fry.

I sit down (my aim is worsening with age) and let go. While the relief comes over my body, I hear the door open. Footsteps... more than one pair.

I see two women enter, both twenty something... one white, a bit sorority-looking with melon bazooms under a striped black and white sweater... no ass to speak of under her jeans. The other... black, with one of those asses that Christians want to outlaw. She's wearing a CUNY sweatshirt, and pants so tight I feel my good part rise on the toilet.

“Let's go!” whispers one of the girls... I can't tell which from my vantage point. I watch... keeping deadly silent in the stall.

Then it starts. The white girl crosses her arms over her chest grabbing the bottom of her sweater. Uncrossing her arms, she pulls the wool over her head.

Double melons... real.. not the never-limp hard shell of implants... but the soft natural fall of Godly endowment. The kind of tits you can slide a sheet of paper beneath... and it'll stay.

Then the black girl... I dunno... there's something about dark skin.. all the way from Mexican-Lite... to African Noir. It's better up close, of course. In my little stall I'm too far away to see those tiny goose bumps... each one like a raised dot on an expensive condom. I imagine it and throb.

The two embrace. I hear the slurp of their kiss. It's like watching a porno movie on girls4girls.com. Then... more-so. Another woman enters. She's a bit older than the embracing ones... Late forties, I'd guess.... with a matronly haircut and the kind of body that shops at Walmart.

In a flash she's naked. They move to one of those three-way kissing triangles... All touch tongues. Then the housewifey one drops to her knees and pushes he face between the black girl's legs.

One by one, more people enter. They strip off and join the orgy.

---

Of course, none of that happened. I haven't been in a Ladies' Room in a dozen years. My vaginated friends assure me that nothing has changed. You go in, take care of business, wash your hands... maybe adjust your make-up... and leave... not very sexy.

Then what the fuck? What are the women and (mostly?) men worried about when they demand a bathroom closed to transsexuals... or anybody, for that matter? Unless my first fantasy accurately reflects what goes on, why should they care? What do they have to protect from MEN or women in men's bodies? Or anything? There's a stall. You piss privately... occasionally shit... and that's it. Otherwise NOTHING HAPPENS. You're more likely to be raped in an elevator than in a bathroom.

Do you care who sees you wash your hands? I don't even understand why there are separate Men's and Ladies' Rooms in the first place... unless they need to know where to put the urinals.

Even at the urinal, you're facing the other way, Goddamn it! What possible difference does it make?

SMILEY FACE SECTION: After the last election, my fuck-buddy Barack Obie said, “The sky won't fall. The sun will still rise tomorrow.” But you wouldn't know it from the panic

Trump coughs... he's intentionally spreading TB to help the drug industry. He scratches his earlobe... He's receiving secret messages from Putin about who he should appoint Secretary of State.

It's called The Halo Effect... though for Trump I'd call it The Horns and Tail Effect. It's a psychological principle that says if you like someone... or their ideas... everything they do will be good. Even if you only like their looks, everything will seem better about them.

Among liberals, the halo effect worked for Obama. He was responsible for thousands of foreign drone deaths. He bombed a Doctors Without Borders hospital. Killed a US hostage. Deported more people than any two presidents before him. Tried to push through the awful TPP, letting a business council decide American environmental and labor laws. He jailed more whistle-blowers than all previous presidents combined. If Donald Trump had done all that, there'd be marches in the street. There are marches in the street anyway.

But Obama has a nice face. He's a colored guy. He has a soft, intellectual voice. That's a huge Halo.

Donald Trump is ugly... as belligerent as a punk rocker... and as abrasive. No matter what he does, it's EVIL. Negotiate lower drug prices using the buying power of the government? It's a trick. Convince companies to stay in America? It's just propaganda. They were gonna stay anyway. No matter what he does... it's EVIL... because... well... because he's Donald Trump.

So Donny T's taking the limo home from a hard day supervising wall-building.

“Driver,” he says, “take me to the colored neighborhood. I wanna see how those people live.”

“We don't say colored anymore,” says the driver, turning the limo South.

“I'm the fuckin' President,” says Donald. “I can say what I like.”

The exchange ends there. In front of them is an old Washington wooden house, with a front porch... on fire. Big leaping flames... hotter than a tranny's thigh... right there in front of them.

“Stop the car, NOW!” shouts the president. BANG! He's out of there, racing into the burning building.

“What the fuck?” asks the driver frantically searching for a place to park. He's supposed to protect this guy, but the heat from the fire is too much for him to enter into the building.

He calls a special number and before long sirens ring in the distance. In what seems like hours, but is probably only a few minutes, a figure appears at the door of the burning house. It's the President. In each of his arms is a small child, faces covered with ash. The president's blond locks are singed. His red face is even redder. Blisters appear.

The next day Facebook liberals tell each other that Trump's own staff set the fire so he could profit from the publicity.

Trump can't win. There's nothing he can say or do that's right for those in the grip of the Horns and Tail Effect. After the fire, they hate the president even more because “he'd risk the lives of children, just to get some good press.”

Anyone who says, the guy might have an ounce of compassion is suddenly “a Donald Trump supporter.”

BACK TO REALITY: You can't even joke about Trump... unless the jokes you're telling are anti-Trump. Make fun of Obama, criticize Clinton... and you're a Nazi. The Halo effect makes every other view a danger... They warn: Don't take the risk!

“Listen,” they'll tell you, “Trump's an unqualified bad guy... stupid... insane!”

It's the Horns and Tail effect. You want to stay safe. (I already was unfriended^® by a long-term real-life friend because I said that Donald Trump had not yet started a nuclear war. Really!) So you agree, laugh at the guy. Fifteen years ago he made a joke about pussy grabbing... grab that line! Run with it.

Look at the TV liberals: Bill Maher, Stephen Colbert. What is their humor? Anti-Trump jokes. In those circles, being anti-Trump is as safe as being anti-Hitler.

Sorry buckaroos. As my condom supplier knows (I don't have one), I never play safe.

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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]

-->A Wet One Dept: Former Navy SEAL Carl Higbie told Fox News that torture isn't so bad.

"Well, I can tell you, NOT waterboarding didn't get us the information. So why not give it a shot."

Donny seems to agree, but that doesn't surprise me. I've heard he's a fan of watersporting anyway.

-->Girls vs God dept: During a basketball game between a heavily Jewish Boston-area public school, and a visiting all-boys Catholic school, the Jews taunted the Catholics by shouting, "Where are your girls?"

The Catholics shouted back, "You killed Jesus!"

-->Side effects dept: Tylenol, already marked because of a cyanide scandal last century, has since been shown to cause severe liver damage... and the latest report shows that the drug "dulls empathy." That means, if you take Tylenol, you're less likely to give a buck to that homeless guy sitting freezing on his cardboard box.

My question: Why hasn't there been a study about capitalism? I'm sure it will find an even strong correlation between it and lack of empathy. Take Ayn Rand.... please!

-->It had to happen dept: The city of Toronto had to cancel a public meeting on accessible housing for the disabled. Why? You guessed it. The building where the meeting was held was not accessible to the disabled.

-->Public Transportation Dept: Pastor Tim Jones of Resurrection Baptist Church in Kannapolis NC offered voters a ride to the polls in the last presidential election.

"The only stipulation is you vote against abortion, corruption, excessive gun control, Obamacare and career political criminals. Otherwise, you will have to take a cab! Our church is NOT ashamed to stand up and support Donald Trump!"

-->Xmas cheer dept: A man visiting Six Flags over Texas was asked to leave because he looked too much like Santa Claus.

WALB News reports that when parents saw this guy with a white beard and long hair,they asked him to pose with their kids. He did, and park officials kicked him out for... er... interacting with children.

Hmmm, we wouldn't want Santa interacting with children would we?

-->Show some respect dept: Indian police have arrested at least 20 people for not standing during the national anthem at a movie theater. Says a NY times article:

The arrests were the first known efforts by the police to enforce compliance with the Supreme Court ruling, which requires movie theaters to play the national anthem before each screening. Patrons, according to the ruling, are required to stand respectfully for the duration of the song unless they are physically unable.

The court said it was necessary that “the citizens of the country realize that they live in a nation and are duty bound to show respect to the national anthem.” The Constitution, it continued, “does not allow any different notion, or the perception of individual rights.”

Seems like football fans in the US also are not very big on "different notion of perception of individual rights," when players express THEIR disagreement by not standing during OUR national anthem.

--> 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.

See you in hell.

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NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)