Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 3 of 3: The Passion of The Wagga
The Wagga, the Indian shaman known as He Who Passes Much Wind, and your humble Novantor were sitting around a fire, inside a teepee… in the middle of the desert.
“How long does this stuff take to work?”
“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.
“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”
Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.
Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.
It was not the wisest idea.
25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.
“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”
My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.
“Get a hold of yourself!”
“I gotta puke, mon!”
The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.
“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”
“The journey into what?” I asked.
The shaman smiled.
“Into the Novaverse.”
It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.
I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.
As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.
“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”
“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”
“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.
“It must’ve been the peyote!”
It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…
But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.
A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.
“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”
“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”
We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.
The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.
“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.
“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.
“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.
“Word,” another disciple confirmed.
“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.
The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.
“Who is this, Wagga?”
“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”
There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.
“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”
“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”
The men laughed.
“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.
“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.
“My words? Destroyed?”
I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.
It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…
“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”
I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.
“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.
“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.
I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.
“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”
Johnson grew grim.
“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.
“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”
The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.
“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.
“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”
“But they worship me!”
“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.
The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.
“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.
“Thanks, mon.”
We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.
It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.
At one point one of the disciples had to leave.
“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.
“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.
“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”
“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:
“Bring on the bitches!”
At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…
As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”
The young lady shrugged here shoulders.
I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.
“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.
“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.
I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.
I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.
After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!
“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.
The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.
Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.
“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.
“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.
What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”
“After him!”
I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…
…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.
Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…
Then I woke up.
I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.
“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.
I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.
In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.
“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”
“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”
He stopped running and looked down at himself.
“Why am I naked?” he asked.
“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”
“Was it real?”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”
The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.
“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.
“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”
“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”
The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…
“How long does this stuff take to work?”
“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.
“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”
Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.
Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.
It was not the wisest idea.
25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.
“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”
My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.
“Get a hold of yourself!”
“I gotta puke, mon!”
The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.
“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”
“The journey into what?” I asked.
The shaman smiled.
“Into the Novaverse.”
It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.
I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.
As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.
“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”
“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”
“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.
“It must’ve been the peyote!”
It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…
But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.
A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.
“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”
“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”
We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.
The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.
“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.
“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.
“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.
“Word,” another disciple confirmed.
“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.
The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.
“Who is this, Wagga?”
“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”
There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.
“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”
“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”
The men laughed.
“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.
“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.
“My words? Destroyed?”
I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.
It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…
“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”
I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.
“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.
“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.
I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.
“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”
Johnson grew grim.
“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.
“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”
The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.
“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.
“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”
“But they worship me!”
“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.
The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.
“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.
“Thanks, mon.”
We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.
It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.
At one point one of the disciples had to leave.
“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.
“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.
“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”
“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:
“Bring on the bitches!”
At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…
As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”
The young lady shrugged here shoulders.
I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.
“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.
“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.
I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.
I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.
After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!
“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.
The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.
Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.
“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.
“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.
What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”
“After him!”
I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…
…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.
Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…
Then I woke up.
I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.
“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.
I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.
In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.
“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”
“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”
He stopped running and looked down at himself.
“Why am I naked?” he asked.
“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”
“Was it real?”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”
The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.
“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.
“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”
“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”
The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 2 of 3: Varmint Man
After two days of driving and two nights of hard drinking, The Wagga and I crossed the Texas border in search of the mysterious shaman known only as:
HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND
We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.
The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.
“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.
“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”
Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”
I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.
“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”
Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”
Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.
“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”
Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.
“There will be no need for that.”
I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.
“This a bribe, son?”
“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”
The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.
“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.
We knew immediately who it was.
“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”
“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.
“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”
“You’re a fucking superhero!”
“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.
The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.
“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”
“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”
But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.
“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”
He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.
“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.
“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.
“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”
I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”
He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.
“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”
We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.
The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…
HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND
We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.
The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.
“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.
“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”
Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”
I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.
“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”
Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”
Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.
“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”
Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.
“There will be no need for that.”
I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.
“This a bribe, son?”
“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”
The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.
“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.
We knew immediately who it was.
“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”
“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.
“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”
“You’re a fucking superhero!”
“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.
The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.
“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”
“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”
But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.
“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”
He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.
“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.
“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.
“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”
I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”
He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.
“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”
We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.
The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 1 of 3: The Quest Begins
“It’s called peyote, the Divine Cactus!” The Wagga proclaimed gleefully.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”
The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!
“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."
I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?
“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”
The Wagga let out a grin.
“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”
“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”
“You have been a little uptight these days.”
“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”
Ah yes, I did know.
“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”
The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.
“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.
“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”
I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.
“What do with have to do?” I asked.
“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“Texas?”
I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.
“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.
“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”
He let out a sigh.
“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”
I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.
“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”
“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”
Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.
So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”
The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!
“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."
I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?
“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”
The Wagga let out a grin.
“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”
“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”
“You have been a little uptight these days.”
“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”
Ah yes, I did know.
“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”
The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.
“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.
“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”
I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.
“What do with have to do?” I asked.
“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“Texas?”
I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.
“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.
“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”
He let out a sigh.
“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”
I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.
“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”
“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”
Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.
So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…
Monday, April 20, 2009
One Thousand Dollars
Mr. Nova was going through a bad period a few years ago. It was at the height of my drinking and drug-use days, a real dark time for the Novanator. I was seeing this little 19-year-old redhead. All she cared about was getting high and trying to fuck with Mr. Nova's head. The dumb bitch thought she could destroy my life with her feminine wiles and sinister ways. Little did she know that Mr. Nova has no emotions or life left to destroy, just beliefs and memories. But still, tempt me she did—in a way so shocking and demented, I feel obligated to share with you what I experienced.
She had this identical twin sister. Imagine two red-haired, big-titted look-a-likes, cute as hell, sick and depraved! These young twins had a strange relationship with each other. It was like they were in love. They would hold hands while watching movies! They would even give each other little kisses. I have never seen anything like it before, my brothers. I know we have all read about things like this in magazines, heard stories from rock artists, dreamt about it in our most private fantasies…
But this was REAL! Maybe because they were twins, they figured that touching the other was no different than masturbating. I didn't understand the dynamics of their relationship. I didn't understand their mentality. All I knew was that me likes it. Me likes it a lot.
On one strange day, my girl and I were talking.
"So, your sister and you are very close."
"Yeah… would you pass the joint?"
"I noticed you two cuddled up together watching the Mary Kay and Ashley special. I thought that was sweet. "
"Yeah… we like to watch stuff together." She took a hit and zoned out. Then she came back to reality for a second. "You hungry, Mr. Nova?"
"Nah, I am fine. By the way, I saw you two kiss."
"You like that? You sick man."
She started laughing. A really strange, shriek-like laugh. She sounded like a cheetah getting castrated with a broken Coke bottle.
"You two have never… you know? Done… stuff with each other? "
"Fucked? No… but there was this one guy who offered my sister and me $1,000 to do each other in front of him. "
Suddenly she had my complete and undivided attention. A nuclear bomb could've exploded in the backyard and I wouldn't have moved from the sofa. " What happened?"
"He didn't actually have the money," she said.
"So… what if he did have the money? Would you have done it? "
"Oh, yeah! Hell yeah! My sister wanted to do it, too. I told her I would buy a strap on and fuck her better than anyone ever. And she likes to fuck, too. I would lick her shaved pussy and finger her until she came all over herself. Then I would bite her nipples and spank her and make sweet love to her over and over again. "
I sat there dumbfounded. This was some crazy inbred shit—and I loved it! It must be illegal as well… but y'know, when you're smoking dope on a Thursday afternoon, you really don't care about the law. I just couldn't believe she was being so matter-of-fact about fucking her sister! It was like, " I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing with puppies, opening my presents on Christmas morning, and incestuous lesbian relationships with my twin. Please pass the mashed potatoes. "
I tried to play it cool. "Well, why not do it for free—if you love her so much?"
"Oh, it would be a one time only thing. I figure if money was involved it would make it even better. But we won't do it for less than One Thousand Dollars. A girl must have her standards, Mr. Nova." Say what? Standards?! A whore is a whore. Fucking for money is fucking for money. But of course, I kept this to myself… no need to ruin our relationship by being honest. Honesty and relationships go together like fire and gasoline—one destroys the other.
The next day I went through my bank accounts. I didn't have anywhere close to $1,000… so I had to be creative. Over the next two weeks, I cashed in my government bonds and sold off some expensive items I had shoplifted over the past few years. I stole my brother's TV and sold it on eBay. I even asked for an advance from the editors at www.LastStory.com.
"Fuck off, Mr. Nova! You know we can't give you company money to spend on prostitution!" my editor said. I tried to argue with him that the money was for a column—and I'd let him watch. But the stupid prude wouldn't budge. The bastard.
At the end of two weeks I manage to borrow, steal, swipe, swindle, and leverage together one thousand dollars.
"Ok, I have it!" I told my 19-year-old redheaded girlfriend.
She was stoned. "What do you have? Chocolate? Chocolate is like, cool and stuff."
"The $1,000! Don't you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? How you'd let me watch you fuck your sister for $1,000? "
"Oh, well my sister just got engaged a couple of days ago. I don't think she can do it anymore."
I sat there with a blank look in my eyes.
She smiled. "I am sorry… I wanted it to happen more than you did, Mr. Nova. Hee, hee! That would've been pretty cool. Ha, ha. Do you have any more pot? "
I broke up with her and went home. I never talked to her again. Last I heard she was in rehab after a bout with some bad PCP. I don't know what happened to her sister. Crazy bitches. They left me hanging on what could have been the best Mr. Nova story ever…
…Unless I can find me some triplets.
She had this identical twin sister. Imagine two red-haired, big-titted look-a-likes, cute as hell, sick and depraved! These young twins had a strange relationship with each other. It was like they were in love. They would hold hands while watching movies! They would even give each other little kisses. I have never seen anything like it before, my brothers. I know we have all read about things like this in magazines, heard stories from rock artists, dreamt about it in our most private fantasies…
But this was REAL! Maybe because they were twins, they figured that touching the other was no different than masturbating. I didn't understand the dynamics of their relationship. I didn't understand their mentality. All I knew was that me likes it. Me likes it a lot.
On one strange day, my girl and I were talking.
"So, your sister and you are very close."
"Yeah… would you pass the joint?"
"I noticed you two cuddled up together watching the Mary Kay and Ashley special. I thought that was sweet. "
"Yeah… we like to watch stuff together." She took a hit and zoned out. Then she came back to reality for a second. "You hungry, Mr. Nova?"
"Nah, I am fine. By the way, I saw you two kiss."
"You like that? You sick man."
She started laughing. A really strange, shriek-like laugh. She sounded like a cheetah getting castrated with a broken Coke bottle.
"You two have never… you know? Done… stuff with each other? "
"Fucked? No… but there was this one guy who offered my sister and me $1,000 to do each other in front of him. "
Suddenly she had my complete and undivided attention. A nuclear bomb could've exploded in the backyard and I wouldn't have moved from the sofa. " What happened?"
"He didn't actually have the money," she said.
"So… what if he did have the money? Would you have done it? "
"Oh, yeah! Hell yeah! My sister wanted to do it, too. I told her I would buy a strap on and fuck her better than anyone ever. And she likes to fuck, too. I would lick her shaved pussy and finger her until she came all over herself. Then I would bite her nipples and spank her and make sweet love to her over and over again. "
I sat there dumbfounded. This was some crazy inbred shit—and I loved it! It must be illegal as well… but y'know, when you're smoking dope on a Thursday afternoon, you really don't care about the law. I just couldn't believe she was being so matter-of-fact about fucking her sister! It was like, " I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing with puppies, opening my presents on Christmas morning, and incestuous lesbian relationships with my twin. Please pass the mashed potatoes. "
I tried to play it cool. "Well, why not do it for free—if you love her so much?"
"Oh, it would be a one time only thing. I figure if money was involved it would make it even better. But we won't do it for less than One Thousand Dollars. A girl must have her standards, Mr. Nova." Say what? Standards?! A whore is a whore. Fucking for money is fucking for money. But of course, I kept this to myself… no need to ruin our relationship by being honest. Honesty and relationships go together like fire and gasoline—one destroys the other.
The next day I went through my bank accounts. I didn't have anywhere close to $1,000… so I had to be creative. Over the next two weeks, I cashed in my government bonds and sold off some expensive items I had shoplifted over the past few years. I stole my brother's TV and sold it on eBay. I even asked for an advance from the editors at www.LastStory.com.
"Fuck off, Mr. Nova! You know we can't give you company money to spend on prostitution!" my editor said. I tried to argue with him that the money was for a column—and I'd let him watch. But the stupid prude wouldn't budge. The bastard.
At the end of two weeks I manage to borrow, steal, swipe, swindle, and leverage together one thousand dollars.
"Ok, I have it!" I told my 19-year-old redheaded girlfriend.
She was stoned. "What do you have? Chocolate? Chocolate is like, cool and stuff."
"The $1,000! Don't you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? How you'd let me watch you fuck your sister for $1,000? "
"Oh, well my sister just got engaged a couple of days ago. I don't think she can do it anymore."
I sat there with a blank look in my eyes.
She smiled. "I am sorry… I wanted it to happen more than you did, Mr. Nova. Hee, hee! That would've been pretty cool. Ha, ha. Do you have any more pot? "
I broke up with her and went home. I never talked to her again. Last I heard she was in rehab after a bout with some bad PCP. I don't know what happened to her sister. Crazy bitches. They left me hanging on what could have been the best Mr. Nova story ever…
…Unless I can find me some triplets.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
$45: A Mr. Nova Adventure
Mr. Nova won’t pay for sex. It is not in his nature. I tried to do it (once) when I was 17. In fact, I actually handed over $100 to a prostitute in Atlantic City who looked good—but smelled like a strange combination of feces and sperm. But I couldn’t get Little Nova up for the dirty whore. My wanker doesn’t like the fact that I have to give up hard earned money for a piece of low-quality ass. Hell, with my ego, I believe these sluts should be paying me!
That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…
“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”
“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.
“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”
“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”
I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.
It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.
“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”
“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”
“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”
I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.
He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.
We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.
“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”
Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.
“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”
I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.
We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.
“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.
“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”
I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.
“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”
He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.
After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”
“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.
On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.
“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”
The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.
Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!
That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…
“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”
“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.
“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”
“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”
I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.
It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.
“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”
“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”
“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”
I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.
He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.
We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.
“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”
Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.
“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”
I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.
We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.
“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.
“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”
I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.
“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”
He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.
After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”
“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.
On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.
“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”
The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.
Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Mr. Nova's update 2.24.28
Your Novanator is slowly crawling back from the depths of a binary coma. I hope to recount exactly what happened at the end of 2004 for my Novanites someday soon. What transpired in the following years almost caused my demise at the hands of The Grim Reaper. Until then, Nova needs love on TWITTER.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The College Years, Part V: 6:00 a.m. in the Morning...
The kegs were kicked and the party was winding down at the ZAP House. Most of the partiers had either staggered back home, or found places to pass out – be it in on couches, the floor, or inside of a coed’s vagina. Your Novanator, as usual, was reviewing his options for carnal debauchery:
“Ok, you – the red-head with the tiny tits and great ass. Why should the Big Novowski choose YOU as his hook-up partner?” I demanded.
Tiny-Tits Red giggled. “You should choose me ‘cause I want you to join my threesome! Tee-hee!”
This sounded promising. “Very good, my Novaslut. Who’s the other bitch that’ll be joining us?”
Tiny-Tits mischievously grinned. “Who says the other person has to be a female? Would you ever join a threesome with one girl and another GUY?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But only if I get to fuck the girl first – the other guy ain’t in the room with me at the time – and I can leave when I’m done to eat my sandwich.”
“That – that’s not what I want!” pouted Tiny-Tits.
“I really give a shit, Flatty. Dismissed!”
Tiny-Tits stormed off. Who the fuck did she think she was anyway?
Next in line: “You – the brunette with the monster jugs and the nose piercings – what do YOU have to offer the Novanator?”
Monster Jugs lipped her lips. “Oh, baby! I wanna massage your back and suck your dick ALL NIGHT LONG! I wanna sleep with your dick in my mouth, sucking away like it’s a pacifier!”
Interesting. “So far, so good,” I admitted.
And then she smiled at me. Crap! She had a mouth full of braces. No fucking WAY I’m gonna let my stain-stick sleep on the railroad tracks.
“Sorry, Juggy, but I can’t risk a puncture wound on the Novacock. Call me when your mouth is de-wired.” Monster Jugs burst into tears and ran away. Must’ve been her time of the month, or something.
And right there – as Allah is my witness – the most AMAZING blonde walked before me. Huge tits, an iron-hard stomach, and a perfectly round ass. Her legs stretched forever and her lips sparkled with pre-sperm goodness. I nearly shot a load in my pants.
“Hi, Mr. Nova!” she purred… in a strange accent that I couldn’t quite place. “I’ve heard so much about you! And I’d like for you to take me home and fuck me proper! Not only that, but I want you to fuck my new friend, too!” She pointed to another babe who was staring shyly at the floor, but DEFINITELY sneaking a peak at my package. Whoa – it was the bass player’s girlfriend! And everyone told me that she was a stuck-up bitch!
Strange…
But hey, who am I to argue? A fuck-fest is a fuck-fest. And that blonde – she was hotter than Oprah’s thong after running the Boston Marathon. Hotter than Satan’s pitchfork in late July.
As everyone knows, the Novanator has nailed THOUSANDS of sluts throughout the years, but I don’t think I had EVER nailed anyone sexier than that blonde. Imagine Jessica Alba – but with blonde hair… and a better body… bigger tits… a better ass… Caribbean blue eyes… and an insatiable expression of lust splashed across her face.
“Alright, Blondie. You got yourself a deal!” I took her by the hand, and we all walked back to the bass player’s girlfriend’s apartment. (And that girlfriend, by the way, walked behind us without ever saying a word – just like an obedient robot. I felt like a sexual pied piper… but was it MY skin-flute she was following? Or something else?)
We entered the abode and Blondie immediately dove for my richard. “Calm the fuck down!” I said, pushing her off. My bladder was bursting at the seams. “Wait right here. Just start kissing each other, or something. Nova has got to take an angry piss.” Ain’t I a romantic?
“Ok Nova, but hurry back,” they said in unison, like a pair of sexually-connected twins. I looked back when I reached the bathroom door and saw that they were locked in a passionate lezzie embrace. Tongues were jousting. It was a glorious sight. I hoped that soon some spanking would commence.
With a smile on my face I went into the bathroom and proceeded to urinate. Almost immediately, I started to feel a voice calling to me from beyond:
“Nova, you’ve done it!” Nova SX exclaimed from his distant homeworld. “By pissing so much a second time, you have knocked the transmission between our universes back into alignment! Seriously, though, I do think you might have an infection. When was the last time you drank some cranberry juice?”
“Shut up!” I shouted. “I am getting ready to bang out these crazy bisexual bitches I just met! And stop staring at my unit while I’m pissing!” I was getting so frustrated with this meddling interplanetary voice that I was pissing all over the place – spraying the bathroom floor like an out-of-control fire hose. The bass player’s girlfriend’s collection of Cosmopolitan magazines was drenched in my acid urine. Countless perfume ads were surely ruined. I redirected my stream and finished up.
“Nova, are you Ok in there?” Blondie inquired.
“Yeah, just give me a minute!” I said in an uncharacteristically agitated tone. “Go back to kissing, you whores!”
Then the strangest thing happened: Nova SX appeared in the bathroom mirror. He seemed happy that he had discovered a way to contact me visually.
“Greetings, Nova! It is me, Nova!”
“Dammit! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Well, if that is accurate, then this looks like the correct place to have done it. Should I give you time to clean up?”
“No, you didn’t literally scare it out of me! It is a figure of speech on this planet,” I explained to him.
This was getting very strange. The ladies were waiting and I was having a conversation with my parallel self through the bathroom mirror.
“Nova, I have come to warn you!”
“Again? You gonna tell me that I’m in danger again, or something? Look, the only danger I faced tonight was from an angry horde of drunken students who wanted to kill my friend Dick ‘cause he wouldn’t vacate the bathroom and let ‘em piss. That was it.” Dammit, I was drunk, angry, and horny for a threesome. Not the best combination. But do you know what is a GREAT combination? Turkey, pepper-jack cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, onions, green peppers, pickles, and jalapeno peppers – on a Kaiser roll. Oh, baby! Maybe after I bang these broads I can talk one of ‘em into making me a sandwich…
“No, the danger has yet to pass, Brother Nova,” he said through the mirror. I wanted to punch his stupid blue face. He looked like a Smurf version of me.
“Look, as long as my cock still functions I will bang out hot shaven snatch across the globe. Now leave me alone, you interfering blue-faced bastard. You are the worst cock-blocker I have ever met, or talked to, or communicated with through a cosmic channel. Listen, we’ll discuss this tomorrow. I got to bang them out now!”
“There won’t be a tomorrow if you go back in there,” he ominously warned. “Examine those bitches closely. Does anything seem a tad askew? Is one of the bitches acting as if she’s under a mind control trance and acting out of character? And does the other bitch seem as if she doesn’t quite fit the profile of your typical college frat-slut?”
I then experienced a moment of great clarity. “Wait a minute. One of those chics is the sub-dimensional bounty hunter you warned me about! Isn’t she? The blonde, right?” Blondes always want to kill me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I laugh at ‘em if their drapes don’t match their carpet. (It’s false advertising, dammit.)
“I didn’t want to say...”
“I get it now, you evasive fuck! Why couldn’t you just tell me out right?!”
Nova SX looked grim. (Well, as grim as anyone could look through a cosmic channel relayed through a bathroom mirror.) “I had to let you find out by yourself. If I had told you at first, you wouldn’t believe me – and then it would be too late. But the cosmos knows about you, Nova. It wants you gone. Why do you think the police stole your Ultimate Pleasure Device? Why do you think you have already had visits from the Grim Reaper?”
“You know about that bitch?”
“Yes, Nova. She can cross the cosmic divide to ALL universes. I have outwitted her five times already. I fear, though, that the next time she will take me.”
“Yeah, she does suck,” I sympathetically said. “She’s got nice tits, though.”
“Nova, listen to me. The cosmos has many agents at its disposal. I am public enemy number one – constantly on the run and never at peace. And because I’ve proven that Novas possess the unique, godlike power of 100% sexual pleasure, all Novas are at risk! And you especially, for your genetic composition most closely resembles that of my own. Blondie over there plans on capturing your ass and taking you back to my planet as her sex slave. And stop smiling! Being a sex slave is no fun in my universe. You’ll be forced to fuck old fat women. So if you value your freedom, you MUST evade her sinister clutches!”
“How do I do that?” I asked. My worst fear was losing my freedom (just after my fear of knocking some girl up, losing control of my bowels on a first date, and clowns). On planet earth, male freedom was forfeited via monogamy – but now, my freedom was threatened by something decidedly intergalactic.
The girls were really getting impatient in the other room. “GET BACK IN HERE AND FUCK US, YOU BASTARD!” they shouted. And you know, they made a compelling argument. Blondie was REALLY, REALLY hot.
“Don’t go back in there,” Nova SX pleaded. “As for how to escape, you must exploit her weaknesses. Remember, she is from my world – and as I told you in the Novaverse, on my planet, the men have one testicle and the women have two clits.”
“I understand,” I said, bowing my head in low homage.
“Good luck, Brother Nova. Until our next meeting...” And then Nova SX disappeared from the bathroom mirror.
I walked out into the room where the two girls lay in wait. They had already stripped down to their bras and panties, and were wrapping their legs around each other like good little lesbians.
“Come to bed Nova,” Blondie cooed seductively. She twirled the hair of the musician’s girlfriend. The Novacock was fighting like an angry black man for the lack piece of fried chicken, literally BEGGING me to let him out of my drawers and into the female honey pot. But was I strong enough to keep him in check? It was like tugging on a marlin at high sea.
I walked over to the couch. Bam! I bitch-slapped the FUCK out of the musician’s girlfriend with the back of my hand – knocking her ass out of the couch and unconscious atop the floor. Now, just for the record, it ain’t Nova-style to beat-up women – not even when they burn one of my sandwiches – but this was for her own good. If she was under a mind control spell, then her life was in jeopardy. Knocking the cunt out was a necessary precaution.
Alarmed, Blondie scooted over in the couch. “Nova, why the hell did you do that?!”
“Calm down, Sugar-Britches – that’s how we swing on earth. There’s something I need to show you…” I unbuttoned my pants and whipped out the Nova-balls.
“My GOD,” she whispered. “TWO balls! I’ve… I’ve never seen anything like that!”
Of course she hadn’t. As Nova SX told me, on her planet, the guys are all uni-ball. But I still had a trump card to play: “There’s one thing else you haven’t seen. Slide open your legs, bitch.”
Blondie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You know who I am, don’t you? That bastard Nova SX must’ve somehow warned you of my mission, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. You fate is sealed, Earth Nova. We’ve studied Nova SX for a very long time. We know all his filthy secrets – from the Dirty Sanchez to the Donkey Punch to the Angry Pirate. He knows all the sexual tricks in the cosmos – and we know ALL he knows! There’s nothing you can do to evade my capture, foolish earthling. Your fate is sealed! You WILL be my prisoner!”
“If my fate is sealed, what do you have to lose?” I asked. “I’m unarmed.” I rolled up my sleeves and loosened my wrists. “Just humor me. Open your fucking legs!”
Maybe it was curiosity – or maybe it was overconfidence. Either way, Blondie parted her thighs and allowed the Novanator to work his magic.
I warmed up my fingers, cracking my knuckles a few times and shaking my joints loose. I only had one chance to get this right… or risk spending all my days fucking fat alien grannies.
Finally, I was ready for action! “Blondie,” I stated, “Nova SX is a very wise man. He knows much of the sexual arts. He knows more than me. But the one thing he doesn’t know – the one thing he COULDN’T know – is the ultimate technique invented by yours truly. You see, Blondie, I am the Master of the Hummingbird. The Hummingbird Technique overwhelms the clitoris of earth-babes, bringing them to the point of mind-numbing ecstasy. But earth girls only have ONE clit! Imagine what happens if I do the Hummingbird on a girl with TWO clits!”
Blondie looked confused – as if she didn’t quite understand her predicament. It didn’t matter. I slid over her panties and surveyed her twin clitorises. With both hands, I latched onto her clits and began working feverishly.
“OOOOHHH MMMYYY GOOOOODDDD!!!!!! WHAAAAAT ARRRRRE YOOOOU DOOOOOING TOOO MEEEEE!!!!!!” Blondie screamed. The pleasure cortex of her alien brain couldn’t handle the orgasmic rush. Trust me: The Humming Bird Technique KICKS THE FUCKING SHIT out of the Dirty Sanchez. It creates a feeling of such intense pleasure that the recipient’s mind loses its ability to engage in cognitive thought. In other words, it’s sort of like tequila – only more so.
And I didn’t stop. I kept the Hummingbird Technique going for one solid hour! Most one-clitted women can barely handle the Hummingbird for more than a few minutes. Imagine having TWO CLITS and feeling the wrath of the Hummingbird for an entire fucking hour!
By the time I finished, Blondie was a drooling, two-clittie invalid. Her brain was destroyed; her body reduced to jelly. Boogers were free-falling from her nose; drool poured from her mouth like a pedophile at Boy Scout camp.
The Big Novowski had escaped!
I high-tailed it back to my three-room apartment and tightly locked the door. Once in bed I crashed for a good 14 hours. I eventually awoke to the phone ringing. Dick was on the other line, telling me about how he left the ZAP House – but in his drunken, woozy state, he walked two miles in the wrong direction. A strange person took pity on him and drove him home. According to Dick, this person looked like me… only his face was blue. Could it be? Was that Nova SX?
I pretended to not know anything. I didn’t tell him about Nova SX, the Novaverse, interplanetary bounty hunters, or any of the other strange things I discovered.
“What did you do after I left?” Dick asked.
“I drank some beer, Dick. I drank some beer, rubbed a few clits, and called it a night…”
“Ok, you – the red-head with the tiny tits and great ass. Why should the Big Novowski choose YOU as his hook-up partner?” I demanded.
Tiny-Tits Red giggled. “You should choose me ‘cause I want you to join my threesome! Tee-hee!”
This sounded promising. “Very good, my Novaslut. Who’s the other bitch that’ll be joining us?”
Tiny-Tits mischievously grinned. “Who says the other person has to be a female? Would you ever join a threesome with one girl and another GUY?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But only if I get to fuck the girl first – the other guy ain’t in the room with me at the time – and I can leave when I’m done to eat my sandwich.”
“That – that’s not what I want!” pouted Tiny-Tits.
“I really give a shit, Flatty. Dismissed!”
Tiny-Tits stormed off. Who the fuck did she think she was anyway?
Next in line: “You – the brunette with the monster jugs and the nose piercings – what do YOU have to offer the Novanator?”
Monster Jugs lipped her lips. “Oh, baby! I wanna massage your back and suck your dick ALL NIGHT LONG! I wanna sleep with your dick in my mouth, sucking away like it’s a pacifier!”
Interesting. “So far, so good,” I admitted.
And then she smiled at me. Crap! She had a mouth full of braces. No fucking WAY I’m gonna let my stain-stick sleep on the railroad tracks.
“Sorry, Juggy, but I can’t risk a puncture wound on the Novacock. Call me when your mouth is de-wired.” Monster Jugs burst into tears and ran away. Must’ve been her time of the month, or something.
And right there – as Allah is my witness – the most AMAZING blonde walked before me. Huge tits, an iron-hard stomach, and a perfectly round ass. Her legs stretched forever and her lips sparkled with pre-sperm goodness. I nearly shot a load in my pants.
“Hi, Mr. Nova!” she purred… in a strange accent that I couldn’t quite place. “I’ve heard so much about you! And I’d like for you to take me home and fuck me proper! Not only that, but I want you to fuck my new friend, too!” She pointed to another babe who was staring shyly at the floor, but DEFINITELY sneaking a peak at my package. Whoa – it was the bass player’s girlfriend! And everyone told me that she was a stuck-up bitch!
Strange…
But hey, who am I to argue? A fuck-fest is a fuck-fest. And that blonde – she was hotter than Oprah’s thong after running the Boston Marathon. Hotter than Satan’s pitchfork in late July.
As everyone knows, the Novanator has nailed THOUSANDS of sluts throughout the years, but I don’t think I had EVER nailed anyone sexier than that blonde. Imagine Jessica Alba – but with blonde hair… and a better body… bigger tits… a better ass… Caribbean blue eyes… and an insatiable expression of lust splashed across her face.
“Alright, Blondie. You got yourself a deal!” I took her by the hand, and we all walked back to the bass player’s girlfriend’s apartment. (And that girlfriend, by the way, walked behind us without ever saying a word – just like an obedient robot. I felt like a sexual pied piper… but was it MY skin-flute she was following? Or something else?)
We entered the abode and Blondie immediately dove for my richard. “Calm the fuck down!” I said, pushing her off. My bladder was bursting at the seams. “Wait right here. Just start kissing each other, or something. Nova has got to take an angry piss.” Ain’t I a romantic?
“Ok Nova, but hurry back,” they said in unison, like a pair of sexually-connected twins. I looked back when I reached the bathroom door and saw that they were locked in a passionate lezzie embrace. Tongues were jousting. It was a glorious sight. I hoped that soon some spanking would commence.
With a smile on my face I went into the bathroom and proceeded to urinate. Almost immediately, I started to feel a voice calling to me from beyond:
“Nova, you’ve done it!” Nova SX exclaimed from his distant homeworld. “By pissing so much a second time, you have knocked the transmission between our universes back into alignment! Seriously, though, I do think you might have an infection. When was the last time you drank some cranberry juice?”
“Shut up!” I shouted. “I am getting ready to bang out these crazy bisexual bitches I just met! And stop staring at my unit while I’m pissing!” I was getting so frustrated with this meddling interplanetary voice that I was pissing all over the place – spraying the bathroom floor like an out-of-control fire hose. The bass player’s girlfriend’s collection of Cosmopolitan magazines was drenched in my acid urine. Countless perfume ads were surely ruined. I redirected my stream and finished up.
“Nova, are you Ok in there?” Blondie inquired.
“Yeah, just give me a minute!” I said in an uncharacteristically agitated tone. “Go back to kissing, you whores!”
Then the strangest thing happened: Nova SX appeared in the bathroom mirror. He seemed happy that he had discovered a way to contact me visually.
“Greetings, Nova! It is me, Nova!”
“Dammit! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Well, if that is accurate, then this looks like the correct place to have done it. Should I give you time to clean up?”
“No, you didn’t literally scare it out of me! It is a figure of speech on this planet,” I explained to him.
This was getting very strange. The ladies were waiting and I was having a conversation with my parallel self through the bathroom mirror.
“Nova, I have come to warn you!”
“Again? You gonna tell me that I’m in danger again, or something? Look, the only danger I faced tonight was from an angry horde of drunken students who wanted to kill my friend Dick ‘cause he wouldn’t vacate the bathroom and let ‘em piss. That was it.” Dammit, I was drunk, angry, and horny for a threesome. Not the best combination. But do you know what is a GREAT combination? Turkey, pepper-jack cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, onions, green peppers, pickles, and jalapeno peppers – on a Kaiser roll. Oh, baby! Maybe after I bang these broads I can talk one of ‘em into making me a sandwich…
“No, the danger has yet to pass, Brother Nova,” he said through the mirror. I wanted to punch his stupid blue face. He looked like a Smurf version of me.
“Look, as long as my cock still functions I will bang out hot shaven snatch across the globe. Now leave me alone, you interfering blue-faced bastard. You are the worst cock-blocker I have ever met, or talked to, or communicated with through a cosmic channel. Listen, we’ll discuss this tomorrow. I got to bang them out now!”
“There won’t be a tomorrow if you go back in there,” he ominously warned. “Examine those bitches closely. Does anything seem a tad askew? Is one of the bitches acting as if she’s under a mind control trance and acting out of character? And does the other bitch seem as if she doesn’t quite fit the profile of your typical college frat-slut?”
I then experienced a moment of great clarity. “Wait a minute. One of those chics is the sub-dimensional bounty hunter you warned me about! Isn’t she? The blonde, right?” Blondes always want to kill me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I laugh at ‘em if their drapes don’t match their carpet. (It’s false advertising, dammit.)
“I didn’t want to say...”
“I get it now, you evasive fuck! Why couldn’t you just tell me out right?!”
Nova SX looked grim. (Well, as grim as anyone could look through a cosmic channel relayed through a bathroom mirror.) “I had to let you find out by yourself. If I had told you at first, you wouldn’t believe me – and then it would be too late. But the cosmos knows about you, Nova. It wants you gone. Why do you think the police stole your Ultimate Pleasure Device? Why do you think you have already had visits from the Grim Reaper?”
“You know about that bitch?”
“Yes, Nova. She can cross the cosmic divide to ALL universes. I have outwitted her five times already. I fear, though, that the next time she will take me.”
“Yeah, she does suck,” I sympathetically said. “She’s got nice tits, though.”
“Nova, listen to me. The cosmos has many agents at its disposal. I am public enemy number one – constantly on the run and never at peace. And because I’ve proven that Novas possess the unique, godlike power of 100% sexual pleasure, all Novas are at risk! And you especially, for your genetic composition most closely resembles that of my own. Blondie over there plans on capturing your ass and taking you back to my planet as her sex slave. And stop smiling! Being a sex slave is no fun in my universe. You’ll be forced to fuck old fat women. So if you value your freedom, you MUST evade her sinister clutches!”
“How do I do that?” I asked. My worst fear was losing my freedom (just after my fear of knocking some girl up, losing control of my bowels on a first date, and clowns). On planet earth, male freedom was forfeited via monogamy – but now, my freedom was threatened by something decidedly intergalactic.
The girls were really getting impatient in the other room. “GET BACK IN HERE AND FUCK US, YOU BASTARD!” they shouted. And you know, they made a compelling argument. Blondie was REALLY, REALLY hot.
“Don’t go back in there,” Nova SX pleaded. “As for how to escape, you must exploit her weaknesses. Remember, she is from my world – and as I told you in the Novaverse, on my planet, the men have one testicle and the women have two clits.”
“I understand,” I said, bowing my head in low homage.
“Good luck, Brother Nova. Until our next meeting...” And then Nova SX disappeared from the bathroom mirror.
I walked out into the room where the two girls lay in wait. They had already stripped down to their bras and panties, and were wrapping their legs around each other like good little lesbians.
“Come to bed Nova,” Blondie cooed seductively. She twirled the hair of the musician’s girlfriend. The Novacock was fighting like an angry black man for the lack piece of fried chicken, literally BEGGING me to let him out of my drawers and into the female honey pot. But was I strong enough to keep him in check? It was like tugging on a marlin at high sea.
I walked over to the couch. Bam! I bitch-slapped the FUCK out of the musician’s girlfriend with the back of my hand – knocking her ass out of the couch and unconscious atop the floor. Now, just for the record, it ain’t Nova-style to beat-up women – not even when they burn one of my sandwiches – but this was for her own good. If she was under a mind control spell, then her life was in jeopardy. Knocking the cunt out was a necessary precaution.
Alarmed, Blondie scooted over in the couch. “Nova, why the hell did you do that?!”
“Calm down, Sugar-Britches – that’s how we swing on earth. There’s something I need to show you…” I unbuttoned my pants and whipped out the Nova-balls.
“My GOD,” she whispered. “TWO balls! I’ve… I’ve never seen anything like that!”
Of course she hadn’t. As Nova SX told me, on her planet, the guys are all uni-ball. But I still had a trump card to play: “There’s one thing else you haven’t seen. Slide open your legs, bitch.”
Blondie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You know who I am, don’t you? That bastard Nova SX must’ve somehow warned you of my mission, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. You fate is sealed, Earth Nova. We’ve studied Nova SX for a very long time. We know all his filthy secrets – from the Dirty Sanchez to the Donkey Punch to the Angry Pirate. He knows all the sexual tricks in the cosmos – and we know ALL he knows! There’s nothing you can do to evade my capture, foolish earthling. Your fate is sealed! You WILL be my prisoner!”
“If my fate is sealed, what do you have to lose?” I asked. “I’m unarmed.” I rolled up my sleeves and loosened my wrists. “Just humor me. Open your fucking legs!”
Maybe it was curiosity – or maybe it was overconfidence. Either way, Blondie parted her thighs and allowed the Novanator to work his magic.
I warmed up my fingers, cracking my knuckles a few times and shaking my joints loose. I only had one chance to get this right… or risk spending all my days fucking fat alien grannies.
Finally, I was ready for action! “Blondie,” I stated, “Nova SX is a very wise man. He knows much of the sexual arts. He knows more than me. But the one thing he doesn’t know – the one thing he COULDN’T know – is the ultimate technique invented by yours truly. You see, Blondie, I am the Master of the Hummingbird. The Hummingbird Technique overwhelms the clitoris of earth-babes, bringing them to the point of mind-numbing ecstasy. But earth girls only have ONE clit! Imagine what happens if I do the Hummingbird on a girl with TWO clits!”
Blondie looked confused – as if she didn’t quite understand her predicament. It didn’t matter. I slid over her panties and surveyed her twin clitorises. With both hands, I latched onto her clits and began working feverishly.
“OOOOHHH MMMYYY GOOOOODDDD!!!!!! WHAAAAAT ARRRRRE YOOOOU DOOOOOING TOOO MEEEEE!!!!!!” Blondie screamed. The pleasure cortex of her alien brain couldn’t handle the orgasmic rush. Trust me: The Humming Bird Technique KICKS THE FUCKING SHIT out of the Dirty Sanchez. It creates a feeling of such intense pleasure that the recipient’s mind loses its ability to engage in cognitive thought. In other words, it’s sort of like tequila – only more so.
And I didn’t stop. I kept the Hummingbird Technique going for one solid hour! Most one-clitted women can barely handle the Hummingbird for more than a few minutes. Imagine having TWO CLITS and feeling the wrath of the Hummingbird for an entire fucking hour!
By the time I finished, Blondie was a drooling, two-clittie invalid. Her brain was destroyed; her body reduced to jelly. Boogers were free-falling from her nose; drool poured from her mouth like a pedophile at Boy Scout camp.
The Big Novowski had escaped!
I high-tailed it back to my three-room apartment and tightly locked the door. Once in bed I crashed for a good 14 hours. I eventually awoke to the phone ringing. Dick was on the other line, telling me about how he left the ZAP House – but in his drunken, woozy state, he walked two miles in the wrong direction. A strange person took pity on him and drove him home. According to Dick, this person looked like me… only his face was blue. Could it be? Was that Nova SX?
I pretended to not know anything. I didn’t tell him about Nova SX, the Novaverse, interplanetary bounty hunters, or any of the other strange things I discovered.
“What did you do after I left?” Dick asked.
“I drank some beer, Dick. I drank some beer, rubbed a few clits, and called it a night…”
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The College Years, Part IV: My Friend Dick Always Gets Me Into Trouble...
“Nova-dude, will you get your buddy out of the bathroom?! Like, NOW!”
Slim Gene Cream, the 300-pound fraternity brother, was pissed off. Apparently, my friend Dick had locked himself in the lavatory. Worse yet, the drunken partygoers had no place to urinate except the sink (which was full of dirty dishes, dirtier panties, and even dirtier used condoms).
“If you don’t get him out, we’ll put the hurt on him – and then on YOU, MR. NOVA!” Slim said with his finger jabbing at me.
It was decided then. I didn’t want this behemoth finding a way to put me out of commission; I still had much work to do. Much snatch to pound.
“What happened? What he do to your frat?” I asked, opting to stall using the inquisitive approach.
“First of all, don’t EVER call my fraternity a ‘frat!’ I don’t call your country a ‘cunt,’ do I?! As for Dick, he knocked a beer off of a ledge when he was packin’ his smokes! Total party foul! Then that beer spilled all over the bass player’s girlfriend’s tits! She was always a stuck-up bitch and this made her face turn redder than a faggot’s asshole!”
I briefly pondered how Slim would know what a faggot’s asshole looked like, but thought better of asking that question. “Damn, that sounds major,” I empathetically conceded. “I can’t believe Dick would waste beer like that. So what made him go into the bathroom?”
Slim looked as if he was remembering a battle from long ago... like he had been on the frontlines as a Marine grunt during the Vietnam War, and was experiencing a flashback of the time Bob Hope shit his pants onstage during the USO tour. He just stared at the bathroom door and spoke as if narrating a movie: “He look embarrassed... but then he offered the stuck-up bitch his own shirt. It was a heroic gesture, but she gave him the meanest look I had ever seen. Then her boyfriend came over to see what was going on. She told the bass-playing dude to stand up for her. She showed the dork her beer-drenched shirt. Her nipples were all perky and hard and sticking out. He said to Dick, ‘That’s not cool, man.’ Dick then looked like he was going to puke. He pushed the unhappy couple out of the way and headed for the bathroom. After throwing out the occupant, he slammed the door shut behind him. He has been in there ever since.”
“When did this happen?”
“30 minutes ago, Nova. The people are getting angry. I don’t know how much longer their bladders can hold out!” Slim Gene Cream put his hand on my shoulder and in his most urgent tone said to me: “You must get him out of there or the consequences will be cataclysmic!”
I thought to myself that this 300-pound fraternity brother had a helluva vocabulary, especially for someone who just won a 15-team beer bong tournament and downed four shots of Jägermeister. I looked over at the bass player and his girlfriend, and saw that she was crying onto his shoulder. He looked dazed. Probably did some nasty drugs before his performance and really didn’t give a shit. Slim Gene Cream’s frat (oops, fraternity) brothers were flanking him – and giving me stern (but drunk) looks. I made my move.
“I will do my best, but the only way I know how: Nova-style, baby!”
I felt just like Jesus Christ, right before he escaped from the whale’s belly to slay Goliath. (Or whatever he did. Nova never went to Sunday School.) The people waiting in line gave me such looks of animosity that I actually feared for Dick’s life if he ever made it out of the poop-room. Guys and girls were squirming in their pants, desperately awaiting the chance to relieve the immense pain building up after consuming massive amounts of alcohol. One freshman girl was crying hysterically, with a gigantic yellow stain over the crotch of her jeans. I honestly didn’t know what the big deal was; between the balcony and the fish tank, there were plenty of places to take a leak.
I reached the bathroom door and lightly tapped on it. “Dick, come out... These people are starting to become angry. I don’t want to break up another mob.”
“My hand is stuck. And I’m drunk,” Dick said. He sure sounded pathetic. Why was his hand stuck?
“Why is you hand stuck?” I asked.
“I punched a hole in the wall. I got mad. I offered that bitch my shirt when I spilled all of that sweet beer on her. She wouldn’t take it. So I got mad and came in here. After I puked, I got so pissed I punched a hole in the wall!”
“Well let me in, you dumbass! I’ll help you get your hand out.”
I heard Dick sigh. “I am blocking the door. My hand is stuck right above the light switch. I am lucky I didn’t electrocute myself.”
“You are damn lucky! If you were to die that way it would be an electrocity!” I don’t think Dick got my joke. In fact, I was so drunk, I don’t even understand that joke. (It must be a play on words, or something.)
I had to think fast. The mob was starting to form. I didn’t want the Nova Bastille to fall and face death via the guillotine. I liked my heads, especially the one that has one eye and spits.
“Dick! Just grab some soap, lube your hand up, and pull it out really fast!”
“But it is gonna hurt!” he whined.
“Quit being a baby and fucking do it!” I commanded.
I heard some shuffling of feet and the faucet being turned on. He must have been getting the soap wet. There was a sound of fumbling and then something dropped to the floor.
“FUCK!” Dick yelled.
“You alright?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door to hear better.
The mob was swelling, getting closer. They were yelling at me to “Get him the fuck outa there!” I stayed focused.
I could hear Dick twisting his hand in the hole he made out of anger. “I’m ready,” he said.
I pulled away from the door. I held the mob at bay with my back to them and arms outstretched, ala Gandolf. Those people SHALL NOT pass!
“Alright, Dick! You can do it! Pull it out, buddy!” I exclaimed like any good coach would in a last-minute situation.
There was a loud “Ahhhhggggghhhhh!” and then a thump and a crash. The bathroom door swung open and Dick emerged with a bloody left hand. I ran forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out into the hallway and into safety.
The mob calmed down and went about the process of relieving their bladders. I went back in to tell Slim Gene Cream that everything was alright, explaining Dick’s unseemly behavior with an elaborate story about how he was actually a frickin’ retard. Nobody doubted a single word I said.
I looked around; Dick was nowhere to be seen. Where had my new friend gone? He needed to go to a hospital. Something had to be done.
How this epic tale ended is beyond Earthly comprehension...
Slim Gene Cream, the 300-pound fraternity brother, was pissed off. Apparently, my friend Dick had locked himself in the lavatory. Worse yet, the drunken partygoers had no place to urinate except the sink (which was full of dirty dishes, dirtier panties, and even dirtier used condoms).
“If you don’t get him out, we’ll put the hurt on him – and then on YOU, MR. NOVA!” Slim said with his finger jabbing at me.
It was decided then. I didn’t want this behemoth finding a way to put me out of commission; I still had much work to do. Much snatch to pound.
“What happened? What he do to your frat?” I asked, opting to stall using the inquisitive approach.
“First of all, don’t EVER call my fraternity a ‘frat!’ I don’t call your country a ‘cunt,’ do I?! As for Dick, he knocked a beer off of a ledge when he was packin’ his smokes! Total party foul! Then that beer spilled all over the bass player’s girlfriend’s tits! She was always a stuck-up bitch and this made her face turn redder than a faggot’s asshole!”
I briefly pondered how Slim would know what a faggot’s asshole looked like, but thought better of asking that question. “Damn, that sounds major,” I empathetically conceded. “I can’t believe Dick would waste beer like that. So what made him go into the bathroom?”
Slim looked as if he was remembering a battle from long ago... like he had been on the frontlines as a Marine grunt during the Vietnam War, and was experiencing a flashback of the time Bob Hope shit his pants onstage during the USO tour. He just stared at the bathroom door and spoke as if narrating a movie: “He look embarrassed... but then he offered the stuck-up bitch his own shirt. It was a heroic gesture, but she gave him the meanest look I had ever seen. Then her boyfriend came over to see what was going on. She told the bass-playing dude to stand up for her. She showed the dork her beer-drenched shirt. Her nipples were all perky and hard and sticking out. He said to Dick, ‘That’s not cool, man.’ Dick then looked like he was going to puke. He pushed the unhappy couple out of the way and headed for the bathroom. After throwing out the occupant, he slammed the door shut behind him. He has been in there ever since.”
“When did this happen?”
“30 minutes ago, Nova. The people are getting angry. I don’t know how much longer their bladders can hold out!” Slim Gene Cream put his hand on my shoulder and in his most urgent tone said to me: “You must get him out of there or the consequences will be cataclysmic!”
I thought to myself that this 300-pound fraternity brother had a helluva vocabulary, especially for someone who just won a 15-team beer bong tournament and downed four shots of Jägermeister. I looked over at the bass player and his girlfriend, and saw that she was crying onto his shoulder. He looked dazed. Probably did some nasty drugs before his performance and really didn’t give a shit. Slim Gene Cream’s frat (oops, fraternity) brothers were flanking him – and giving me stern (but drunk) looks. I made my move.
“I will do my best, but the only way I know how: Nova-style, baby!”
I felt just like Jesus Christ, right before he escaped from the whale’s belly to slay Goliath. (Or whatever he did. Nova never went to Sunday School.) The people waiting in line gave me such looks of animosity that I actually feared for Dick’s life if he ever made it out of the poop-room. Guys and girls were squirming in their pants, desperately awaiting the chance to relieve the immense pain building up after consuming massive amounts of alcohol. One freshman girl was crying hysterically, with a gigantic yellow stain over the crotch of her jeans. I honestly didn’t know what the big deal was; between the balcony and the fish tank, there were plenty of places to take a leak.
I reached the bathroom door and lightly tapped on it. “Dick, come out... These people are starting to become angry. I don’t want to break up another mob.”
“My hand is stuck. And I’m drunk,” Dick said. He sure sounded pathetic. Why was his hand stuck?
“Why is you hand stuck?” I asked.
“I punched a hole in the wall. I got mad. I offered that bitch my shirt when I spilled all of that sweet beer on her. She wouldn’t take it. So I got mad and came in here. After I puked, I got so pissed I punched a hole in the wall!”
“Well let me in, you dumbass! I’ll help you get your hand out.”
I heard Dick sigh. “I am blocking the door. My hand is stuck right above the light switch. I am lucky I didn’t electrocute myself.”
“You are damn lucky! If you were to die that way it would be an electrocity!” I don’t think Dick got my joke. In fact, I was so drunk, I don’t even understand that joke. (It must be a play on words, or something.)
I had to think fast. The mob was starting to form. I didn’t want the Nova Bastille to fall and face death via the guillotine. I liked my heads, especially the one that has one eye and spits.
“Dick! Just grab some soap, lube your hand up, and pull it out really fast!”
“But it is gonna hurt!” he whined.
“Quit being a baby and fucking do it!” I commanded.
I heard some shuffling of feet and the faucet being turned on. He must have been getting the soap wet. There was a sound of fumbling and then something dropped to the floor.
“FUCK!” Dick yelled.
“You alright?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door to hear better.
The mob was swelling, getting closer. They were yelling at me to “Get him the fuck outa there!” I stayed focused.
I could hear Dick twisting his hand in the hole he made out of anger. “I’m ready,” he said.
I pulled away from the door. I held the mob at bay with my back to them and arms outstretched, ala Gandolf. Those people SHALL NOT pass!
“Alright, Dick! You can do it! Pull it out, buddy!” I exclaimed like any good coach would in a last-minute situation.
There was a loud “Ahhhhggggghhhhh!” and then a thump and a crash. The bathroom door swung open and Dick emerged with a bloody left hand. I ran forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out into the hallway and into safety.
The mob calmed down and went about the process of relieving their bladders. I went back in to tell Slim Gene Cream that everything was alright, explaining Dick’s unseemly behavior with an elaborate story about how he was actually a frickin’ retard. Nobody doubted a single word I said.
I looked around; Dick was nowhere to be seen. Where had my new friend gone? He needed to go to a hospital. Something had to be done.
How this epic tale ended is beyond Earthly comprehension...
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The College Years, Part III: The Party of the Century
Oh my Novanites, I had made it to the block party of the century! I had just survived an afternoon of heavy drinking and Buffalo Wing gorging. (Only extra-spicy for the Novanator – I ain’t no pussy.) Dick and I stumbled our way towards the party’s command center – located in a cookie-cutter apartment building. The whole complex surrounding the bash was buzzing with swarms of students huddling outside, holding plastic cups filled with frothy goodness.
It was a chore pushing people aside as we headed for our destination. The building was packed tighter than a Samoan fetus in the belly of a Japanese gymnast; people were so smooshed together that a babe in a miniskirt could be stripped of her panties and never once see her assailant. (At least, that’s what I was counting on. Nova RULES!) Our target was the fifth floor, room 508, the ZAP House. Their letters were spelled out in Christmas lights on the balcony.
Once they had been a powerful fraternity, but countless incidents of drunken mayhem (including pushing a professor’s car into a lake – while the professor was still IN the car) left them without an official charter or school recognition. Fuck, they didn’t even have a BUILDING anymore; the ZAP “House” was half-a-dozen apartment rooms that the fraternity brothers had rented. They were like a little guerrilla commando unit, working with the bare essentials and a tiny base of operations. Think of them as al-Kega. But they knew how to party, so that made them the kings of the campus.
One of the frat boys at the door demanded a $5 cover charge. I pretended like I was reaching for my wallet – and then kicked the dude squarely in the nuts and walked on in. Mr. Nova does NOT pay cover charges, my friends. We squeezed through the masses crowding the stairwell, avoided several freshmen puking their guts out (and a few girls whom I had bumped-and-dumped over the past few years). We made it to the ZAP House and saw that the crowd was pushed out into the hallway. A huge 300-pound bouncer named Slim Gene Cream asked Dick for the password.
“SX,” Dick said. His freshman roommate joined this fraternity and always kept Dick up to date with the password.
But I was thinking, “SX… this must be a sign.” The Mr. Nova from Universe SX was trying to contact me again through some type of code. SOMETHING was about to happen. I had to be ready for it. We were let into the apartment and were promptly handed a couple of beers by a nice, hot blonde piece of ass with huge tits and pointy nipples.
I don’t know how the ZAP boys managed it, but they crammed a local rock group into the corner of their apartment. People were stumbling over pedals and cables to get to the six kegs on the balcony. It was INSANE how much mayhem was being packed into such a small place. The band was wailing through a cover of Pearl Jam’s Alive when I finally got my message from Nova SX:
“Nova! Damn, your toxic piss has the power to break a cosmic channel! That’s never happened before. Seriously, dude – you might have an infection. Go see a doctor. I had to reroute my transmission through one of the guitar amps in this room! Now listen to me: I must warn you – your Nova-life is in great peril!”
“Danger?! From WHO?! Why can’t you leave me alone, you other-dimensional bastard!”
I spoke that last line out loud and in an agitated state. A few people standing next to me were a little concerned about my behavior. They were wondering why I was yelling out to seemingly no one. One guy asked me if I was Ok, so I kicked him in the nuts . Dude, I’m communicating with an alternate dimension, for fuck’s sake! I got no TIME for stupid questions. So I just kept drinking my beer like nothing happened. I headed out to the balcony and did a keg stand. When I came down to the floor and regained my balance, the alcohol hit my bloodstream harder than a Lexington Steele money shot.
It was then that I first entered the inner Novaverse:
My Novanites, it is a strange feeling, separating yourself from reality and opening a portal into the Novaverse. “What is the Novaverse,” you ask? It is the place where all Novas across the parallel universes can come together to exchange knowledge on an astral plane. It has no borders and cannot be fully described as an actual place – more like a surreal state of mind. As I went within and opened the portals, I found Nova SX leafing through a dog-eared copy of High Society magazine while resting a large book on his lap. He looked up as I entered.
“What took you so long?” he asked. He looked almost exactly like me, except his skin was blue.
“Well, I am at the party of the century, you meddling fucktard! Why do you keep bugging me? And what is up with that oversized book you have on your lap? …And when is it my turn to look at that High Society magazine?”
I paused for a moment and thought of something else: “Say, isn’t this a purely theoretical environment? So WHAT THE HELL are a magazine and a book doing here?! Besides, if you can bring earthly objects to the Novaverse, then I want some nachos, dammit!” I was pissed.
Nova SX softly chuckled. “If only you knew half of what I know, fellow Nova. This book contains EVERYTHING! All sexual knowledge from the known universes is recorded in these pages. Now it cannot leave here, lest the information infect the entire cosmos and set up a chain of events that could lead to the end of life as we know it. But you can glean from it while within the Novaverse. I have read all there is in here... and have learned of sexual techniques you couldn’t possibly comprehend!”
“Yeah? Like what,” I demanded.
“Well, have you ever heard of the Dirty Sanchez?” Nova SX smugly queried.
“Of course, dumbass. That’s when you stick your finger up the girl’s ass and draw a chocolate mustache underneath her nose. Been there, done that. And I know all about the Dirty Soon Chin as well, so don’t even bother.” (FYI, the Dirty Soon Chin is the same as the Dirty Sanchez – only you draw little gook eyelines with your brown finger tip, and then make the bitch do your laundry.)
“Well, fine, those were easy ones. How about the Donkey Punch?”
I yawned. “That’s when you’re banging the bitch from behind – and without warning, you punch her right in the back of the head. The sudden impact causes her sphincter to tighten and squeeze your Novacock nice and tight. This is basic shit, dude.”
Nova SX was getting agitated. “Alright, Einstein – how about the Angry Pirate?”
Your Novanator was stumped. “The Angry Pirate? What’s that?”
Victorious, Nova SX explained, “The Angry Pirate is when you shoot a load in the girl’s eye – and then you kick her hard in the shin! Half-blinded, she staggers around like an angry pirate!”
I had to admit, that one was pretty good. “Ok, I cede defeat. There’s still more for me to learn. But what’s that High Society magazine doing here?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s just so I can rub one out. You were taking forever to visit the Novaverse and I got bored.”
“You are fucking crazy,” I exclaimed. I was starting to feel uncomfortable… as well as hungry. Where were my nachos anyway? That’s the trouble with traveling to theoretical dimensions; there’s never anything good to eat.
“No, Nova, not crazy. It is more like I am exhausted – and constantly on the run. I’m the first Nova in the HISTORY of the cosmos to EVER gain the penile-power to produce 100% sexual pleasure in bitches. And an intergalactic conspiracy of female alien overlords will sacrifice ANYTHING to capture me.”
I was confused. “So… you’re tying to tell me that you’re a Scientologist? You mean – Tom Cruise is RIGHT?!”
Nova SX flapped his arms like a spastic chicken. “Quit being a fuckin’ idiot. Listen closely to me, Brother Nova: I’ve learned all there is to know about carnal bliss. With the knowledge imbedded in my mind, I can make any woman on my planet achieve orgasmic bliss in an instant. I’m a sexual GOD!”
“What about going to other worlds and conquering the sexual planes there?” I figured sex was like playing Super Mario World; you conquer one level and then move on to another.
He laughed. “You and I are the only Novas that are remotely human-looking! The Nova in Universe 698 is a twenty-foot tall reptile with a five-foot yoo-hoo! The females of that species would think of our shafts as tiny Tootsie Rolls compared to that beast!”
“Wild, dude. I guess it would be like being an Indian man here on earth. So other than the fact that you’re the color of a Smurf, the people on my planet and the people on yours are identical?”
“Not exactly,” replied Nova SX. “I have one ball, and our females have two clits. But you and I – we’re more similar than different. And if the female alien overlords cannot capture me as their sex-slave, they WILL come after YOU. Brother Nova, you have a price on your head, and sub-dimensional bounty hunters will surely try to collect the prize!”
“Uh, huh. Whatever happened to my nachos?”
It was at that instant that I was yanked out of the Novaverse by someone slamming my ass against the ZAP apartment wall. It was Slim Gene Cream.
“You gotta get your friend Dick out of here! He committed a TOTAL party foul!” the blimp-sized dude said.
Damn if I didn’t have business to take care of in the real world...
It was a chore pushing people aside as we headed for our destination. The building was packed tighter than a Samoan fetus in the belly of a Japanese gymnast; people were so smooshed together that a babe in a miniskirt could be stripped of her panties and never once see her assailant. (At least, that’s what I was counting on. Nova RULES!) Our target was the fifth floor, room 508, the ZAP House. Their letters were spelled out in Christmas lights on the balcony.
Once they had been a powerful fraternity, but countless incidents of drunken mayhem (including pushing a professor’s car into a lake – while the professor was still IN the car) left them without an official charter or school recognition. Fuck, they didn’t even have a BUILDING anymore; the ZAP “House” was half-a-dozen apartment rooms that the fraternity brothers had rented. They were like a little guerrilla commando unit, working with the bare essentials and a tiny base of operations. Think of them as al-Kega. But they knew how to party, so that made them the kings of the campus.
One of the frat boys at the door demanded a $5 cover charge. I pretended like I was reaching for my wallet – and then kicked the dude squarely in the nuts and walked on in. Mr. Nova does NOT pay cover charges, my friends. We squeezed through the masses crowding the stairwell, avoided several freshmen puking their guts out (and a few girls whom I had bumped-and-dumped over the past few years). We made it to the ZAP House and saw that the crowd was pushed out into the hallway. A huge 300-pound bouncer named Slim Gene Cream asked Dick for the password.
“SX,” Dick said. His freshman roommate joined this fraternity and always kept Dick up to date with the password.
But I was thinking, “SX… this must be a sign.” The Mr. Nova from Universe SX was trying to contact me again through some type of code. SOMETHING was about to happen. I had to be ready for it. We were let into the apartment and were promptly handed a couple of beers by a nice, hot blonde piece of ass with huge tits and pointy nipples.
I don’t know how the ZAP boys managed it, but they crammed a local rock group into the corner of their apartment. People were stumbling over pedals and cables to get to the six kegs on the balcony. It was INSANE how much mayhem was being packed into such a small place. The band was wailing through a cover of Pearl Jam’s Alive when I finally got my message from Nova SX:
“Nova! Damn, your toxic piss has the power to break a cosmic channel! That’s never happened before. Seriously, dude – you might have an infection. Go see a doctor. I had to reroute my transmission through one of the guitar amps in this room! Now listen to me: I must warn you – your Nova-life is in great peril!”
“Danger?! From WHO?! Why can’t you leave me alone, you other-dimensional bastard!”
I spoke that last line out loud and in an agitated state. A few people standing next to me were a little concerned about my behavior. They were wondering why I was yelling out to seemingly no one. One guy asked me if I was Ok, so I kicked him in the nuts . Dude, I’m communicating with an alternate dimension, for fuck’s sake! I got no TIME for stupid questions. So I just kept drinking my beer like nothing happened. I headed out to the balcony and did a keg stand. When I came down to the floor and regained my balance, the alcohol hit my bloodstream harder than a Lexington Steele money shot.
It was then that I first entered the inner Novaverse:
My Novanites, it is a strange feeling, separating yourself from reality and opening a portal into the Novaverse. “What is the Novaverse,” you ask? It is the place where all Novas across the parallel universes can come together to exchange knowledge on an astral plane. It has no borders and cannot be fully described as an actual place – more like a surreal state of mind. As I went within and opened the portals, I found Nova SX leafing through a dog-eared copy of High Society magazine while resting a large book on his lap. He looked up as I entered.
“What took you so long?” he asked. He looked almost exactly like me, except his skin was blue.
“Well, I am at the party of the century, you meddling fucktard! Why do you keep bugging me? And what is up with that oversized book you have on your lap? …And when is it my turn to look at that High Society magazine?”
I paused for a moment and thought of something else: “Say, isn’t this a purely theoretical environment? So WHAT THE HELL are a magazine and a book doing here?! Besides, if you can bring earthly objects to the Novaverse, then I want some nachos, dammit!” I was pissed.
Nova SX softly chuckled. “If only you knew half of what I know, fellow Nova. This book contains EVERYTHING! All sexual knowledge from the known universes is recorded in these pages. Now it cannot leave here, lest the information infect the entire cosmos and set up a chain of events that could lead to the end of life as we know it. But you can glean from it while within the Novaverse. I have read all there is in here... and have learned of sexual techniques you couldn’t possibly comprehend!”
“Yeah? Like what,” I demanded.
“Well, have you ever heard of the Dirty Sanchez?” Nova SX smugly queried.
“Of course, dumbass. That’s when you stick your finger up the girl’s ass and draw a chocolate mustache underneath her nose. Been there, done that. And I know all about the Dirty Soon Chin as well, so don’t even bother.” (FYI, the Dirty Soon Chin is the same as the Dirty Sanchez – only you draw little gook eyelines with your brown finger tip, and then make the bitch do your laundry.)
“Well, fine, those were easy ones. How about the Donkey Punch?”
I yawned. “That’s when you’re banging the bitch from behind – and without warning, you punch her right in the back of the head. The sudden impact causes her sphincter to tighten and squeeze your Novacock nice and tight. This is basic shit, dude.”
Nova SX was getting agitated. “Alright, Einstein – how about the Angry Pirate?”
Your Novanator was stumped. “The Angry Pirate? What’s that?”
Victorious, Nova SX explained, “The Angry Pirate is when you shoot a load in the girl’s eye – and then you kick her hard in the shin! Half-blinded, she staggers around like an angry pirate!”
I had to admit, that one was pretty good. “Ok, I cede defeat. There’s still more for me to learn. But what’s that High Society magazine doing here?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s just so I can rub one out. You were taking forever to visit the Novaverse and I got bored.”
“You are fucking crazy,” I exclaimed. I was starting to feel uncomfortable… as well as hungry. Where were my nachos anyway? That’s the trouble with traveling to theoretical dimensions; there’s never anything good to eat.
“No, Nova, not crazy. It is more like I am exhausted – and constantly on the run. I’m the first Nova in the HISTORY of the cosmos to EVER gain the penile-power to produce 100% sexual pleasure in bitches. And an intergalactic conspiracy of female alien overlords will sacrifice ANYTHING to capture me.”
I was confused. “So… you’re tying to tell me that you’re a Scientologist? You mean – Tom Cruise is RIGHT?!”
Nova SX flapped his arms like a spastic chicken. “Quit being a fuckin’ idiot. Listen closely to me, Brother Nova: I’ve learned all there is to know about carnal bliss. With the knowledge imbedded in my mind, I can make any woman on my planet achieve orgasmic bliss in an instant. I’m a sexual GOD!”
“What about going to other worlds and conquering the sexual planes there?” I figured sex was like playing Super Mario World; you conquer one level and then move on to another.
He laughed. “You and I are the only Novas that are remotely human-looking! The Nova in Universe 698 is a twenty-foot tall reptile with a five-foot yoo-hoo! The females of that species would think of our shafts as tiny Tootsie Rolls compared to that beast!”
“Wild, dude. I guess it would be like being an Indian man here on earth. So other than the fact that you’re the color of a Smurf, the people on my planet and the people on yours are identical?”
“Not exactly,” replied Nova SX. “I have one ball, and our females have two clits. But you and I – we’re more similar than different. And if the female alien overlords cannot capture me as their sex-slave, they WILL come after YOU. Brother Nova, you have a price on your head, and sub-dimensional bounty hunters will surely try to collect the prize!”
“Uh, huh. Whatever happened to my nachos?”
It was at that instant that I was yanked out of the Novaverse by someone slamming my ass against the ZAP apartment wall. It was Slim Gene Cream.
“You gotta get your friend Dick out of here! He committed a TOTAL party foul!” the blimp-sized dude said.
Damn if I didn’t have business to take care of in the real world...
Monday, February 2, 2009
The College Years, Part II: The Path to the Novaverse
Damn if I wasn’t drunk off $1 pitchers – and happy from 10 cent wings. Dick and I had just gorged on beer and food at a local watering hole, and were ready to hit the college party scene. As we stumbled down the street towards our destination, I could feel the twilight fill the sky. It was moments like these – drunk but still aware – when my mind was most dangerous… and open to telepathic communication.
That was when the Mr. Nova from Universe SX sent me a message across the cosmic channel:
“Nova! It is me! It is you! What up, homey?” his voice called from beyond.
At first I furiously shook my head, trying to shake these strange sounds out of my mind. I was getting freaked out. I popped open the emergency beer I always keep in my jacket pocket and pounded its sweet nectar, hoping it would make Nova SX go away. But it didn’t work. I tried not to let Dick notice that my counterpart from another universe was communicating with me… but who writes a handbook on how to keep your parallel self a secret anyway? I was in virgin territory, like the time I fucked that Miss Teen USA contestant.
“What’s wrong, Nova?” Dick asked.
“I… I gotta take a piss, Dick,” I babbled. “I am going to go behind this tree to squeeze the weasel. I gotta shake hands with Mr. Destiny. Gotta drain the main vein. Um… Be right back!”
Dick didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He just stood there in a drunken stupor and stared at a gaggle of giggling coeds. I went behind the tree and started to let Nova SX have it.
“Stop bugging me!” I yelled aloud to inter-dimensional Nova. “I don’t care that you ARE me! I have beer to drink and snatch to pound! Besides, you’re ripping off that ‘Bill & Ted’ movie! Do something original!”
Inside my mind he replied, “You don't have to shout, just use your thoughts, Brother Nova. I have something urgent to tell you...”
I realized that I was still pissing and lost my concentration. Man, that’s a LOT of piss. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, how much beer had I been drinking?! I must have let out a gallon of yellow liquid – at LEAST. Damn my bladder! I looked down and realized that the grass would die from my toxic urine. It STUNK too. It smelled like a Hindu outhouse. But there were no more voices in my head. Nova SX was gone from my mind...
I wondered what he was trying to warn me about. I stumbled up the embankment to rejoin Dick. He was lying down on the side of the road, half-asleep. I kicked him in the side.
“C’mon Dick! We’ve got snatch to find!”
He staggered up off the ground and we continued on towards the party. I sent a message out to Nova SX, hoping it would get to him. I don’t know how I did it; I just concentrated and looked within myself – within the inner Novaverse.
“Fellow Nova,” I said (thought): “I have long pondered if there were others like me. Men who had found a way to maximize pleasure with the ladies. You have found me and I want to know more about other Novas across space and time – but tonight is not the night to wax philosophical about the Great Beyond! Tonight is the night to get drunk and get laid!”
Even though I remained your confident Novanator – ready to drink and score with beautiful bitches – Nova SX’s sense of urgency still weighed heavy in the back of my mind. What did it mean? Can an alternate reality really exist? Do all Novas share one soul, or are we all uniquely part of God’s divine plan?
And how do I get the piss stains out of Levi’s?
That was when the Mr. Nova from Universe SX sent me a message across the cosmic channel:
“Nova! It is me! It is you! What up, homey?” his voice called from beyond.
At first I furiously shook my head, trying to shake these strange sounds out of my mind. I was getting freaked out. I popped open the emergency beer I always keep in my jacket pocket and pounded its sweet nectar, hoping it would make Nova SX go away. But it didn’t work. I tried not to let Dick notice that my counterpart from another universe was communicating with me… but who writes a handbook on how to keep your parallel self a secret anyway? I was in virgin territory, like the time I fucked that Miss Teen USA contestant.
“What’s wrong, Nova?” Dick asked.
“I… I gotta take a piss, Dick,” I babbled. “I am going to go behind this tree to squeeze the weasel. I gotta shake hands with Mr. Destiny. Gotta drain the main vein. Um… Be right back!”
Dick didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He just stood there in a drunken stupor and stared at a gaggle of giggling coeds. I went behind the tree and started to let Nova SX have it.
“Stop bugging me!” I yelled aloud to inter-dimensional Nova. “I don’t care that you ARE me! I have beer to drink and snatch to pound! Besides, you’re ripping off that ‘Bill & Ted’ movie! Do something original!”
Inside my mind he replied, “You don't have to shout, just use your thoughts, Brother Nova. I have something urgent to tell you...”
I realized that I was still pissing and lost my concentration. Man, that’s a LOT of piss. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, how much beer had I been drinking?! I must have let out a gallon of yellow liquid – at LEAST. Damn my bladder! I looked down and realized that the grass would die from my toxic urine. It STUNK too. It smelled like a Hindu outhouse. But there were no more voices in my head. Nova SX was gone from my mind...
I wondered what he was trying to warn me about. I stumbled up the embankment to rejoin Dick. He was lying down on the side of the road, half-asleep. I kicked him in the side.
“C’mon Dick! We’ve got snatch to find!”
He staggered up off the ground and we continued on towards the party. I sent a message out to Nova SX, hoping it would get to him. I don’t know how I did it; I just concentrated and looked within myself – within the inner Novaverse.
“Fellow Nova,” I said (thought): “I have long pondered if there were others like me. Men who had found a way to maximize pleasure with the ladies. You have found me and I want to know more about other Novas across space and time – but tonight is not the night to wax philosophical about the Great Beyond! Tonight is the night to get drunk and get laid!”
Even though I remained your confident Novanator – ready to drink and score with beautiful bitches – Nova SX’s sense of urgency still weighed heavy in the back of my mind. What did it mean? Can an alternate reality really exist? Do all Novas share one soul, or are we all uniquely part of God’s divine plan?
And how do I get the piss stains out of Levi’s?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The College Years, Part I: Making Friends
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Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part IV: The Grim Reaper Makes a Modest Proposal
Hoisted atop whisky-stained barstools in the notorious Dice’s Inn Klantastic saloon, the Grim Reaper and I were discussing the intricacies of the universe amongst a sea of lowlife hillbillies. Criminals, miscreants, and toothless fuck-ups populated this hellish tavern – and separated from my car keys, your Novanator was stranded. Like the sheets on a porn set, things were about to get sticky.
Thinking of nothing better to do, I tried a little small talk: “So… what color are your panties, Reaps? Are they black? They’re black, right? You can tell me.” I turned my head and hollered at the tobacco-chewing barkeep for a tall beer to reassure my backbone, and also ordered a purplish shot known as “The Red Death” for the Reaper. I thought that my beverage choice for Miss Skeletor was appropriate. But on this soon-to-be-infamous night, the Mistress of the Damned was not in a jovial mood.
“Cut the bullshit, Nova. I could lay waste to this accursed saloon with a single twitch of my eyelid! And the color of my undergarments is NONE of your concern.”
“I’ll bet they’re black. I mean, what other color would a Reaper’s panties be? Certainly not pink, I can tell you that.” Upon speaking, your humble Novanator paused a few seconds, unsure of the proper conversational protocol. Somehow, I needed to convince my buxom nemesis to metabolize her bubbly shot of happy-juice; for an obvious drinking novice like her, alcohol served as an internal kamikaze pilot, destroying everything from the brain to the colon – but in a professional like me, booze greased the adrenaline gland. With enough alcohol, a violent revenge plan would surely emerge in the Nova-mind. A nd as we’d drink, I’d grow stronger while she fell weaker. Now more than ever, I needed Uncle Alcohol to protect his wayward nephew.
“Mock me at your own peril, Nova. You are hereby warned,” the Reaper, well, warned.
“Just drink the shot, Reaps. It’ll loosen you up a bit. Might even help you get that problem off your INCREDIBLY impressive chest. I haven’t seen tits like that since Al Roker had his stomach stapled. What are those anyway? 38 Double-Ds?”
I downed my beverage and called for another. By contrast, “The Red Death” sat idle before the Reaper, untouched and unused, like a tanning salon in downtown Harlem. Since she was unwilling to voluntarily partake in its fermented goodness, I’d have to somehow put her in the right frame of mind to desire an inebriating elixir.
“I grow tired of your incessant chatter, you loathsome earthman. It is time for you to decide if you are going to help me.”
“Well, Grimmy, if you want Big Daddy Nova to ease your pain, then I want some answers of my own. Like, what’s the meaning of life? How come tittie-flicks always switch to a close-up on the dude’s face, right when I’m shooting my load? Why do Mexicans smell funny? That’s the LEAST you owe me, considering that the last time we met, you forced me to fuck a fat girl! That she-blimp had cellulite around her pussy, for fuck’s sake! If I hadn’t banged her by dusk, you vowed to take my life – and my life is something I value more than anything, except maybe beer. I’m not ready for the Divine Afterlife and you know it! Say… what is after death?”
I hoped that these questions would keep her busy for awhile. I had to buy some room to maneuver. By now Stinky had probably tied his urine-stained jockeys to the Nova-Wagon’s antennae. Time was running out…
“There is nothing for you after this life, Nova,” she answered me, in a voice as cold as an Eskimo’s nipple. “Death offers nothing but emptiness and eternal solitude.”
“Dammit, that sucks. No beer and no broads? No nachos? IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE TELL ME THERE ARE NACHOS!!” I was suddenly depressed.
“Nothing but never-ending darkness, you scum-sucking maggot. Alone, lost forever in the eternal void. That is, unless you help me.” She turned her cloaked face my way – and although she continued to act tougher than a stale Slim Jim, I sensed the quivers of insecurity lurking beneath the Reaper-exterior. Like a denuded Janet Jackson, she secretly feared that unveiling too much would prove embarrassing.
“I think you’re bluffing, Death-Babe! You want me to believe that I need you – but the Novanator needs nothing except beer, nachos, and quilted toilet paper. You think I fear your wrath? Fuck no, bitch! Nothing scares me – except maybe the thought of Stinky sitting bare-assed on the Nava-Wagon’s upholstery. I’ll have to get that dry-cleaned.” I drank another beer. I ordered one more. I still didn’t have a clue how to escape.
And then – like a priest’s boner during sleep away camp – it hit me! I knew how to convince the Grim Reaper to start guzzling alcohol! Obviously, she’s a deeply unhappy babe, right? Well, ALL miserable self-loathing losers lack the ability to tell their life’s story in a bar without drinking excessively. It’s a scientific fact, like the Law of Gravity, or that Asians have tiny peckers. All I had to do was redirect the conversation towards her life experiences. Armed with this strategic knowledge, I dived in immediately: “You still haven’t told me who you really are. Where are you from? What’s your deal, Kevorkian?”
She sat quiet for a moment. Then – on cue – she reached for “The Red Death” and downed the concoction in just one gulp. The sheer spontaneity of her decision amazed even me.
“Alright, you bastard! You want answers? Here it is: I have been a Reaper for as long as worthless humans have populated this wretched, revolving rock known as earth. I no longer remember how I became the Goddess of Death. Perhaps I angered a Higher Power during my original incarnation. Perhaps I did impure deeds. I used to ponder my fate, but such things no longer matter. Things are as they are. I gain nothing by letting these questions eat me up inside.”
“Speaking of eating you up, Grimmy, would you ever let an earthling go grazing along your folded pancake? Because I’d love to be the first! Eating out death would be the ultimate X-Game! And you should know that going down on a babe isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Basically, I’m snacking on an open wound – and depending on your personal hygiene, it could get pretty gross down there. I mean, let’s face it: I’ve already fucked one girl tonight with a filthy asshole, and I haven’t seen anything to convince me that your cleaning techniques are any better, and—”
“Shut the FUCK up, you sad excuse for a man!”
“I apologize, sugar-nipples. Please continue.” As she babbled on and on about her unfortunate place in the cosmic scheme and the divine nature of God (blah, blah, blah), I noticed Stinky sneaking back into the building, still minus his pants. He was pissed off (literally and figuratively) that the girls had ditched us, and had picked a fight with a supersized redneck in a Confederate bandana – and wearing a blood-stained t-shirt that read “Guns don’t kill people. I do.” Worse yet, Stinky still had my car keys. The ornery hick backed Stinky up against the bathroom doors, readying to alter the configuration of his facial features. Playtime was over; the hour of our reckoning was now at hand.
“But enough about my past,” Reaps concluded. “Here is my proposition: I’ll allow you to live if you do one thing for me.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, keeping one eye glued on Stinky’s ass-whooping.
“Assist me,” she answered with a sad, unhappy sigh. “For reasons I still cannot fathom, your Nova sub-species seems to have acquired strange, transcendental powers. Unlike the other humans—” Grimmy and me both glanced around the Dice’s Inn bar, studying the motley hodgepodge of sapiens who were busy spitting peanut shells, assaulting women, dealing drugs, and kicking the shit out of Stinky. Honestly, I was glad to be excluded from that prize-pack. “—you’ve somehow acquired the ability to communicate telepathically with others in the Novaverse, as well as the power of the Hummingbird. I could use an ally such as yourself.”
Interesting. But what did she want with the Hummingbird Technique?
“Interesting. But what do you want with the Hummingbird Technique, Reaps?” your Novanator inquired. I ordered her a double-shot of “The Red Death.” Once again, she swallowed its contents with a single gulp. I noticed that as the sweet alcohol hit her bloodstream, her words and reflexes were gradually slowing.
“My inability to claim the souls of the various Novas across the many parallel universes is frustrating; this I readily admit. You’ve evaded my capture and angered me greatly. But rather than waste my days chasing you and your vulgar, hedonistic ilk across infinite planes of existence, I’d prefer to utilize you as my personal ally.” She paused briefly, either for dramatic effect or because those adult beverages were derailing her train of thought. Regaining her composure, she then continued: “Through the wisdom accessed in the Novaverse, you’ve mastered many methods of manipulating the feminine mind – and with your legendary Hummingbird Technique, you’ve fine-honed the art of unequaled sexual pleasure.”
“So you wanna ride on the Hummingbird Express, Grimmy?” I queried. “Is that what you’re asking the Big Novowski? That’s even better than going taco-munching! Oh, yeah. I’d treat you like a postage stamp: lick you, stick you, and then send your ass out the fucking door. Besides, I’m kind of curious to see what you look like naked. And I still say your panties are black!” I licked my lips and loosened my wrists, readying the Nova-hands for the vag-conquest of She-Death.
“Not for me, you blithering idiot!” she ruefully spat. “You humans repulse me!” She shook her head in utter disdain, ordered another hit of “The Red Death,” and quickly chugged the shot. “No, I want you to use the Hummingbird on the women of this planet – and while they’re distracted, I’ll blot their identities from all earthly existence! To Hades they go! You see, Nova, you’re going to help me slay millions of females!” With that, the Reaper tilted her head and roared with diabolical glee.
“Slay millions of females?! What, are you mad ‘cause nobody let you rush their sorority, or something?”
“You still don’t understand my problem, Nova,” she sighed. “Human males are pathetic, stupid creatures. Through warfare, guns, drinking, drugs, and random acts of violence, claiming the lives of human males is hardly a challenge. All it takes is a bottle of tequila and a box of firecrackers. But the females of this species… that’s proving far more difficult.”
“Why? W hy are the souls of women so much more difficult to claim?”
“Because – and this is just between you and me – women actually don’t HAVE souls,” she answered.
Wow. I had to admit, this little factoid made a helluva lot of sense. All the great earthly inventions – cars, the light bulb, airplanes, nachos, and Jack Daniels – were all the handiwork of the ingenious male mind. A soulless creature could NEVER create anything as innovative and useful as a plate of warm toasty nachos. But I needed to know more:
“If babes don’t have souls, then what’s the secret of their life-force?”
“Women are essentially parasitic organisms,” answered the Reaper, who was starting to noticeably slur her words. “They absorb the energy of those around them. And because they’re completely dependent on the energy of others, they’re unable to live a fully quarantined existence. Have you ever noticed that there are never any female nomads? Or that it’s only MEN who survive as castaways on islands, or undergo solitary religious odysseys – like the Christian priests or the Zen Buddhist monks?”
I hadn’t thought of that before… but she was right!
She-Death continued: “Because of their vampire-like composition, women only care about perpetuating their OWN existence. That’s why they strive to reproduce, pretending to swallow The Pill before copulation; they know that their own lifecycle will one day end, and the act of reproduction allows their DNA essence to continue. By contrast, men wisely realize that the pleasures and principles of life are of FAR greater importance than life itself – that there’s more to life than simply living – which is why they’re so easy to kill. Men will gladly sacrifice their souls to defend nebulous ideals of honor, freedom, and liberty. Women don’t think like that. Instead, they live an average of EIGHT YEARS longer than men do – and STILL demand increased funding for diseases like breast cancer! And you idiot males happily acquiesce to their selfish demands! Women have extended their lifespans by such a wide margin, it’s thrown the entire balance of the cosmos into disarray. The scale must be leveled – and the only way this can be done is to annihilate millions of women as quickly as possible!”
The Reaper was swaying quite a bit in her barstool, a tell-tale sign of being hammered. She jabbed her finger at my chest, continuing with her diatribe: “Because women are innately selfish, they’re highly susceptible to the allure of the Humming Bird – and its implied promise of sustenance, love, and sexual ecstasy. And, Mr. Nova, since you’re a misogynistic, woman-hating bastard, you’d be my PERFECT ally in ridding the planet of these long-haired, uterus-wielding parasites! Do we have a deal or not?”
I turned towards my nemesis. I stared her down and spoke slowly, like the time John Rambo told Murdoch to find the rest of the POWs:
“Never! I will never join you!” (I had always wanted to say that – but until now, no one had ever asked me to join them.) “And you got me all wrong, Grimmy. I don’t hate women. I’m a LOVER of women, especially their squishy parts below the waist. Yeah, gold-digging bitches deserve my wrath – and I deliver pure Nova-fury against those money-grubbing fiends – but my motivation isn’t to destroy earthly females. It’s to ENJOY them. And to help them experience the toe-curling pleasures of the Hummingbird. Do I care that women outlive men? Not at all! That’s the gender-tradeoff for men being bigger, smarter, and able to be President. Furthermore, killing millions of women would throw the entire girl-to-guy ratio all out of whack! Sure, a handsome sexual beast like the Novanator would still get laid – but what about those less fortunate? What about the computer geek with poor conversational skills? What about the twice-divorced schmuck who’s driving a Kia? What about the impoverished immigrant who prays every night for just a WHIFF of blonde-colored pussy? Those sad saps are barely getting any action as it is – and you want me to lower their ratio even further?! No WAY could I do such a deplorable thing to my fellow man! So, to answer your question, let me be perfectly clear: I will never be your ally, you big-tittied, death-dealing BITCH!”
Furious at being spurned, the Grim Reaper erupted from her chair – but all those shots of “The Red Death” caused her to stumble on her feet. The bitch couldn’t hold her booze! Off balance, she staggered towards me, thrusting her pasty fingers in the general direction of my Nova-skull, ready to fire her Death Rattle.
I ducked.
With her equilibrium recalibrated by my old friend Uncle Alcohol, she missed wildly, striking Stinky and that big-ass redneck (who was really kicking the shit out of my smelly friend) from across the bar. The redneck instantly dropped to the floor, killed on impact; Stinky was still too high to know that he was supposed to be dead. Instead he exclaimed, “Crap! I pissed myself again! You stupid cunt! Ol’ Stinky is gonna fuck you up!” The Stinkster crawled through the minefield of peanut shells towards us, leaving a trail of yellow liquid in his wake.
Outraged, the Reaper lunged towards me, ready to strangle my Nova-neck, but all that drinking had wreaked havoc with her balance.
I deftly stepped aside.
She clumsily missed by several feet, falling face-first over my now-empty barstool, sprawling herself atop the seat – with her ass stuck up and her feet kicking the air.
I saw my chance! I hiked her death-robe all the way over her head, exposing her Reaper anatomy from the waist down. Spying her fully disclosed panties, I chortled triumphantly, “Ha! I KNEW they were black!” Indeed they were. Black lace, actually. And her ass looked GREAT! To further satisfy my curiosity, I yanked down her panties and parted her butt cheeks. She-Death was clean – which put her three-points ahead of my messy-assed country whore in the Nova ranking system.
I grabbed Stinky and pushed the half-naked moron through the front double-doors. The Reaper screamed in anger – furious at the indignity of her exposure.
We raced towards the gravel parking lot out front. The Nova-Wagon lay there in wait – our one final chance for escape. As soon as we jumped in and fired up the engine, a horde or rednecks poured out from the Dice’s Inn. The Reaper staggered out with them – her panties still wrapped around her ankles. She pointed at my trusty wagon and bellowed: “Kill them! Kill that damn criminal Mr. Nova… and also kill that half-naked smelly guy who keeps pissing himself!”
“Stinky, hold on for your disgusting life!” I shouted. The wagon spun in a semicircle, spraying a cloud of dust and gravel at the inbred masses. We almost stalled out, but I floored the gas pedal and hauled ass for the highway. A Conga-line of trucks and motorcycles followed us in hot pursuit.
Stinky was terrified. It didn’t help that he was higher than a Dead Head in Amsterdam – and paranoid, too.
“Oh shit, man! We’s gonna die! I shoulda told you them girls we fucked had boyfriends! I’m soooo sorry, Nova-dude!”
“Shut up, Stinky. Just shut the fuck up. And by the way, my name is ‘The Novantor’ to you!”
With that, I released a special panel underneath the dashboard. A hot red button begged to be pushed.
“Hold on!”
I pressed the button and explosive nitrous flooded my car’s system. We shot up to 120 MPH in mere seconds, leaving the pursuers far behind.
As we sped away, laughing like maniacs, I could hear the Grim Reaper cursing me in the distance. I knew she would be back again… but just not tonight. This outing also marked the last time I ever saw Stinky. He wanted to take a leak (again) by the highway, and I drove away while he was pissing in the woods. Someone told me that Stinky is now a program director for FOX News, but I cannot confirm this.
As for the Dice’s Inn, I have never been back. Maybe one day I will return to settle the score.
And I never did get my fucking nachos.
Thinking of nothing better to do, I tried a little small talk: “So… what color are your panties, Reaps? Are they black? They’re black, right? You can tell me.” I turned my head and hollered at the tobacco-chewing barkeep for a tall beer to reassure my backbone, and also ordered a purplish shot known as “The Red Death” for the Reaper. I thought that my beverage choice for Miss Skeletor was appropriate. But on this soon-to-be-infamous night, the Mistress of the Damned was not in a jovial mood.
“Cut the bullshit, Nova. I could lay waste to this accursed saloon with a single twitch of my eyelid! And the color of my undergarments is NONE of your concern.”
“I’ll bet they’re black. I mean, what other color would a Reaper’s panties be? Certainly not pink, I can tell you that.” Upon speaking, your humble Novanator paused a few seconds, unsure of the proper conversational protocol. Somehow, I needed to convince my buxom nemesis to metabolize her bubbly shot of happy-juice; for an obvious drinking novice like her, alcohol served as an internal kamikaze pilot, destroying everything from the brain to the colon – but in a professional like me, booze greased the adrenaline gland. With enough alcohol, a violent revenge plan would surely emerge in the Nova-mind. A nd as we’d drink, I’d grow stronger while she fell weaker. Now more than ever, I needed Uncle Alcohol to protect his wayward nephew.
“Mock me at your own peril, Nova. You are hereby warned,” the Reaper, well, warned.
“Just drink the shot, Reaps. It’ll loosen you up a bit. Might even help you get that problem off your INCREDIBLY impressive chest. I haven’t seen tits like that since Al Roker had his stomach stapled. What are those anyway? 38 Double-Ds?”
I downed my beverage and called for another. By contrast, “The Red Death” sat idle before the Reaper, untouched and unused, like a tanning salon in downtown Harlem. Since she was unwilling to voluntarily partake in its fermented goodness, I’d have to somehow put her in the right frame of mind to desire an inebriating elixir.
“I grow tired of your incessant chatter, you loathsome earthman. It is time for you to decide if you are going to help me.”
“Well, Grimmy, if you want Big Daddy Nova to ease your pain, then I want some answers of my own. Like, what’s the meaning of life? How come tittie-flicks always switch to a close-up on the dude’s face, right when I’m shooting my load? Why do Mexicans smell funny? That’s the LEAST you owe me, considering that the last time we met, you forced me to fuck a fat girl! That she-blimp had cellulite around her pussy, for fuck’s sake! If I hadn’t banged her by dusk, you vowed to take my life – and my life is something I value more than anything, except maybe beer. I’m not ready for the Divine Afterlife and you know it! Say… what is after death?”
I hoped that these questions would keep her busy for awhile. I had to buy some room to maneuver. By now Stinky had probably tied his urine-stained jockeys to the Nova-Wagon’s antennae. Time was running out…
“There is nothing for you after this life, Nova,” she answered me, in a voice as cold as an Eskimo’s nipple. “Death offers nothing but emptiness and eternal solitude.”
“Dammit, that sucks. No beer and no broads? No nachos? IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE TELL ME THERE ARE NACHOS!!” I was suddenly depressed.
“Nothing but never-ending darkness, you scum-sucking maggot. Alone, lost forever in the eternal void. That is, unless you help me.” She turned her cloaked face my way – and although she continued to act tougher than a stale Slim Jim, I sensed the quivers of insecurity lurking beneath the Reaper-exterior. Like a denuded Janet Jackson, she secretly feared that unveiling too much would prove embarrassing.
“I think you’re bluffing, Death-Babe! You want me to believe that I need you – but the Novanator needs nothing except beer, nachos, and quilted toilet paper. You think I fear your wrath? Fuck no, bitch! Nothing scares me – except maybe the thought of Stinky sitting bare-assed on the Nava-Wagon’s upholstery. I’ll have to get that dry-cleaned.” I drank another beer. I ordered one more. I still didn’t have a clue how to escape.
And then – like a priest’s boner during sleep away camp – it hit me! I knew how to convince the Grim Reaper to start guzzling alcohol! Obviously, she’s a deeply unhappy babe, right? Well, ALL miserable self-loathing losers lack the ability to tell their life’s story in a bar without drinking excessively. It’s a scientific fact, like the Law of Gravity, or that Asians have tiny peckers. All I had to do was redirect the conversation towards her life experiences. Armed with this strategic knowledge, I dived in immediately: “You still haven’t told me who you really are. Where are you from? What’s your deal, Kevorkian?”
She sat quiet for a moment. Then – on cue – she reached for “The Red Death” and downed the concoction in just one gulp. The sheer spontaneity of her decision amazed even me.
“Alright, you bastard! You want answers? Here it is: I have been a Reaper for as long as worthless humans have populated this wretched, revolving rock known as earth. I no longer remember how I became the Goddess of Death. Perhaps I angered a Higher Power during my original incarnation. Perhaps I did impure deeds. I used to ponder my fate, but such things no longer matter. Things are as they are. I gain nothing by letting these questions eat me up inside.”
“Speaking of eating you up, Grimmy, would you ever let an earthling go grazing along your folded pancake? Because I’d love to be the first! Eating out death would be the ultimate X-Game! And you should know that going down on a babe isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Basically, I’m snacking on an open wound – and depending on your personal hygiene, it could get pretty gross down there. I mean, let’s face it: I’ve already fucked one girl tonight with a filthy asshole, and I haven’t seen anything to convince me that your cleaning techniques are any better, and—”
“Shut the FUCK up, you sad excuse for a man!”
“I apologize, sugar-nipples. Please continue.” As she babbled on and on about her unfortunate place in the cosmic scheme and the divine nature of God (blah, blah, blah), I noticed Stinky sneaking back into the building, still minus his pants. He was pissed off (literally and figuratively) that the girls had ditched us, and had picked a fight with a supersized redneck in a Confederate bandana – and wearing a blood-stained t-shirt that read “Guns don’t kill people. I do.” Worse yet, Stinky still had my car keys. The ornery hick backed Stinky up against the bathroom doors, readying to alter the configuration of his facial features. Playtime was over; the hour of our reckoning was now at hand.
“But enough about my past,” Reaps concluded. “Here is my proposition: I’ll allow you to live if you do one thing for me.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, keeping one eye glued on Stinky’s ass-whooping.
“Assist me,” she answered with a sad, unhappy sigh. “For reasons I still cannot fathom, your Nova sub-species seems to have acquired strange, transcendental powers. Unlike the other humans—” Grimmy and me both glanced around the Dice’s Inn bar, studying the motley hodgepodge of sapiens who were busy spitting peanut shells, assaulting women, dealing drugs, and kicking the shit out of Stinky. Honestly, I was glad to be excluded from that prize-pack. “—you’ve somehow acquired the ability to communicate telepathically with others in the Novaverse, as well as the power of the Hummingbird. I could use an ally such as yourself.”
Interesting. But what did she want with the Hummingbird Technique?
“Interesting. But what do you want with the Hummingbird Technique, Reaps?” your Novanator inquired. I ordered her a double-shot of “The Red Death.” Once again, she swallowed its contents with a single gulp. I noticed that as the sweet alcohol hit her bloodstream, her words and reflexes were gradually slowing.
“My inability to claim the souls of the various Novas across the many parallel universes is frustrating; this I readily admit. You’ve evaded my capture and angered me greatly. But rather than waste my days chasing you and your vulgar, hedonistic ilk across infinite planes of existence, I’d prefer to utilize you as my personal ally.” She paused briefly, either for dramatic effect or because those adult beverages were derailing her train of thought. Regaining her composure, she then continued: “Through the wisdom accessed in the Novaverse, you’ve mastered many methods of manipulating the feminine mind – and with your legendary Hummingbird Technique, you’ve fine-honed the art of unequaled sexual pleasure.”
“So you wanna ride on the Hummingbird Express, Grimmy?” I queried. “Is that what you’re asking the Big Novowski? That’s even better than going taco-munching! Oh, yeah. I’d treat you like a postage stamp: lick you, stick you, and then send your ass out the fucking door. Besides, I’m kind of curious to see what you look like naked. And I still say your panties are black!” I licked my lips and loosened my wrists, readying the Nova-hands for the vag-conquest of She-Death.
“Not for me, you blithering idiot!” she ruefully spat. “You humans repulse me!” She shook her head in utter disdain, ordered another hit of “The Red Death,” and quickly chugged the shot. “No, I want you to use the Hummingbird on the women of this planet – and while they’re distracted, I’ll blot their identities from all earthly existence! To Hades they go! You see, Nova, you’re going to help me slay millions of females!” With that, the Reaper tilted her head and roared with diabolical glee.
“Slay millions of females?! What, are you mad ‘cause nobody let you rush their sorority, or something?”
“You still don’t understand my problem, Nova,” she sighed. “Human males are pathetic, stupid creatures. Through warfare, guns, drinking, drugs, and random acts of violence, claiming the lives of human males is hardly a challenge. All it takes is a bottle of tequila and a box of firecrackers. But the females of this species… that’s proving far more difficult.”
“Why? W hy are the souls of women so much more difficult to claim?”
“Because – and this is just between you and me – women actually don’t HAVE souls,” she answered.
Wow. I had to admit, this little factoid made a helluva lot of sense. All the great earthly inventions – cars, the light bulb, airplanes, nachos, and Jack Daniels – were all the handiwork of the ingenious male mind. A soulless creature could NEVER create anything as innovative and useful as a plate of warm toasty nachos. But I needed to know more:
“If babes don’t have souls, then what’s the secret of their life-force?”
“Women are essentially parasitic organisms,” answered the Reaper, who was starting to noticeably slur her words. “They absorb the energy of those around them. And because they’re completely dependent on the energy of others, they’re unable to live a fully quarantined existence. Have you ever noticed that there are never any female nomads? Or that it’s only MEN who survive as castaways on islands, or undergo solitary religious odysseys – like the Christian priests or the Zen Buddhist monks?”
I hadn’t thought of that before… but she was right!
She-Death continued: “Because of their vampire-like composition, women only care about perpetuating their OWN existence. That’s why they strive to reproduce, pretending to swallow The Pill before copulation; they know that their own lifecycle will one day end, and the act of reproduction allows their DNA essence to continue. By contrast, men wisely realize that the pleasures and principles of life are of FAR greater importance than life itself – that there’s more to life than simply living – which is why they’re so easy to kill. Men will gladly sacrifice their souls to defend nebulous ideals of honor, freedom, and liberty. Women don’t think like that. Instead, they live an average of EIGHT YEARS longer than men do – and STILL demand increased funding for diseases like breast cancer! And you idiot males happily acquiesce to their selfish demands! Women have extended their lifespans by such a wide margin, it’s thrown the entire balance of the cosmos into disarray. The scale must be leveled – and the only way this can be done is to annihilate millions of women as quickly as possible!”
The Reaper was swaying quite a bit in her barstool, a tell-tale sign of being hammered. She jabbed her finger at my chest, continuing with her diatribe: “Because women are innately selfish, they’re highly susceptible to the allure of the Humming Bird – and its implied promise of sustenance, love, and sexual ecstasy. And, Mr. Nova, since you’re a misogynistic, woman-hating bastard, you’d be my PERFECT ally in ridding the planet of these long-haired, uterus-wielding parasites! Do we have a deal or not?”
I turned towards my nemesis. I stared her down and spoke slowly, like the time John Rambo told Murdoch to find the rest of the POWs:
“Never! I will never join you!” (I had always wanted to say that – but until now, no one had ever asked me to join them.) “And you got me all wrong, Grimmy. I don’t hate women. I’m a LOVER of women, especially their squishy parts below the waist. Yeah, gold-digging bitches deserve my wrath – and I deliver pure Nova-fury against those money-grubbing fiends – but my motivation isn’t to destroy earthly females. It’s to ENJOY them. And to help them experience the toe-curling pleasures of the Hummingbird. Do I care that women outlive men? Not at all! That’s the gender-tradeoff for men being bigger, smarter, and able to be President. Furthermore, killing millions of women would throw the entire girl-to-guy ratio all out of whack! Sure, a handsome sexual beast like the Novanator would still get laid – but what about those less fortunate? What about the computer geek with poor conversational skills? What about the twice-divorced schmuck who’s driving a Kia? What about the impoverished immigrant who prays every night for just a WHIFF of blonde-colored pussy? Those sad saps are barely getting any action as it is – and you want me to lower their ratio even further?! No WAY could I do such a deplorable thing to my fellow man! So, to answer your question, let me be perfectly clear: I will never be your ally, you big-tittied, death-dealing BITCH!”
Furious at being spurned, the Grim Reaper erupted from her chair – but all those shots of “The Red Death” caused her to stumble on her feet. The bitch couldn’t hold her booze! Off balance, she staggered towards me, thrusting her pasty fingers in the general direction of my Nova-skull, ready to fire her Death Rattle.
I ducked.
With her equilibrium recalibrated by my old friend Uncle Alcohol, she missed wildly, striking Stinky and that big-ass redneck (who was really kicking the shit out of my smelly friend) from across the bar. The redneck instantly dropped to the floor, killed on impact; Stinky was still too high to know that he was supposed to be dead. Instead he exclaimed, “Crap! I pissed myself again! You stupid cunt! Ol’ Stinky is gonna fuck you up!” The Stinkster crawled through the minefield of peanut shells towards us, leaving a trail of yellow liquid in his wake.
Outraged, the Reaper lunged towards me, ready to strangle my Nova-neck, but all that drinking had wreaked havoc with her balance.
I deftly stepped aside.
She clumsily missed by several feet, falling face-first over my now-empty barstool, sprawling herself atop the seat – with her ass stuck up and her feet kicking the air.
I saw my chance! I hiked her death-robe all the way over her head, exposing her Reaper anatomy from the waist down. Spying her fully disclosed panties, I chortled triumphantly, “Ha! I KNEW they were black!” Indeed they were. Black lace, actually. And her ass looked GREAT! To further satisfy my curiosity, I yanked down her panties and parted her butt cheeks. She-Death was clean – which put her three-points ahead of my messy-assed country whore in the Nova ranking system.
I grabbed Stinky and pushed the half-naked moron through the front double-doors. The Reaper screamed in anger – furious at the indignity of her exposure.
We raced towards the gravel parking lot out front. The Nova-Wagon lay there in wait – our one final chance for escape. As soon as we jumped in and fired up the engine, a horde or rednecks poured out from the Dice’s Inn. The Reaper staggered out with them – her panties still wrapped around her ankles. She pointed at my trusty wagon and bellowed: “Kill them! Kill that damn criminal Mr. Nova… and also kill that half-naked smelly guy who keeps pissing himself!”
“Stinky, hold on for your disgusting life!” I shouted. The wagon spun in a semicircle, spraying a cloud of dust and gravel at the inbred masses. We almost stalled out, but I floored the gas pedal and hauled ass for the highway. A Conga-line of trucks and motorcycles followed us in hot pursuit.
Stinky was terrified. It didn’t help that he was higher than a Dead Head in Amsterdam – and paranoid, too.
“Oh shit, man! We’s gonna die! I shoulda told you them girls we fucked had boyfriends! I’m soooo sorry, Nova-dude!”
“Shut up, Stinky. Just shut the fuck up. And by the way, my name is ‘The Novantor’ to you!”
With that, I released a special panel underneath the dashboard. A hot red button begged to be pushed.
“Hold on!”
I pressed the button and explosive nitrous flooded my car’s system. We shot up to 120 MPH in mere seconds, leaving the pursuers far behind.
As we sped away, laughing like maniacs, I could hear the Grim Reaper cursing me in the distance. I knew she would be back again… but just not tonight. This outing also marked the last time I ever saw Stinky. He wanted to take a leak (again) by the highway, and I drove away while he was pissing in the woods. Someone told me that Stinky is now a program director for FOX News, but I cannot confirm this.
As for the Dice’s Inn, I have never been back. Maybe one day I will return to settle the score.
And I never did get my fucking nachos.
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