YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
The phrase "healthy life style" is a mask for concealing phobic maneuvers aimed at avoiding the dangers of life, both real and imaginary, especially the temptations of drugs and sex.
--Thomas Szasz *************************
I'm happier than a N.Y. cop at target practice. Here I am, the only guy in the girl's lockerroom. Nudies galore. Tits, twats, little jiggly buns, hanging flapperoonies. Hairy. Wispy.
Nipples like doorknobs, like pimples, like saucers. Me, naked in the midst of it all. Trying to face the locker to keep my knockwurst from knocking too obviously.
It's just me and the girls. No one else can enjoy the sights, the sounds, the smells.
Unrealistic? Impossible? A lust for an unfair advantage?
Would you say a society that lets only a few enjoy such lockerroom erotica, while depriving the rest is an unfair society? Of course you'd say that. But that's the society we live in.
I'll explain it all in a minute or two, but first let's switch scenes. I'm in the doctor's office. Dr. Yudelman speaks to me.
"Now I want you to climb on that table and get on your hands and knees.... Okay... Now take a deep breath. It relaxes the sphincter."
"Yeah right." I don't answer, "Like I never had anything up my ass before."
He inserts a finger... and presses.
"No lumps. No hard masses. Your prostate feels normal... for a man of your age."
"Thanks doc." I say. "Asshole!" I don't add.
"So what about that erection problem," I do say, "you think you could prescribe something?"
"Sure," he says. "I'll give you a referral. You can see a urologist and he'll check to see if you have any vascular problem."
"What the fuck?" I don't answer."I just want those pointy pills! I'm not interested in any urologist. I didn't come to see you for the sphincteral pleasure."
Instead, I thank the guy. Take my urologist referral. And make another appointment. The Viagra quest is still a distant dream.
Home from the docs, I sit down in front of the computer. A gentle fart sprays KY onto my black bikini briefs. It oozes under me. Rushing to the toilet, I quickly sit. FWAT-SPLASH! FWAT- SPLASH! FWAT-SPLASH! FWAT-SPLASH! FWAT-SPLASH! FWAT-SPLASH! Half a dozen golfball size turds shoot, KY lubricated.
Relieved, I wipe thoroughly and return to the computer. Ah, the day's controversy. Special rights for homos. One side says homos don't deserve special rights. They are not a racial or ethnic group, they say. They don't need laws giving them special rights.
The other side says that anti-discrimination laws are not special rights. Homos need the same rights as everyone else.
They're victims of discrimination, and hate. Laws can help change that. Right now, say the legal proponents, we live in a heterosexist society. Therefore, we need laws to protect the rights of the homo minority.
Both sides are wrong. The reality is that we already live in a homosexual society. Not only do homos have special rights, but homosexuality defines the culture.
I'm outside the gate at PS 128, an elementary school I often pass on the way to the porno bookstore. Looking through the gate, the boys are closest to me, huddled around the jungle gym. A blond kid with freckles hangs upside down by his legs.
"Look at me! Look at me!" he yells. The other boys around him answer something I can't hear. One by one, they try the same trick.
On the other side of the playground, the girls sit or stand, ignoring the boys. A plump girl, about eight, sits on a swing.
She digs her toes into the sand to push herself back. Then she raises her legs and pumps them backwards. Then forward. Then back. As she swigs higher and higher, the wind catches her pink print dress, blowing it up and against her face. Her panties flash in the sunlight. It's time for me to leave.
But not before proving my point: From the earliest ages, humans are cajoled, peer pressured, and forced into homosexuality.
Remember my lockerroom fantasy? It didn't happen.
Lockerrooms don't have girls and boys together. It's only the homos who can savor the nudity. They enjoy the sights, the eroticism. It's forbidden to everyone else. Why are naked boys and naked girls as separate as Billy Joel and Nashville Pussy?
Why the enforced homosexuality? What is behind the special privilege that allows homos visual satisfaction, but forbids it to hets?
Ask a het why-- especially a Christian het. She'll tell you it's to "protect" people. It's for a "healthy lifestyle." In their eyes, healthy is homo.
It's more than lockerrooms: It's my birthday. We're having a party in a Chinese restaurant. Fortunately, it coincides with Superbowl Sunday. The nation's masculine population is in front of the television, engaged in their annual homosexual ritual of football viewing. The restaurant is nearly empty.
At our table are my sister, her husband (fidgeting at the thought of missing the game), my parents, and my best friend Marilyn
"Excuse me," says Marilyn, "I've got to go to the ladies."
"I'll go with you," says my sister.
Is this unusual? Have you never seen it before? The call to urinate springs female wings. More contagious than mono, if one girl has to go, it becomes a crew. What do they do together? Do they watch each other? Enjoy the mutual sound of water splashing?
Is there some rite I don't know about?
For girls, taking a piss is a lesbian ritual. It must be done in a group. They go together, travelling arm-in-arm to the all-girl shelter, doing whatever it is they do-- together.
Talk about homosexual privilege! Toilets are the epitome of homosexual privilege. Are they divided to insure gender mixing?
No! Are they heterosexual? No! They're homosexual and forced to be that way by law.
Lenny Bruce used to talk about the ultimate conflict of anti-homo laws in a homosexual society.
"What do you have for a penalty for male homosexuals?" he asked. "Put 'em in jail, locked up with a bunch of men. That's the punishment."
Of course the illogic never occurred to others. In our homosexual society, it's perfectly natural that jail, like everything else, should be homosexual.
Saturday night: Marge and Eddie, married for 20 years, talk about the rest of the evening.
"I've got my book discussion group, with the girls," says Marge. "I figure I'll be back home around eleven thirty."
"That's ok," says Eddie. "I'm goin' to Bob's house for the poker game. I'll be back at midnight."
Marge and Eddie split. Off to their night of homosexual entertainment.
Marge is in bed by the time Eddie gets back. Stripping out of his chinos and casual shirt, Eddie curls up next to his wife.
"Hi," he says, "it's been awhile. What do you think..."
Marge bucks back.
"You smell like beer, Eddie." she says, "but ok. I could use some friction. Just don't kiss me."
She rolls on her back and Eddie climbs on top. Marge reaches down between his legs. "Whatsamatter Eddie?" she asks, "Don't you like me anymore?"
Eddie's body is screaming HOMO. The cardgame was homo.
Marge's bookclub was homo. Now the bedroom is becoming homo.
I can hear your objection.
"You're mixing personal relationships and sex." you say.
"You're forgetting the sex part in homoSEXual. That's the part that counts. Boys and girls do stuff in groups, but that isn't sex."
"Really?" I answer. "That's what sex is? You mean when I go to get my driver's license renewed and the form says sex, I should answer, "not often enough?"
Homosexuals are attracted to their own sex whether or not they physically fuck them. What better indication of who you're attracted to, than who you spend time with?
Most so-called heteros are more homo than the homoest homos.
Homos I know have many women friends. Some have ONLY women friends. Personally, I have way more vaginally endowed pals, than penile ones. Guys are good for fucking-- and that's about it.
Give me a girl for anything else. I'll take 'em for fucking too, but not exclusively. "Homos" and I are a minority.
Someone once said that if a martian came to observe our society, it would conclude that, except for sexual intercourse, this is a world of homosexuals. That martian would be wrong.
Heterosexual sex IS homosexual sex.
Roger Osurac, a nerdy little man, is shipwrecked on an island. There's fresh fruit, enough live fowl to strangle and fish to catch. He survives, but he's lonely. Weeks pass. Months.
Who knows how long? Then, in the distance, another ship appears.
He signals, starts a fire, then sees that one too slowly sink beneath the waves. He cries as the bow disappears.
Soon, however, a body washes up on shore. He runs over to it. Touches it. It's a woman, still warm.
"Oh my God! It's Drew Barrymore!"
He opens the woman's mouth, clears out the seaweed, and places his lips against hers. He blows the air from his lungs into hers, then presses on her chest. Again. Again.
There's a faint cough. A stirring. She's alive. He carries her to the fire and sets her down close by. He wraps her in dry leaves to keep her warm.
As days pass, she recovers. Naturally, as her savior, she falls in love with the little twerp.
"I can't believe I'm fucking Drew Barrymore." he thinks, their first night in intercourse.
He looks down at the body beneath him. Watches his penis enter and leave that vagina of everyboy's fantasy.
"Goddamn! Goddamn!! I'm fucking Drew Barrymore," he thinks.
As time passes, sex becomes more routine, like Eddie and Marge. Then, something else washes up on shore. An officer's uniform. It's wet, but in good condition. Overjoyed, Roger picks it up, dries it out in the sun and brings it to Drew.
"This is what I've been waiting for!" He says, "Put it on!"
Feeling a bit strange, but still appreciating his life saving, Drew dons the officer's uniform. Roger steps back to admire her. Head tilted, hand on one hip, he clucks his tongue.
"Not quite," he says to himself as much as to Drew.
He reaches into the ash of yesterday's fire, blackening his thumb. He then rubs the soot on Drew's upper lip, giving her a charcoal mustache.
"Perfect," he says, "now let's go out onto the beach."
Ms. Barrymore is stunned by the whole thing, but agrees to accompany him. He saved her life. That's all that matters. Under the starry moonless sky, dressed in her uniform, the young woman looks like a young man. This vision is not lost on Roger who is now ready.
They walk silently side by side. Roger nudges the faux guy with his elbow.
"Guess what?" he asks.
"What?" she answers.
"I'm fucking Drew Barrymore," he replies.
Of course, the story is apocryphal, but the idea is true.
Guys fuck girls so they can talk to other guys about it. Girls fuck guys for the same reason. Even though the intercourse is with "the opposite" sex, it's homosexual.
So Mr. Heterosexual, listen to this: You're as hetero as my ass with Yudelman's finger up it. I'm more het than you-- even though I fuck boys. In fact, the most flaming, prancing, hip- swinging, limp-wristed, lisping queen is more of a het than you are. When you talk about homos, you'd better start with the mirror. That "healthy lifestyle" you made is a homo lifestyle and you fit perfectly in it. Those you damn, those you call homo, those who you're so afraid of, have more to do with girls than you ever will.
I don't want to hear any more about special rights for homos. Not from the Christians. Not from the homos themselves. I don't want to hear how special rights will turn into special privileges.
Homosexual privilege?? We've already got it. It's time for some hetero privilege-- or at least equal rights. This society is already too homo. Especially guys who fuck girls-- and visa versa.
ENDNOTES:
--> I'm surprised the Secret Service hasn't visited me yet.
There's always a sucker who believes my April MRR columns. As in other years, the column is fiction. My confession to the assassination of JFK, was not true. For those who subscribe to my column via email, all of last month's ENDNOTES were made up except the last one. That was where the Russians appeal to Monica Lewinsky to stop the US war on Iraq. That one was real.
--> It's not too long anymore dept: Length restrictions at MRR have been loosened. I don't have to cut endnotes anymore, although the column editor "reserves the right" to cut them if he needs the space. In any case, I'll include a few bonus, electronically relevant notes, for email subscribers.
You can subscribe electronically by asking me: Mykel@ix.netcom.com or through my website: www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html. My snailmail remains Mykel Board, POB 137, Prince St. Station, New York NY 10012. Send me porn & band videos.
Oh yeah, special thanks to SPO-IT who combined the two!!!
You can get their grad live video or their 34 song CD or an animal porn T-shirt. I got 'em all! Write to: SPO-IT. c/o Scott Cockern. POB 24036. Hilton Head IS SC 29925.)
--> Kiss My Twain dept: The Washington Post (11/28/98) reports that The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is the most banned book in American libraries. This is chiefly because Twain uses the word "nigger" 215 times.
My favorite case, is where Kathy Monteiro, a black teacher in Phoenix, claimed that her child suffered psychological damage.
She said the mandatory assignment of "Huckleberry Finn" created a hostile educational environment.
What looks like another blow to free speech turned into a victory, however. Three cheers for Arizona Judge Stephen Reinhardt who wrote, "a necessary component of any education is learning to think critically about offensive ideas -- without that ability, one can do little to respond to them."
Even better was his ruling, "It is simply not the role of the courts to serve as literary censors or to make judgments as to whether reading particular books does students more harm than good... Courts cannot ban books or other literary works from school curricula on the basis of their content... even when the words are accused of being racist."
Best of all, he finished, "we reject the notion that putting books on trial is the proper way to determine the appropriateness of their use in the classroom."
Next time I'm in Tempe, I'm gonna buy that judge a drink-- or a whore-- whichever he chooses.
--> Fixing Junkies dept: I read that the Dutch government equips public toilets with blue lights. Why? According to Brant Kresovich, publisher of For the Clerisy, "Drugs are a common problem there. Blue light makes the veins almost invisible and makes shooting up nearly impossible."
--> Drugs can be fun dept: The Canadian Journal of Psychiatry reports an unusual side effect of the anti-depressant "clomipramine." Apparently, besides serving the function of other anti-depressants, that is, to allow you to enjoy your exploitation, there's a bonus.
In some people, this drug causes an orgasm to result from yawning. Dr. Martin Godfry, a London doctor who prescribed the drug said, "One woman who took clomipramine told researchers it cured her depression. Still, she wanted to go on taking it because of its peculiar properties. She found she could experience an orgasm even by deliberate yawning. And a man who had also taken the pills said he was 'highly satisfied' with the drug's usefulness."
My guess is that because the drug has sexual effects, either it will become immediately illegal, or its price will double.
--> My German pal Dolf wants me to pass the word along on the new TRUST website. It's at http://planetsound.com/media/trust.
They've got a new feature that works with Netscape's "layers" but I don't know much about that. To me, "layers" is lying down with one on the bottom and one on top of you.
-->Help Wanted dept: I'm trying to contact the Brazilian band Ratos De Porao. Anybody out there got any idea how I can get in touch with them?
--> Fattest chance dept: I love junk mail. Today I got a letter from "The Clinton Legal Expense Trust" (Dept. 6007, Washington DC 20042-6007). They want me to give them money to help the Clintons pay their legal bills. Bill and Hillary have more than $8 million in personal legal expenses, they say. Now, don't you feel sorry for them?
Maybe it's time to put a cap on lawyer's fees. Waddaya think Bill? How do you like living in a country where WINNING a court case can make you bankrupt? Maybe you and O.J. should team up.
You can play the sax. O.J. can sing. Now THAT's a benefit concert I'd pay five bucks to see. Well, three bucks anyway.
--> A chip off the old cross dept: The Austin American Statesman (http://austin360.com/news/3world/1999/01/21pope.html) reports that in order to promote the Pope's visit to Mexico, Catholic officials asked for donations from two dozen Mexican corporations.
Sabritas, a division of the American Frito-Lay company, took up the invitation. They made commemorative bags of chips wrapped in a yellow ribbon emblazoned with the Vatican coat of arms.
Inside each bag was a small photo of The Pope or one of nine other religious figures. Sabritas also sells a cardholder for 2 pesos (about 20 cents) so the faithful can collect and display all 10 photographs.
-->The discussion that prompted this column comes from the Bisexual List. To join that list send the message "subscribe bisexu-l" (no quotes) to: listerserv@brownvm.brown.edu.
-->Oy Vey Dept: Well, since they asked, I figured I'd tell you about it and let you vent. I got spam from THE CHRISTIAN CONTEMPORARY MUSIC SITE, or at least one label from that CCM site. (I love it that CCM were also the initials used by the great Italian band CHETAH CHROME MOTHERFUCKERS). You can check out the label at: www.absoluterecords.com. Or you can call them toll free at: (888) 661-6012. Did you know it costs them money for each phone call? Not that I'm suggesting anything!
-->You've got a male dept: I'm glad I haven't seen it. But Todd Brown tells me that in the awful Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan movie, Meg plays the part of an indie bookseller about to be eaten by Hank's big company. It's a David and Goliath story. Nice, huh? Except that Meg gets her morning coffee from Starbucks and connects to the internet through AOL. Ah those product placement payments.
Maybe they reveal more of the truth than the movie itself.
-->Whoops dept: I had a computer crash recently and had to reconstruct my mailing list. If you get two copies of this column, or if you otherwise want to be unsubscribed, please let me know by return mail.
