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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part III: A Sacrifice is Made
There I stood, face to face with my arch-nemesis: The Grim Reaper. She was looking tasty, too. I could see her nipples poking through her peek-a-boo mesh shirt overtop her traditional black robe. It was the first (and last) time I ever got a hard-on while thinking about death. (Well, there was also the time I got half-a-stiffy thinking about the coroner who discovered the nude body of Marilyn Monroe – and wondered what might’ve happened if her body was still somewhat warm. Hey, I’ll admit it: I would’ve fucked Marilyn’s corpse. Pussy is pussy.)
“Well, Nova, we meet again,” Lady Death gloated, advancing towards me.
“Stay away from me, you demonic bitch!” I shouted. “I am really pissed off tonight, so don’t test me! There’s no nacho bar here! There aren’t even any sandwiches!” I had to admit, the adrenaline was really coursing through my veins. For a split second, I contemplated battling her in hand-to-hand combat. I could punch her in the tits, yank that black hood completely over her head, and tell everyone at the bar that she fucked a black guy, thus getting her lynched… but then I realized that it would be a valiant yet futile attempt to defeat the undefeatable. There was no way your Novanator, trapped in this mushy, mortal flesh could best a deity in a physical confrontation. No, I had to use my mind once again – and rely on the wisdom gleamed from the greater Novaverse.
“Nova, you escaped me last time. I was not pleased. The Dark Powers with dominion over all forms of existence – the unseen Masters since time immemorial – demand your destruction. I’ve seen your name etched in the Book of the Damned; your fate is sealed and your demise is inevitable. Yet I’m prepared to offer you a momentary reprieve… because I need your assistance.”
I was incredulous. Stuck in this backwoods shithole, surrounded by whores, white trash, and smelly fucks – forced to listen to goofy hillbilly music no less – I was being asked by the Grim Reaper herself for help!
My first reaction was to laugh like a loon: “Bwahahaha!! Lick my scrotum for a few hours, cum-breath, and I’ll consider helping you! Grimmy, have you FORGOTTEN how many times you’ve conspired against the Big Novowski, nearly costing me my life? How about the time I nearly burnt to death when I got high and tried to microwave a can of tortilla chips, the microwave shorted, and my house went up in flames? Or the time that Nazi dyke discovered I had banged her girlfriend, and nearly bludgeoned me to death with her copy of Mein Kampf? Or the time in Iran when I told that crazy imam-guy that Allah is a pussy? And now you want my HELP?! As Popeye said to Brutus: ‘Go fuck yourself, bitch!’”
“Don’t dismiss me, Nova. I could destroy you at any moment.” She was getting all hot and bothered – and those nipples of hers were sticking out like baby carrots. She wore the frustrated expression of a girl whose loins cried for a good, hard fucking… but alas, her boyfriend mixed Vicodin with Jim Beam and couldn’t get a boner. I better tread carefully.
She continued: “I’m not asking for your assistance by appealing to your sense of charity. Obviously, that would be foolish of me. What I propose is a trade – your life, in exchange for your help.”
“Give me a minute,” I chortled, smirking at my now-humbled nemesis. “I want to enjoy this.”
The Hazard County locals eyed me and the Grim Reaper with those hateful looks again. Peanut dust floated throughout the bar. And Stinky was making his way up the dance floor steps when he first caught sight of my buxom enemy.
“Who the fuck be this bitch, Mr. Nova? She looks nice!” He stared at her ass. “Hoo-wee, round and bouncy – just like that famous lady on TV, the Fabulous Moolah. Remember her? She wrestled that rooster at the county fair last year.” Stinky was butt-wasted. He had no idea he was gazing at the Dealer of Death. He also had no idea that his newfound girlfriend was going down on a three-toothed cowboy behind the register, in exchange for a line of blow.
I was recovering from my laugh attack. “Stinky, no, don’t go near her, dude. Seriously.”
Stinky staggered right up next to the Grim Reaper. The temperature of the air immediately plummeted by about 20 degrees.
“Whoa, frigid are ya? Let’s see if ol’ Stinky can warms you up!” The smelly moron draped his arm over Death’s shoulder and gleefully squeezed her left tit like he was palming an undersized basketball.
Now, I warned the dumb bastard to stay away – but I guess he thought that the Grim Reaper wanted to diddle his flesh-colored crayon, or something. Bad idea. The Reaper responded in character, instantly firing a jolt of her Death Rattle. Stinky dropped to the ground like a drunken freshman; his beard sizzled and smoke poured from his hair. Good thing he was stoned… or else he just might’ve felt it. As it was, Stinky was too drunk to realize he was knocking on Death’s door (via Death’s breast). A sober man would’ve surely been killed.
“Dammit!” Stinky cried from the ground. He stared up at the Reaper and glowered. “That totally killed my buzz, you stupid cunt! Plus I pissed my pants! Again! Shucks, I gotta find me a radiator to dry-out my BVDs!” Stinky started to unzip his pants.
“I will KILL YOU if you do not leave my sight, you insolent pile of wasted atoms!” roared the Reaper at my smelly friend. “Re-zip your pants THIS INSTANCE or face the unfettered wrath of She-Death!”
Stinky dropped his shorts to his ankles and scratched his lice-infested hair. “So… you’s gots a sister?”
I suddenly realized the severity of the situation; this bitch was messing with my friend. MY friend. The word “my” denotes a form of ownership. In other words, she was fucking with my shit. And despite the fact I was going to ditch Stinky from the inner Nova-circle after tonight, she had no right to threaten death upon the Stinkster. (Ok, maybe she did have some rights, being the Grim Reaper and all that. But I suppose it really didn’t matter who the fuck she was; all I wanted was to escape from this situation and move on with my life. And find some fucking nachos.)
“Stinky, go warm up the Nova-wagon. You can tie your shorts to the antennae and they’ll dry out by the time we make it home.” I threw him the keys. This was a first for the Novanator; I had never let ANYONE hop behind the wheel of my sacred machine. Even on those nights when I’d get mad at my liver and drink myself under the table, I always slept it off, refusing to let anyone else drive me home. Of course, Stinky failed to comprehend the magnitude of this great sacrifice. He stared at my car keys in a mindless stupor and stumbled towards the exit.
Meanwhile, the Reaper and I sat down for the strangest conversation I have ever had…
“Well, Nova, we meet again,” Lady Death gloated, advancing towards me.
“Stay away from me, you demonic bitch!” I shouted. “I am really pissed off tonight, so don’t test me! There’s no nacho bar here! There aren’t even any sandwiches!” I had to admit, the adrenaline was really coursing through my veins. For a split second, I contemplated battling her in hand-to-hand combat. I could punch her in the tits, yank that black hood completely over her head, and tell everyone at the bar that she fucked a black guy, thus getting her lynched… but then I realized that it would be a valiant yet futile attempt to defeat the undefeatable. There was no way your Novanator, trapped in this mushy, mortal flesh could best a deity in a physical confrontation. No, I had to use my mind once again – and rely on the wisdom gleamed from the greater Novaverse.
“Nova, you escaped me last time. I was not pleased. The Dark Powers with dominion over all forms of existence – the unseen Masters since time immemorial – demand your destruction. I’ve seen your name etched in the Book of the Damned; your fate is sealed and your demise is inevitable. Yet I’m prepared to offer you a momentary reprieve… because I need your assistance.”
I was incredulous. Stuck in this backwoods shithole, surrounded by whores, white trash, and smelly fucks – forced to listen to goofy hillbilly music no less – I was being asked by the Grim Reaper herself for help!
My first reaction was to laugh like a loon: “Bwahahaha!! Lick my scrotum for a few hours, cum-breath, and I’ll consider helping you! Grimmy, have you FORGOTTEN how many times you’ve conspired against the Big Novowski, nearly costing me my life? How about the time I nearly burnt to death when I got high and tried to microwave a can of tortilla chips, the microwave shorted, and my house went up in flames? Or the time that Nazi dyke discovered I had banged her girlfriend, and nearly bludgeoned me to death with her copy of Mein Kampf? Or the time in Iran when I told that crazy imam-guy that Allah is a pussy? And now you want my HELP?! As Popeye said to Brutus: ‘Go fuck yourself, bitch!’”
“Don’t dismiss me, Nova. I could destroy you at any moment.” She was getting all hot and bothered – and those nipples of hers were sticking out like baby carrots. She wore the frustrated expression of a girl whose loins cried for a good, hard fucking… but alas, her boyfriend mixed Vicodin with Jim Beam and couldn’t get a boner. I better tread carefully.
She continued: “I’m not asking for your assistance by appealing to your sense of charity. Obviously, that would be foolish of me. What I propose is a trade – your life, in exchange for your help.”
“Give me a minute,” I chortled, smirking at my now-humbled nemesis. “I want to enjoy this.”
The Hazard County locals eyed me and the Grim Reaper with those hateful looks again. Peanut dust floated throughout the bar. And Stinky was making his way up the dance floor steps when he first caught sight of my buxom enemy.
“Who the fuck be this bitch, Mr. Nova? She looks nice!” He stared at her ass. “Hoo-wee, round and bouncy – just like that famous lady on TV, the Fabulous Moolah. Remember her? She wrestled that rooster at the county fair last year.” Stinky was butt-wasted. He had no idea he was gazing at the Dealer of Death. He also had no idea that his newfound girlfriend was going down on a three-toothed cowboy behind the register, in exchange for a line of blow.
I was recovering from my laugh attack. “Stinky, no, don’t go near her, dude. Seriously.”
Stinky staggered right up next to the Grim Reaper. The temperature of the air immediately plummeted by about 20 degrees.
“Whoa, frigid are ya? Let’s see if ol’ Stinky can warms you up!” The smelly moron draped his arm over Death’s shoulder and gleefully squeezed her left tit like he was palming an undersized basketball.
Now, I warned the dumb bastard to stay away – but I guess he thought that the Grim Reaper wanted to diddle his flesh-colored crayon, or something. Bad idea. The Reaper responded in character, instantly firing a jolt of her Death Rattle. Stinky dropped to the ground like a drunken freshman; his beard sizzled and smoke poured from his hair. Good thing he was stoned… or else he just might’ve felt it. As it was, Stinky was too drunk to realize he was knocking on Death’s door (via Death’s breast). A sober man would’ve surely been killed.
“Dammit!” Stinky cried from the ground. He stared up at the Reaper and glowered. “That totally killed my buzz, you stupid cunt! Plus I pissed my pants! Again! Shucks, I gotta find me a radiator to dry-out my BVDs!” Stinky started to unzip his pants.
“I will KILL YOU if you do not leave my sight, you insolent pile of wasted atoms!” roared the Reaper at my smelly friend. “Re-zip your pants THIS INSTANCE or face the unfettered wrath of She-Death!”
Stinky dropped his shorts to his ankles and scratched his lice-infested hair. “So… you’s gots a sister?”
I suddenly realized the severity of the situation; this bitch was messing with my friend. MY friend. The word “my” denotes a form of ownership. In other words, she was fucking with my shit. And despite the fact I was going to ditch Stinky from the inner Nova-circle after tonight, she had no right to threaten death upon the Stinkster. (Ok, maybe she did have some rights, being the Grim Reaper and all that. But I suppose it really didn’t matter who the fuck she was; all I wanted was to escape from this situation and move on with my life. And find some fucking nachos.)
“Stinky, go warm up the Nova-wagon. You can tie your shorts to the antennae and they’ll dry out by the time we make it home.” I threw him the keys. This was a first for the Novanator; I had never let ANYONE hop behind the wheel of my sacred machine. Even on those nights when I’d get mad at my liver and drink myself under the table, I always slept it off, refusing to let anyone else drive me home. Of course, Stinky failed to comprehend the magnitude of this great sacrifice. He stared at my car keys in a mindless stupor and stumbled towards the exit.
Meanwhile, the Reaper and I sat down for the strangest conversation I have ever had…
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part II: The Dice’s Inn
Some institutions exist for the sole purpose of spreading evil throughout the land, such as schools, churches, and Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings. Others hold that evil inside, cultivating the sickness in secret, tainting only the hapless few that find themselves trapped within in its diabolical clutches. The Dice’s Inn was such a place.
Located off a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere, the Dice’s Inn called out to me like a Siren’s wail, and I don’t mean a police siren, but the gorgeous Sirens of Greek mythology. You’ve heard of the Sirens, haven’t you? The Sirens were gorgeous temptresses whose seductive songs triggered the demise of countless sailors – and the destruction of thousands of uneaten gyros. Hey, you KNOW those Sirens were hot when GREEK GUYS wanted to fuck them. As a general rule, Greek men won’t fuck anything without a scrotum.
The Nova Wagon was kicking along at a monster rate. The women Stinky and I soiled had become annoying, asking the entire way if we were going to dance with them. I had ignored them the best I could, but my country-cutie had her hand down my pants and was stroking the Nova-jang.
“Puulllleeaasseeee can we dance, Nova?” she said, with her pouty lips looking hot as hell. “I want to sooooooo bad!” She then unbuckled my Levi’s and slid down the zipper. She looked up at me with her pretty eyes and started gliding he tongue all over her mouth. “C’mon, Nova! I want to dance!” In a moment of weakness I promised to dance with the inbred whore.
I knew I would regret my promise, as I do with most of my promises. I also knew that this trip was starting to cramp my style, and the people in my inner Nova-circle would soon be jettisoned. Especially Stinky, whom I feared would latch onto me like one of Adam Sandler’s untalented friends – especially if I allowed him to discover more about the true essence of Nova Style. He had done his job by providing the girls, but now his usefulness was over.
Unbeknownst to my carload of half-wits, this was going to be our last night as friends, and thus had to be an epic adventure like none other; at a bare minimum, I owed the smelly bastard that much. So we sped into the parking lot and I skid my beloved vehicle on the gravel lot. The wagon, in an act of rebel defiance, kicked up rocks and broken teeth all over a line of motorcycles.
“Fuck yeah!” I exclaimed as we came to a stop. “It is beer and nacho time, my Novanites!”
Now, this was the first time I ever used the term “Novanite.” Stinky and the ladies had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t care what they thought; I was on a mission and they no longer mattered.
I stepped out from my wagon and took a good look at the Dice’s Inn. Picture a massive barn turned into a bar. There were no other buildings on the entire block and the Dice’s Inn stood all alone, like a fat girl on prom night. Its backdrop was a cornfield extending into the soulless, starless night. The grating sounds of country music polluted out from the cowboy-esque double-doors. All sorts of troublemakers were slamming beers and spitting Skoal. The women inside were either slightly fuckable… or burly enough to kick your ass, then rape you with the pool cue.
This was a place where you could die a horrible death and no one on the outside would ever know what happened. It was a den of lost souls, a resting place for the damned.
Something inside the Nova-skull warned me not to venture forward… but I was hungry and needed nachos. I didn’t even wait for Stinky and the ladies. I stormed the Dice’s Inn with no fear.
Then it hit me:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING NACHO BAR?! BY GOD, I WAS PROMISED A NACHO BAR AND NACHOS I WILL HAVE!!”
I stood there aghast. This dive had everything I needed: beer, babes, a pinball machine (with a NASCAR theme), but no nacho bar! Not even chips and salsa at the tables! Instead, they had fucking peanuts all over the floor! I looked everywhere, and all I saw was dirty rednecks chomping and spitting like pigs at a trough. I was pissed.
Stinky and the girls caught up to me and saw I was dismayed.
“Dude, you like totally ran in here! That ain’t appropriate behavior ‘round these parts.”
“No shit, Stinky! I thought there were nachos in this establishment! I was LIED to! My God, Stinky, no person has ever – in the HISTORY of humanity – faced this level of unabashed duplicity before! I’ve been betrayed! This is even worse than the time Judas stole Jesus’ coat of many colors, or whatever the fuck he did to piss off Mel Gibson. Fucking hell!”
I gave my country-cooch the evil Nova-stare. She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“Where is my nacho bar?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I thought there was one. I guess I was wrong. Tee hee!” she said with a vacant (but hot) grin.
“Dammit! If I had known there were no nachos here I would have never agreed to visit this incestuous barnyard!” When I said this, a couple of the patrons overheard me and gave your Master of the Technique threatening scowls. I was in an agitated state, rare for your normally benevolent Novanator. The natives knew I was restless.
“Aw, don’t be that way, Nova-dude!” she purred. “You’ll like this place! The boy’s bathroom even gots a glory hole! Zeke drilled the hole last weekend! Why don’tcha give it a try?”
(For those of you inexperienced in the deviant sexual arts, a “glory hole” is, well, a hole in the wall – positioned so you can stick your dick into it – and someone on the other side will ostensibly suck you off. Typically, glory holes aren’t installed in the bathrooms of your classier restaurants, such as Red Lobster – but I guess the Dice’s Inn only delivered the very best for its guests.)
“No, thank you,” I retorted. “I’m not gonna let the Novacock get swallowed unless I can SEE who’s doing the sucking. The last thing I need is to shoot my juice, and then hear someone who sounds like Uncle Jesse gargling ‘Yeehaw!’ on the other side. I just want my fucking nachos, Ok?”
Stinky was already on the dance floor, convulsing his gangly body in rhythm to some semi-coherent Waylon Jennings yarn. It was a pathetic display. I never understood why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that wretched hillbilly crap. I guess the “music” is designed to boost the self-esteem of poor white people, telling them that being broke, uneducated, and having a fat wife carries a sense of nobility. Regardless, my ears were rejecting this redneck yodeling out of principle.
I wanted to grab Stinky so we could get the hell out of this shit-pit, but at that exact moment, my girl tried to take me up on the promise I made earlier in haste.
“C’mon, Nova! You promised me! I wanna dance!”
“But sugar-twat, you know that promises are like the female orgasm: exciting to witness, but mostly fake and largely inconsequential,” I reasoned with her. Line-dancing, country music, and no nachos? No way THIS relationship was gonna last, my Novanites.
Sugar-twat wasn’t cooperating. “You bastard, Nova! You promised me! You’ll pay! I’ve got friends in here who’ll beat you like my Daddy beats his girlfriends!”
I laughed a little, but realized I was in alien territory. The Dice’s Inn was her home turf – and if I didn’t dance with her, there could be hell to pay. Half of these hicks looked like Sloth from the Goonies – and would love nothing more than an opportunity to impress my slut by kicking the shit out of me.
“Alright,” I conceded, “but just for one song. And you BETTER suck my stain-stick on the car ride back to the apartment – or I’ll tell EVERYONE about your inability to properly wipe your own fuckin’ ass.”
“Yay!” she delightfully exclaimed, as she dragged me onto the dance floor.
Now, when it comes to dancing, I prefer to play the voyeur. A woman shaking her ass is meant to be appreciated visually; that’s the entire premise of strip clubs. Jumping up and down on the dance floor – away from my beer, nachos, and sandwiches – is NOT my Nova-style. I’ll let the other poor slobs get sweaty and dick-teased by the bump-and-grind – and when the song ends, your always-fresh Novanator will scoop up the skank and force-feed her my special sauce.
I planted my feet on the floor like a wooden Indian, while my little hooker frantically gyrated to some horrible song the band was playing. This was pure torture, my Novanites; even worse than the time I ate at Hardee’s. She then put her arms up on my shoulders and wanted to get all romantic and shit. Ugghhh!!! I looked down at her and she was already batting those devilish little eyes. Didn’t she understand that she had already gotten the Nova-jang – not to mention the Hummingbird Technique – and all Nova wanted to do was drink and eat?!
Mercifully, the song ended when the lead singer dropped his harmonica into his spit-cup, and I headed straight for the bar. I noticed a group of rednecks giving me the evil eye and muttering incoherently to one another. My Nova-sense was tingling. I came to the decision that after a healthy drink, I would find Stinky and depart this Land of Dueling Banjos.
I perched on a barstool and ordered a beer and a shot of 151. After I chugged the sweet alcohol, I threw down some cash and turned to leave.
That was when I found myself face to face with the Grim Reaper.
Again.“Hello, Nova,” snarled that heartless, death-dealing bitch. “What makes you think that YOU are going anywhere?”
Located off a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere, the Dice’s Inn called out to me like a Siren’s wail, and I don’t mean a police siren, but the gorgeous Sirens of Greek mythology. You’ve heard of the Sirens, haven’t you? The Sirens were gorgeous temptresses whose seductive songs triggered the demise of countless sailors – and the destruction of thousands of uneaten gyros. Hey, you KNOW those Sirens were hot when GREEK GUYS wanted to fuck them. As a general rule, Greek men won’t fuck anything without a scrotum.
The Nova Wagon was kicking along at a monster rate. The women Stinky and I soiled had become annoying, asking the entire way if we were going to dance with them. I had ignored them the best I could, but my country-cutie had her hand down my pants and was stroking the Nova-jang.
“Puulllleeaasseeee can we dance, Nova?” she said, with her pouty lips looking hot as hell. “I want to sooooooo bad!” She then unbuckled my Levi’s and slid down the zipper. She looked up at me with her pretty eyes and started gliding he tongue all over her mouth. “C’mon, Nova! I want to dance!” In a moment of weakness I promised to dance with the inbred whore.
I knew I would regret my promise, as I do with most of my promises. I also knew that this trip was starting to cramp my style, and the people in my inner Nova-circle would soon be jettisoned. Especially Stinky, whom I feared would latch onto me like one of Adam Sandler’s untalented friends – especially if I allowed him to discover more about the true essence of Nova Style. He had done his job by providing the girls, but now his usefulness was over.
Unbeknownst to my carload of half-wits, this was going to be our last night as friends, and thus had to be an epic adventure like none other; at a bare minimum, I owed the smelly bastard that much. So we sped into the parking lot and I skid my beloved vehicle on the gravel lot. The wagon, in an act of rebel defiance, kicked up rocks and broken teeth all over a line of motorcycles.
“Fuck yeah!” I exclaimed as we came to a stop. “It is beer and nacho time, my Novanites!”
Now, this was the first time I ever used the term “Novanite.” Stinky and the ladies had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t care what they thought; I was on a mission and they no longer mattered.
I stepped out from my wagon and took a good look at the Dice’s Inn. Picture a massive barn turned into a bar. There were no other buildings on the entire block and the Dice’s Inn stood all alone, like a fat girl on prom night. Its backdrop was a cornfield extending into the soulless, starless night. The grating sounds of country music polluted out from the cowboy-esque double-doors. All sorts of troublemakers were slamming beers and spitting Skoal. The women inside were either slightly fuckable… or burly enough to kick your ass, then rape you with the pool cue.
This was a place where you could die a horrible death and no one on the outside would ever know what happened. It was a den of lost souls, a resting place for the damned.
Something inside the Nova-skull warned me not to venture forward… but I was hungry and needed nachos. I didn’t even wait for Stinky and the ladies. I stormed the Dice’s Inn with no fear.
Then it hit me:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING NACHO BAR?! BY GOD, I WAS PROMISED A NACHO BAR AND NACHOS I WILL HAVE!!”
I stood there aghast. This dive had everything I needed: beer, babes, a pinball machine (with a NASCAR theme), but no nacho bar! Not even chips and salsa at the tables! Instead, they had fucking peanuts all over the floor! I looked everywhere, and all I saw was dirty rednecks chomping and spitting like pigs at a trough. I was pissed.
Stinky and the girls caught up to me and saw I was dismayed.
“Dude, you like totally ran in here! That ain’t appropriate behavior ‘round these parts.”
“No shit, Stinky! I thought there were nachos in this establishment! I was LIED to! My God, Stinky, no person has ever – in the HISTORY of humanity – faced this level of unabashed duplicity before! I’ve been betrayed! This is even worse than the time Judas stole Jesus’ coat of many colors, or whatever the fuck he did to piss off Mel Gibson. Fucking hell!”
I gave my country-cooch the evil Nova-stare. She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“Where is my nacho bar?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I thought there was one. I guess I was wrong. Tee hee!” she said with a vacant (but hot) grin.
“Dammit! If I had known there were no nachos here I would have never agreed to visit this incestuous barnyard!” When I said this, a couple of the patrons overheard me and gave your Master of the Technique threatening scowls. I was in an agitated state, rare for your normally benevolent Novanator. The natives knew I was restless.
“Aw, don’t be that way, Nova-dude!” she purred. “You’ll like this place! The boy’s bathroom even gots a glory hole! Zeke drilled the hole last weekend! Why don’tcha give it a try?”
(For those of you inexperienced in the deviant sexual arts, a “glory hole” is, well, a hole in the wall – positioned so you can stick your dick into it – and someone on the other side will ostensibly suck you off. Typically, glory holes aren’t installed in the bathrooms of your classier restaurants, such as Red Lobster – but I guess the Dice’s Inn only delivered the very best for its guests.)
“No, thank you,” I retorted. “I’m not gonna let the Novacock get swallowed unless I can SEE who’s doing the sucking. The last thing I need is to shoot my juice, and then hear someone who sounds like Uncle Jesse gargling ‘Yeehaw!’ on the other side. I just want my fucking nachos, Ok?”
Stinky was already on the dance floor, convulsing his gangly body in rhythm to some semi-coherent Waylon Jennings yarn. It was a pathetic display. I never understood why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that wretched hillbilly crap. I guess the “music” is designed to boost the self-esteem of poor white people, telling them that being broke, uneducated, and having a fat wife carries a sense of nobility. Regardless, my ears were rejecting this redneck yodeling out of principle.
I wanted to grab Stinky so we could get the hell out of this shit-pit, but at that exact moment, my girl tried to take me up on the promise I made earlier in haste.
“C’mon, Nova! You promised me! I wanna dance!”
“But sugar-twat, you know that promises are like the female orgasm: exciting to witness, but mostly fake and largely inconsequential,” I reasoned with her. Line-dancing, country music, and no nachos? No way THIS relationship was gonna last, my Novanites.
Sugar-twat wasn’t cooperating. “You bastard, Nova! You promised me! You’ll pay! I’ve got friends in here who’ll beat you like my Daddy beats his girlfriends!”
I laughed a little, but realized I was in alien territory. The Dice’s Inn was her home turf – and if I didn’t dance with her, there could be hell to pay. Half of these hicks looked like Sloth from the Goonies – and would love nothing more than an opportunity to impress my slut by kicking the shit out of me.
“Alright,” I conceded, “but just for one song. And you BETTER suck my stain-stick on the car ride back to the apartment – or I’ll tell EVERYONE about your inability to properly wipe your own fuckin’ ass.”
“Yay!” she delightfully exclaimed, as she dragged me onto the dance floor.
Now, when it comes to dancing, I prefer to play the voyeur. A woman shaking her ass is meant to be appreciated visually; that’s the entire premise of strip clubs. Jumping up and down on the dance floor – away from my beer, nachos, and sandwiches – is NOT my Nova-style. I’ll let the other poor slobs get sweaty and dick-teased by the bump-and-grind – and when the song ends, your always-fresh Novanator will scoop up the skank and force-feed her my special sauce.
I planted my feet on the floor like a wooden Indian, while my little hooker frantically gyrated to some horrible song the band was playing. This was pure torture, my Novanites; even worse than the time I ate at Hardee’s. She then put her arms up on my shoulders and wanted to get all romantic and shit. Ugghhh!!! I looked down at her and she was already batting those devilish little eyes. Didn’t she understand that she had already gotten the Nova-jang – not to mention the Hummingbird Technique – and all Nova wanted to do was drink and eat?!
Mercifully, the song ended when the lead singer dropped his harmonica into his spit-cup, and I headed straight for the bar. I noticed a group of rednecks giving me the evil eye and muttering incoherently to one another. My Nova-sense was tingling. I came to the decision that after a healthy drink, I would find Stinky and depart this Land of Dueling Banjos.
I perched on a barstool and ordered a beer and a shot of 151. After I chugged the sweet alcohol, I threw down some cash and turned to leave.
That was when I found myself face to face with the Grim Reaper.
Again.“Hello, Nova,” snarled that heartless, death-dealing bitch. “What makes you think that YOU are going anywhere?”
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part I: Say Hello to Stinky
Sometimes Mr. Nova chooses his friends not for their humanistic values – such as intellect, integrity, or being in possession of bail money – but more for the way they can fuck shit up.
I love freaks. A normal life is boring.
I’ve always been attracted to those fringe outcasts rotting away in civilized society’s garbage dumps. The restless soul with a baseball bat and a score to settle – the poor bastard with seven fingers who drinks until he shits his pants – and the downtrodden dirtbag who wanders the streets at night with a boner and a map to the Mayor’s house. Losers, hot-heads, drinkers, sinners, perverts, and fuck-ups: these are my peeps.
In other words, I occasionally choose friends for no other reason than their entertainment value.
Unfortunately, these types of friends never remain in your inner circle for very long. They enter your life and quickly burn out – like a dying star in the distant cosmos… or like a hard-on that suddenly realizes that the beautiful, slowly undressing babe on your computer is actually a shemale. For a brief moment in the history of time – a mere millisecond on the astral clock – these types of friends click with the Novantor and aid him in his quest for ultimate pleasure. But these rabble-rousers are usually the most vile, despicable, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good humans on the planet.
You always need to be on your toes.
For example, let me introduce you to a fellow known as Stinky. Stinky was a co-worker of mine, back when I was slinging drinks in this backwoods college town. He was a crazy fuck. He’d smoke up a storm outside and stagger back into the bar with his cheeks redder than his filthy red hair, wiry red beard, and blood-red devil-eyes. He had many disturbing qualities – none worse than his orangutan-like body odor. Stinky reeked like a combination of dead dog, rotting fish, and sweaty testicles. Seriously, he smelled like an onion’s cunt. Clearly, he needed a nickname befitting his demeanor, so instead of calling him something cool like “Red,” I called the freak “Stinky.” And Stinky never objected to the name. Instead of being offended by it, he wore the moniker like a badge of honor.
If the guy had a real name, I have long since forgotten it. Real names don’t really matter when you’re in your early 20s, wasting your life away with intellectual invalids. All that counts is how much shit you’ve stirred before wising up and moving along.
But even though his legal name has long since faded from the Nova-mind, the night I almost died is etched into my psyche like a tribal tattoo. It’s a rollicking tale of danger, intrigue, and the supernatural.
Come gather ‘round the campfire, kiddies; Grandpa Nova has a story to tell:
It all began many, many moons ago, when Stinky asked if I’d accompany him to a place where two girls lived. They were going to cook us dinner, suckle our snakes, and give us lots of free beer.
“Do they make good sandwiches?” I asked Stinky, as we sat and drank brews in his shitty basement apartment.
“Fuck if I know, man!” he said – with a maniacal grin stretched all across his hideous face. Stinky was one of those unfortunate people with really big gums and really little teeth. “All I know is these bitches are golden, man. They be gifts from God, dude. Really, you’s should see them.”
“They have beer? Sandwiches? And you swear on your Mother’s tits that they’re hot?”
“I hate my Mom. I’ve never forgiven her for fucking that Negro repairman. Not funny! That stupid slut! Race-mixing is a sin against nature. Next time she passes out, I’m gonna shave her twat with a rusty huntin’ knife! Serve the bitch right! But back to the girls: I gots me some stuff to GUARANTEE we’ll get into their panties…”
He opened up his coat and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a plastic baggie filled with the Sticky Icky and waved it furiously, like a matador goading a rampaging bull.
“Know what I mean, man? Ha! Ha!” Stinky constantly kept that ridiculously exaggerated grin on his face. Even if his dick got torn from his body in a drunken farming accident, I think that smile would stay there – like the fucking Joker or something. This guy was a certified nutcase. No way anyone in his right mind would have anything to do with the freak.
Then again, I am Mr. Fuckin’ Nova.
“Yeah, Stinky, I know exactly what you mean. Let’s go meet these bitches.”
We took the Nova Wagon and headed south towards a little redneck town a dozen-or-so miles from campus. The girls lived in a low-rent complex adjacent to the highway. Bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, crumpled cigarette boxes, and empty condom wrappers littered the landscape. We walked up the stairs and suavely knocked on the girls’ second floor apartment door. A cute little country bumpkin opened the door, wearing a tank top, ass-hugging jeans, and a Wal-Mart-quality bellybutton ring.
“C’mon inside, boys,” she said with a drawl. No need to ask the Novanator twice; at that stage of my life, few things were more important than finding a reasonably attractive skank with a low IQ and even lower standards. Plus, I could smell fresh sandwiches being prepared in the kitchen. Sure enough, as Stinky and I walked in, we could see the other girl putting the finishing touches on a layered culinary masterpiece.
“Aw, the food smells Novalicious, my country-fried Fräuleins!” I shouted from the doorway. (I liked to reward future fuck-buddies with poetic language if they could make a good sandwich. Positive reinforcement and all that.)
“You must be Mr. Nova,” she cooed as she strolled out from the kitchen. She sautéed her perfect ass over to me and dug her hands into my back pockets. The sultry little thing gazed up at me with a devilish smile, jiggling her braless tits and whetting her well-traveled mouth. “I heard a few things about you.” She then looked down at my package. The Nova-jang stirred back and forth like the nasal hairs of an old man snoring. “I heard you fuck real good.”
I looked over at my foul-smelling friend. The other girl was handing him a beer and nibbling on his ear. So far, Stinky’s slut-safari had VASTLY exceeded my expectations; the girls were walking upright and everything. I whispered to Stinky, “Well done, dude!”
Stinky whispered back, “My bitch gots a tattoo of Princess Di right over her dick-tunnel. She’s real classy. This is gonna be just like porkin’ royalty, don’tcha think?”
Whatever.
The girls fetched us a few dozen beers and multiple sandwiches. We all took turns with the Sticky Icky, and soon the mood was set. Stinky’s woman led him into one of the bedrooms. I remained on the couch with my country-fried cutie and commenced with the time-honored art of seduction. With both hands, I expertly stripped her of those jeans, slid her thong to the side, and pushed her ankles behind her head. The whore’s asshole was actually a little dirty (lazy wiping), but I decided to proceed anyway. Eh, I had nothing better to do. She experienced the teeth-rattling joys of the Hummingbird Technique, and climaxed several times. It earned me the freshly-shaved pussy, which I commenced to fuck with animalistic intensity near a window overlooking an empty field of asphalt. But no doggystyle; I didn’t want her filthy asshole rubbing against my body. Nova ain’t into that scat-stuff.
After I shot my load and wiped my dick off on the curtains, my dirty-assed cum-magnet suggested that we all head out to the Dice’s Inn – a little dive not too far from the highway.
“They have beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, plus a nacho bar,” she answered. Man, this girl was saying and doing ALL the right things. If she keeps this up, I just might give her a pass on the dirty-asshole faux pa.
“Stinky, you done in there?” I called out into the other room. I was suddenly starving for chow. The beer, booty, and Sticky Icky combination made my stomach feel famished, and the girls were all out of sandwiches. Venturing into a nacho bar sounded absolutely perfect.
“Yeah, Nova-dude!” he shouted back.
“You want to go to some place called the Dice’s Inn? They have nachos! They have beer!”
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed.
So we all got ready and hopped in the Nova-wagon – with the windows rolled down so Stinky could air out. I kid you not, my Novanites: Stinky smelled like he washed his ass with an even dirtier ass. I even contemplated crashing my car into a manure plant, just to rid the vehicle of Stinky’s eye-watering stench. (Fortunately for him, his fuck-buddy had a compulsive coke-habit and long ago lost her ability to use her nose for anything other than a powder-vacuum. She had NO IDEA how lucky she was.) Stinky had the kind of body odor that could end a prison rape.
But beer and nachos were a-calling.
With our bitches by our side, we headed out for a night on the town… or the village… or whatever that hillbilly shithole was considered. We headed towards The Dice’s Inn. The night was darker than usual, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The land rested peacefully beneath a starless sky. I was happy.
Little did I know that my friend the Grim Reaper would be showing her face again.
I love freaks. A normal life is boring.
I’ve always been attracted to those fringe outcasts rotting away in civilized society’s garbage dumps. The restless soul with a baseball bat and a score to settle – the poor bastard with seven fingers who drinks until he shits his pants – and the downtrodden dirtbag who wanders the streets at night with a boner and a map to the Mayor’s house. Losers, hot-heads, drinkers, sinners, perverts, and fuck-ups: these are my peeps.
In other words, I occasionally choose friends for no other reason than their entertainment value.
Unfortunately, these types of friends never remain in your inner circle for very long. They enter your life and quickly burn out – like a dying star in the distant cosmos… or like a hard-on that suddenly realizes that the beautiful, slowly undressing babe on your computer is actually a shemale. For a brief moment in the history of time – a mere millisecond on the astral clock – these types of friends click with the Novantor and aid him in his quest for ultimate pleasure. But these rabble-rousers are usually the most vile, despicable, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good humans on the planet.
You always need to be on your toes.
For example, let me introduce you to a fellow known as Stinky. Stinky was a co-worker of mine, back when I was slinging drinks in this backwoods college town. He was a crazy fuck. He’d smoke up a storm outside and stagger back into the bar with his cheeks redder than his filthy red hair, wiry red beard, and blood-red devil-eyes. He had many disturbing qualities – none worse than his orangutan-like body odor. Stinky reeked like a combination of dead dog, rotting fish, and sweaty testicles. Seriously, he smelled like an onion’s cunt. Clearly, he needed a nickname befitting his demeanor, so instead of calling him something cool like “Red,” I called the freak “Stinky.” And Stinky never objected to the name. Instead of being offended by it, he wore the moniker like a badge of honor.
If the guy had a real name, I have long since forgotten it. Real names don’t really matter when you’re in your early 20s, wasting your life away with intellectual invalids. All that counts is how much shit you’ve stirred before wising up and moving along.
But even though his legal name has long since faded from the Nova-mind, the night I almost died is etched into my psyche like a tribal tattoo. It’s a rollicking tale of danger, intrigue, and the supernatural.
Come gather ‘round the campfire, kiddies; Grandpa Nova has a story to tell:
It all began many, many moons ago, when Stinky asked if I’d accompany him to a place where two girls lived. They were going to cook us dinner, suckle our snakes, and give us lots of free beer.
“Do they make good sandwiches?” I asked Stinky, as we sat and drank brews in his shitty basement apartment.
“Fuck if I know, man!” he said – with a maniacal grin stretched all across his hideous face. Stinky was one of those unfortunate people with really big gums and really little teeth. “All I know is these bitches are golden, man. They be gifts from God, dude. Really, you’s should see them.”
“They have beer? Sandwiches? And you swear on your Mother’s tits that they’re hot?”
“I hate my Mom. I’ve never forgiven her for fucking that Negro repairman. Not funny! That stupid slut! Race-mixing is a sin against nature. Next time she passes out, I’m gonna shave her twat with a rusty huntin’ knife! Serve the bitch right! But back to the girls: I gots me some stuff to GUARANTEE we’ll get into their panties…”
He opened up his coat and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a plastic baggie filled with the Sticky Icky and waved it furiously, like a matador goading a rampaging bull.
“Know what I mean, man? Ha! Ha!” Stinky constantly kept that ridiculously exaggerated grin on his face. Even if his dick got torn from his body in a drunken farming accident, I think that smile would stay there – like the fucking Joker or something. This guy was a certified nutcase. No way anyone in his right mind would have anything to do with the freak.
Then again, I am Mr. Fuckin’ Nova.
“Yeah, Stinky, I know exactly what you mean. Let’s go meet these bitches.”
We took the Nova Wagon and headed south towards a little redneck town a dozen-or-so miles from campus. The girls lived in a low-rent complex adjacent to the highway. Bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, crumpled cigarette boxes, and empty condom wrappers littered the landscape. We walked up the stairs and suavely knocked on the girls’ second floor apartment door. A cute little country bumpkin opened the door, wearing a tank top, ass-hugging jeans, and a Wal-Mart-quality bellybutton ring.
“C’mon inside, boys,” she said with a drawl. No need to ask the Novanator twice; at that stage of my life, few things were more important than finding a reasonably attractive skank with a low IQ and even lower standards. Plus, I could smell fresh sandwiches being prepared in the kitchen. Sure enough, as Stinky and I walked in, we could see the other girl putting the finishing touches on a layered culinary masterpiece.
“Aw, the food smells Novalicious, my country-fried Fräuleins!” I shouted from the doorway. (I liked to reward future fuck-buddies with poetic language if they could make a good sandwich. Positive reinforcement and all that.)
“You must be Mr. Nova,” she cooed as she strolled out from the kitchen. She sautéed her perfect ass over to me and dug her hands into my back pockets. The sultry little thing gazed up at me with a devilish smile, jiggling her braless tits and whetting her well-traveled mouth. “I heard a few things about you.” She then looked down at my package. The Nova-jang stirred back and forth like the nasal hairs of an old man snoring. “I heard you fuck real good.”
I looked over at my foul-smelling friend. The other girl was handing him a beer and nibbling on his ear. So far, Stinky’s slut-safari had VASTLY exceeded my expectations; the girls were walking upright and everything. I whispered to Stinky, “Well done, dude!”
Stinky whispered back, “My bitch gots a tattoo of Princess Di right over her dick-tunnel. She’s real classy. This is gonna be just like porkin’ royalty, don’tcha think?”
Whatever.
The girls fetched us a few dozen beers and multiple sandwiches. We all took turns with the Sticky Icky, and soon the mood was set. Stinky’s woman led him into one of the bedrooms. I remained on the couch with my country-fried cutie and commenced with the time-honored art of seduction. With both hands, I expertly stripped her of those jeans, slid her thong to the side, and pushed her ankles behind her head. The whore’s asshole was actually a little dirty (lazy wiping), but I decided to proceed anyway. Eh, I had nothing better to do. She experienced the teeth-rattling joys of the Hummingbird Technique, and climaxed several times. It earned me the freshly-shaved pussy, which I commenced to fuck with animalistic intensity near a window overlooking an empty field of asphalt. But no doggystyle; I didn’t want her filthy asshole rubbing against my body. Nova ain’t into that scat-stuff.
After I shot my load and wiped my dick off on the curtains, my dirty-assed cum-magnet suggested that we all head out to the Dice’s Inn – a little dive not too far from the highway.
“They have beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, plus a nacho bar,” she answered. Man, this girl was saying and doing ALL the right things. If she keeps this up, I just might give her a pass on the dirty-asshole faux pa.
“Stinky, you done in there?” I called out into the other room. I was suddenly starving for chow. The beer, booty, and Sticky Icky combination made my stomach feel famished, and the girls were all out of sandwiches. Venturing into a nacho bar sounded absolutely perfect.
“Yeah, Nova-dude!” he shouted back.
“You want to go to some place called the Dice’s Inn? They have nachos! They have beer!”
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed.
So we all got ready and hopped in the Nova-wagon – with the windows rolled down so Stinky could air out. I kid you not, my Novanites: Stinky smelled like he washed his ass with an even dirtier ass. I even contemplated crashing my car into a manure plant, just to rid the vehicle of Stinky’s eye-watering stench. (Fortunately for him, his fuck-buddy had a compulsive coke-habit and long ago lost her ability to use her nose for anything other than a powder-vacuum. She had NO IDEA how lucky she was.) Stinky had the kind of body odor that could end a prison rape.
But beer and nachos were a-calling.
With our bitches by our side, we headed out for a night on the town… or the village… or whatever that hillbilly shithole was considered. We headed towards The Dice’s Inn. The night was darker than usual, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The land rested peacefully beneath a starless sky. I was happy.
Little did I know that my friend the Grim Reaper would be showing her face again.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part III
The Grim Reaper wore a smile that would make any man nervous – and bore a pair of tits that could spawn involuntary emissions. She held all the cards in her dainty little hands and it was now time for ME to play her game. As much as I hated the power she held, I desperately wanted to live another day.
“Mr. Nova, there is something you must do for me so that I may let your drunken transgression slide.” She walked forward, her nipples beaming through her blouse like the headlights of an old Chevy. I badly wanted to reach over and go BEEP BEEP! “You must find the biggest, fattest girl in town and fuck her before dusk.”
I stood there in shock. All my life I had prided myself on banging insanely hot women. Never ONCE did I have to go slump-busting with a biggin’. Even during my worst stretches without snatch (six, seven days at the most) I never once dreamed of slapping the thighs of a big, bloated bitch and riding in the tsunami.
“But Ms. Reaper, there must be something else I can do? Don’t YOU need pleasure? I’ll fuck you even though you are as cold as the river Styx!” I pleaded.
“Well, if you don’t want to wake up dead tomorrow, you better do what I command.” She had that shit-eating grin I hated so much. She had me cornered and she knew it.
“Alright you dirty bitch! I’ll go find her!” I walked right past her and out the door. I turned around to yell one final vilifying comment… but she was gone. She had disappeared to the Netherworld in which her true power was centered. A place I had seen in my nightmares and never wanted to fall into. A place that’s cold and dark, like an Eskimo’s pussy.
The people walking in and out of the backwater hotel (right in the middle of Bumfuck, USA) looked at me like I was a circus freak. “Fuck off, you inbred bastards!” I yelled at these slack-jawed yokels. The last thing I needed was some retard in overalls sneering derisively at ME. Hey, I might be drunk before noon, but I’m STILL Mr. Nova – International Stud and Proprietor of Premium Poontang. I’m not gonna take any shit from Wilbur the Wayward Sister-Fucker. I clenched my fist, ready to smack their crooked teeth straight.
But then I thought better of my actions. If I was going to live I would need their help in order to find the biggest woman in town. I went back inside and talked to the hotel lobby clerk. She was cute as hell. Picture a five-foot tall country bumpkin with an off-centered smile, dusty blonde hair, and a great round ass. An ass that was made for spanking! But I had to put that red apple in her britches out of my mind – and focus on my unholy mission.
“Where might I find a clothing shop in town?” I asked the hotel clerk. “I want to buy my wife something.” (My WIFE, yeah RIGHT! But this bitch was eating it up, smiling like a little schoolgirl in my presence.) “You see, it is her birthday,” I told her. “Is there a Big & Tall store around?”
She gave me directions to a place on the town’s main street. I got depressed as I drove up in the Nova-wagon to the retail outlet in the heart of Bumfuck. Not only did I have to fuck the fattest girl in town, but I had to do it while still drunk. The buzz I had was something fierce. It was a delicate balance, my faithful Novanites: Staying drunk enough to actually follow through and fuck a heifer, but not getting so drunk that I couldn’t get my little lieutenant up and at attention.
I hopped out of the car and went inside Harry’s Big and Tall Women’s Clothing Outlet. A lard-ass named Harry was behind the store desk reading a copy of Entertainment Weekly. He had long red curly hair and a beard.
I walked up and leaned up against the counter. “Dude, I gotta find the biggest chick in town or I am going to die. Who is she and how do I reach her?”
He was taken aback. He put his magazine down and stared me in the eye. This poor bastard had probably never seen a piece of snatch in his life. He was a surefire candidate for running an entertainment-based website that reviews movies with a virginal fanboy’s slant. (Harry Knowles, I’m lookin’ at you, you fuckin’ blimp – and one day soon, our end-game will commence. Dick-nose.)
“Why are you gonna die? You look healthy,” he lazily asked, his beard encrusted with various Taco Bell menu items.
“Dammit, man! There is no time!” I was like a rabid animal in search of something to bite.
“Alright,” he said reaching for a candy bar. “I’ll let you know where you can find her.”
He told me to go to the local bar, Snappy’s Beer Shack. She was there every happy hour, starting at 4:00 pm. That didn’t leave much time to seal the deal. Remember, my father said “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” I ran to the bar and raced through the doorway. And then I saw her: 400 pounds of beauty gulping down a 23 oz. Coors Light draft.
How was going to be able to get it up for her? I had to focus on the fact that she loved beer. That was my only chance. I hopped on the bar stool next to her and introduced myself.
“I am Mr. Nova.” I smiled and offered to buy her a draft. She accepted.
“I don’t know why you are here, but if you want some of THIS you must know I am hard to get. Plus, I am mostly a lesbian.” She then took a huge swig of the Nova-purchased beverage.
“I like girls that dive in on the muff. But what is it going to take to get some of that pale, wobbly, cellulite-addled loving?” I asked this and almost puked. But I had to sound convincing.
“A nice back massage. A bubble bath. Some tender loving care.”
She must have known I would never do those things for ANY woman. But the clock was ticking. I had to take Bouncing Big Betty back to the hotel!
“Alright!” I sighed. “Finish your fuckin’ beer and peddle your fat ass to the parking lot!”
I rushed her to my wagon. You should have heard my poor baby straining underneath all the weight. The car sputtered back to the hotel. I parked and hurried my Big-Bellied Betty upstairs.
It was 6:00 pm! Only one hour ‘till sunset. I opened the door and started her bath. I didn’t have any bubbles (being a fucking man and all) so I had to run downstairs to get some from the gift shop. When I came back up I saw she was in the tub already, 100% naked. She looked like a wet bag of marshmallows in an undersized cereal bowl.
After she was done, she went to the bed – ready for her massage. Oh my Novanites, I had to pretend I was another person. I had to leave my body and look at it from above, much like the Indians do on peyote trips. I did my best to make her happy. Finally – with just ten minutes left until dusk – she said I could fuck her.
I pulled my pants down and revealed the Nova-jang. I looked down at him. It seemed he was gazing up at me with a look that cried, “Please, Daddy, don’t make me go in there!”
“Be brave, little soldier,” I told my terrified penis. “What you are about to you do you do so for the good of the Nova-team. Don’t think of what happens now; think of the places we will be able to go later on. Think of sweet shaven snatch from all corners of this great Earth. C’mon my courageous sexual warrior! Now rise and go to battle!”
But he didn’t want to cooperate at first. Betty was getting pissed. She laid there spread-out, sort of like a dazed rhino. Then the little guy remembered that if I didn’t go through with this I would die right at dusk. So he rose to the occasion, my beloved Novanites! He rose like Jesus on the third day! He rose like Lazarus from his dead tomb! He rose like the bubbles of a nice cold beer!
I slapped her thigh and rode in the considerable wave.
I fucked her and was done in three minutes. Moments after I nutted, the black blanket of night started to cover the town of Bumfuck. I had made it.
I didn’t see the Grim Reaper after my big, beautiful girl left. (Betty seemed satisfied, by the way. I guess ALL women need some loving – even fat fugly women. And in a weird way I was glad that just this once I could help her achieve maximum pleasure. Plus, I gave her a Snickers bar on her way out, and that practically gave her multiple orgasms.) Not seeing the Mistress of Death made me happy. But it also made me more cautious. I have a mission to fulfill on this world, and being dead doesn’t help us out, my Novanites.
So let this tale be a lesson to all of you out there who want to drown your sorrows in that delicious demon-brew known as alcohol. Wait until after noon – and always keep your eyes open for signs of that bitch known as The Grim Reaper!
“Mr. Nova, there is something you must do for me so that I may let your drunken transgression slide.” She walked forward, her nipples beaming through her blouse like the headlights of an old Chevy. I badly wanted to reach over and go BEEP BEEP! “You must find the biggest, fattest girl in town and fuck her before dusk.”
I stood there in shock. All my life I had prided myself on banging insanely hot women. Never ONCE did I have to go slump-busting with a biggin’. Even during my worst stretches without snatch (six, seven days at the most) I never once dreamed of slapping the thighs of a big, bloated bitch and riding in the tsunami.
“But Ms. Reaper, there must be something else I can do? Don’t YOU need pleasure? I’ll fuck you even though you are as cold as the river Styx!” I pleaded.
“Well, if you don’t want to wake up dead tomorrow, you better do what I command.” She had that shit-eating grin I hated so much. She had me cornered and she knew it.
“Alright you dirty bitch! I’ll go find her!” I walked right past her and out the door. I turned around to yell one final vilifying comment… but she was gone. She had disappeared to the Netherworld in which her true power was centered. A place I had seen in my nightmares and never wanted to fall into. A place that’s cold and dark, like an Eskimo’s pussy.
The people walking in and out of the backwater hotel (right in the middle of Bumfuck, USA) looked at me like I was a circus freak. “Fuck off, you inbred bastards!” I yelled at these slack-jawed yokels. The last thing I needed was some retard in overalls sneering derisively at ME. Hey, I might be drunk before noon, but I’m STILL Mr. Nova – International Stud and Proprietor of Premium Poontang. I’m not gonna take any shit from Wilbur the Wayward Sister-Fucker. I clenched my fist, ready to smack their crooked teeth straight.
But then I thought better of my actions. If I was going to live I would need their help in order to find the biggest woman in town. I went back inside and talked to the hotel lobby clerk. She was cute as hell. Picture a five-foot tall country bumpkin with an off-centered smile, dusty blonde hair, and a great round ass. An ass that was made for spanking! But I had to put that red apple in her britches out of my mind – and focus on my unholy mission.
“Where might I find a clothing shop in town?” I asked the hotel clerk. “I want to buy my wife something.” (My WIFE, yeah RIGHT! But this bitch was eating it up, smiling like a little schoolgirl in my presence.) “You see, it is her birthday,” I told her. “Is there a Big & Tall store around?”
She gave me directions to a place on the town’s main street. I got depressed as I drove up in the Nova-wagon to the retail outlet in the heart of Bumfuck. Not only did I have to fuck the fattest girl in town, but I had to do it while still drunk. The buzz I had was something fierce. It was a delicate balance, my faithful Novanites: Staying drunk enough to actually follow through and fuck a heifer, but not getting so drunk that I couldn’t get my little lieutenant up and at attention.
I hopped out of the car and went inside Harry’s Big and Tall Women’s Clothing Outlet. A lard-ass named Harry was behind the store desk reading a copy of Entertainment Weekly. He had long red curly hair and a beard.
I walked up and leaned up against the counter. “Dude, I gotta find the biggest chick in town or I am going to die. Who is she and how do I reach her?”
He was taken aback. He put his magazine down and stared me in the eye. This poor bastard had probably never seen a piece of snatch in his life. He was a surefire candidate for running an entertainment-based website that reviews movies with a virginal fanboy’s slant. (Harry Knowles, I’m lookin’ at you, you fuckin’ blimp – and one day soon, our end-game will commence. Dick-nose.)
“Why are you gonna die? You look healthy,” he lazily asked, his beard encrusted with various Taco Bell menu items.
“Dammit, man! There is no time!” I was like a rabid animal in search of something to bite.
“Alright,” he said reaching for a candy bar. “I’ll let you know where you can find her.”
He told me to go to the local bar, Snappy’s Beer Shack. She was there every happy hour, starting at 4:00 pm. That didn’t leave much time to seal the deal. Remember, my father said “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” I ran to the bar and raced through the doorway. And then I saw her: 400 pounds of beauty gulping down a 23 oz. Coors Light draft.
How was going to be able to get it up for her? I had to focus on the fact that she loved beer. That was my only chance. I hopped on the bar stool next to her and introduced myself.
“I am Mr. Nova.” I smiled and offered to buy her a draft. She accepted.
“I don’t know why you are here, but if you want some of THIS you must know I am hard to get. Plus, I am mostly a lesbian.” She then took a huge swig of the Nova-purchased beverage.
“I like girls that dive in on the muff. But what is it going to take to get some of that pale, wobbly, cellulite-addled loving?” I asked this and almost puked. But I had to sound convincing.
“A nice back massage. A bubble bath. Some tender loving care.”
She must have known I would never do those things for ANY woman. But the clock was ticking. I had to take Bouncing Big Betty back to the hotel!
“Alright!” I sighed. “Finish your fuckin’ beer and peddle your fat ass to the parking lot!”
I rushed her to my wagon. You should have heard my poor baby straining underneath all the weight. The car sputtered back to the hotel. I parked and hurried my Big-Bellied Betty upstairs.
It was 6:00 pm! Only one hour ‘till sunset. I opened the door and started her bath. I didn’t have any bubbles (being a fucking man and all) so I had to run downstairs to get some from the gift shop. When I came back up I saw she was in the tub already, 100% naked. She looked like a wet bag of marshmallows in an undersized cereal bowl.
After she was done, she went to the bed – ready for her massage. Oh my Novanites, I had to pretend I was another person. I had to leave my body and look at it from above, much like the Indians do on peyote trips. I did my best to make her happy. Finally – with just ten minutes left until dusk – she said I could fuck her.
I pulled my pants down and revealed the Nova-jang. I looked down at him. It seemed he was gazing up at me with a look that cried, “Please, Daddy, don’t make me go in there!”
“Be brave, little soldier,” I told my terrified penis. “What you are about to you do you do so for the good of the Nova-team. Don’t think of what happens now; think of the places we will be able to go later on. Think of sweet shaven snatch from all corners of this great Earth. C’mon my courageous sexual warrior! Now rise and go to battle!”
But he didn’t want to cooperate at first. Betty was getting pissed. She laid there spread-out, sort of like a dazed rhino. Then the little guy remembered that if I didn’t go through with this I would die right at dusk. So he rose to the occasion, my beloved Novanites! He rose like Jesus on the third day! He rose like Lazarus from his dead tomb! He rose like the bubbles of a nice cold beer!
I slapped her thigh and rode in the considerable wave.
I fucked her and was done in three minutes. Moments after I nutted, the black blanket of night started to cover the town of Bumfuck. I had made it.
I didn’t see the Grim Reaper after my big, beautiful girl left. (Betty seemed satisfied, by the way. I guess ALL women need some loving – even fat fugly women. And in a weird way I was glad that just this once I could help her achieve maximum pleasure. Plus, I gave her a Snickers bar on her way out, and that practically gave her multiple orgasms.) Not seeing the Mistress of Death made me happy. But it also made me more cautious. I have a mission to fulfill on this world, and being dead doesn’t help us out, my Novanites.
So let this tale be a lesson to all of you out there who want to drown your sorrows in that delicious demon-brew known as alcohol. Wait until after noon – and always keep your eyes open for signs of that bitch known as The Grim Reaper!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part II
My Novanites, I was scared. And I know that seems utterly impossible – the legendary Novalicious getting weak knees ‘cause some She-Death skirt stood in front of him. Fuck, I have stared down cops, disgruntled feminists, and countless husbands who’ve wanted to kill me because I banged out their wives’ sweet snatch (They always learn that their wives have been Novatized when they ask their ladies, “Why is your pubic hair shaved? You never did THAT before! And your pussy seems so much looser now. Hey, did you know that you’re bleeding from the asshole? And where did all my beer go? What the FUCK is going on?!!!” HA! Nova rules! But I digress.).
Thoughts of the Grim Reaper ALWAYS made me want to hide out in some dark, safe place, with only my 12-pack of beer to comfort me. True, I had previously envisioned the Grim Reaper as a fictional creature of mythology, ala Vampires, Medusa and Jack LaLanne. But to my abject horror, the Grim Reaper stood before me, smiling a toothy grin.
It didn’t help the Grim Reaper was so fucking hot! You may think the Grim Reaper is all bones with a black-hooded cloak and silver scythe. Not true, my beloved Novanites! The Reaper is hot, with pasty white skin and blazing red hair. She must have had a boob job, too. Those puppies are distracting! But really, is it surprising to ANYONE that the Reaper is a woman? Hey, how many guys have gone to an early grave because some ditzy dame drove them over the edge?
I had a beer in hand. I looked down at the bottle: My passport to death.
She smiled and said, “I have waited a long time for this, Nova. You should have paid attention to you Father’s warning: ‘Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.’ Looks like I will be taking you to Hell shortly.”
I wanted to run, but like a real (stupid) man I stayed my ground. I was NOT going to let this bitch beat me (unless by “beat” you mean “beat my meat” – heh, heh). I had to stand up to her. Too many times before she had threatened me. Like when I was so drunk I slept in the middle of a gravel road. Or that weeklong peyote trip. Or the time I was almost blown up by a bomb.
“I will not die today, Reaper!” I stated with confidence. “And I will not follow you to Hell! You know I do not believe in the existence of Hell and that makes me exempt from your accursed Christian fear campaign!”
“Well said, Nova.” She paced in front of me. DAMN she looked good. I would’ve LOVED to bend her over the motel’s continental breakfast buffet table, lube her ass with those runny eggs, and make her scream for mercy. “You may have cracked the Christian Fear Doctrine, but that doesn’t make you a god. You still fear death. So I have manifested myself as that which you think you understand, yet know nothing about. And that, young Nova, is a woman!”
“Fuck that shit! I understand all I need to know about women! All you want is money and power! So I take a little back each time I pound some snatch. I am looking out for every man who has what it takes to punish the pussy, but can’t get a piece because some small-cocked asshole Yuppie bastard snags it first!” I guess the others in the hotel lobby couldn’t see the Grim Reaper ‘cause they started staring at me, whisking away their young children. But fuck them! I know what I saw. And I knew what I had to do.
But did the Reaper know what SHE had to do? Lady Death became very silent. She stopped her pacing and stared me down. She finally asked after a long pause: “You do this for them? You sacrifice a normal life for one so fucked up – just to avenge your fellow man?”
“If my sick, twisted plight somehow provides hope to those men who’ve had their nuts torn to shreds by vindictive bitches, well, then it was a plight worth living,” I told Lady Death. “I’ve recorded all my exploits and shared them with others in this blog, so they might learn of the feminine horrors that ensnarl us all. So, to answer your question, ‘HELL YES YOU STUPID WHORE!!!’ Instead of targeting crazy, evil bitches all the time, I coulda married a demure Asian sex slave who’d treat my pale white shlong like it was a GOD! Now, are you gonna end this here or do I gotta drink myself to death?!”
I was pissed. But she was calm. She showed resolve.
“You DO care for them. That is your weakness. But it also shows strength.” She stopped. She had a decision to make. “Ok Mr. Nova, I will let you live this once. But there is something you must do for me...”
Thoughts of the Grim Reaper ALWAYS made me want to hide out in some dark, safe place, with only my 12-pack of beer to comfort me. True, I had previously envisioned the Grim Reaper as a fictional creature of mythology, ala Vampires, Medusa and Jack LaLanne. But to my abject horror, the Grim Reaper stood before me, smiling a toothy grin.
It didn’t help the Grim Reaper was so fucking hot! You may think the Grim Reaper is all bones with a black-hooded cloak and silver scythe. Not true, my beloved Novanites! The Reaper is hot, with pasty white skin and blazing red hair. She must have had a boob job, too. Those puppies are distracting! But really, is it surprising to ANYONE that the Reaper is a woman? Hey, how many guys have gone to an early grave because some ditzy dame drove them over the edge?
I had a beer in hand. I looked down at the bottle: My passport to death.
She smiled and said, “I have waited a long time for this, Nova. You should have paid attention to you Father’s warning: ‘Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.’ Looks like I will be taking you to Hell shortly.”
I wanted to run, but like a real (stupid) man I stayed my ground. I was NOT going to let this bitch beat me (unless by “beat” you mean “beat my meat” – heh, heh). I had to stand up to her. Too many times before she had threatened me. Like when I was so drunk I slept in the middle of a gravel road. Or that weeklong peyote trip. Or the time I was almost blown up by a bomb.
“I will not die today, Reaper!” I stated with confidence. “And I will not follow you to Hell! You know I do not believe in the existence of Hell and that makes me exempt from your accursed Christian fear campaign!”
“Well said, Nova.” She paced in front of me. DAMN she looked good. I would’ve LOVED to bend her over the motel’s continental breakfast buffet table, lube her ass with those runny eggs, and make her scream for mercy. “You may have cracked the Christian Fear Doctrine, but that doesn’t make you a god. You still fear death. So I have manifested myself as that which you think you understand, yet know nothing about. And that, young Nova, is a woman!”
“Fuck that shit! I understand all I need to know about women! All you want is money and power! So I take a little back each time I pound some snatch. I am looking out for every man who has what it takes to punish the pussy, but can’t get a piece because some small-cocked asshole Yuppie bastard snags it first!” I guess the others in the hotel lobby couldn’t see the Grim Reaper ‘cause they started staring at me, whisking away their young children. But fuck them! I know what I saw. And I knew what I had to do.
But did the Reaper know what SHE had to do? Lady Death became very silent. She stopped her pacing and stared me down. She finally asked after a long pause: “You do this for them? You sacrifice a normal life for one so fucked up – just to avenge your fellow man?”
“If my sick, twisted plight somehow provides hope to those men who’ve had their nuts torn to shreds by vindictive bitches, well, then it was a plight worth living,” I told Lady Death. “I’ve recorded all my exploits and shared them with others in this blog, so they might learn of the feminine horrors that ensnarl us all. So, to answer your question, ‘HELL YES YOU STUPID WHORE!!!’ Instead of targeting crazy, evil bitches all the time, I coulda married a demure Asian sex slave who’d treat my pale white shlong like it was a GOD! Now, are you gonna end this here or do I gotta drink myself to death?!”
I was pissed. But she was calm. She showed resolve.
“You DO care for them. That is your weakness. But it also shows strength.” She stopped. She had a decision to make. “Ok Mr. Nova, I will let you live this once. But there is something you must do for me...”
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part I
About four years ago, your beloved Novanator left a girl he had lived with for close to three years. How the legendary Mr. Nova – the Man with the Technique – managed to maintain a (semi-)monogamous relationship is still beyond my earthly comprehension (let’s just say the local adult video store really loved me & my credit card… and that my right forearm grew to Popeye-like proportions). I packed up my things, said goodbye to the cunt, and headed cross-country to get away from the most accursed of all female notions: Commitment.
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Call Back
You went to the club and expected nothing to come of it. Until – in a drunken haze and a mild case of the horniness – you saw her nursing a cocktail in the shadows. So you talked to her. You forge some sort of half-hearted connection, traded numbers, and went back home to pass out.
The very next day you wake up around noon, pop a few Aspirin, drink your coffee, and take a watery shit. Breakfast is cereal and beer. There’s a football game on TV that you SORELY want to see. Hell, if Chicago covers the point spread, you’ll have rent-money for the next two months.
Settled in with feet kicked up, tortilla chips and more beer in hand, life couldn’t get ANY better.
Phone rings. You check the caller ID. “Who the fuck is this?” you wonder.
“Hello?” you say, chips in mouth and beer in hand.
“Hey, remember me from the club? It’s ME! Blah blah blah blah blah blah! Wow, I had a super-wonderful time last night! It’s so HARD meeting new people! My last boyfriend was SUCH a dick. But you seem SO cool! I already told my friends all about you. By the way, what are you doing later?”
“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” you think, “the fucking GAME is starting!”
What to do? You hardly remember this girl from the night before. Maybe she’s crazy – or even worse: completely fuckin’ normal! You could wake up with a bunny rabbit in the boiling pot. She might drug your ass and Bobbitt your schlong. Yeah, the sex might be tremendous… but it wouldn’t be worth it. It’s almost never worth it.
“Uh, I am kinda busy,” you say (with nacho cheese sauce dripping into your new cell phone), “Can I call you back?”
Silence. Then: “Um, Ok, that sounds—”
Click.
You pick up your cell phone, click on the address book, find her number and erase it. Got a bad feeling from this one.
What was it? Lack of confidence? Yes, but even worse: Desperation. In this fucked-up world, NOTHING scares a single man more than a desperate woman. Someone who says things like: “I’m looking to get married. I want kids. I want a stable man to provide for me.”
The single man screams: “LIKE I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, ALREADY!”
Ladies, please let me tell you something about the single man: He UNDERSTANDS what you want. He has read about it in books, seen it on TV, maybe even been married before and has kids. But DON’T throw yourself out there in a desperate attempt to escape loneliness.
So let’s come back to the initial call back – our single woman’s first mistake. It is best to wait AT LEAST two days before dialing those digits. Give the single dude some time to breathe. Let him wonder and wait. If he doesn’t call you after the first week, THEN give it a try.
Call between 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. on a weekday. People are usually home then and winding down from work. A phone call would be a welcomed distraction at this stage.
Make the phone call brief, five minutes tops. Touch base, try to make the other person laugh. Remind the dude of a topic you discussed over body shots (if you were lucky enough to do those). Be clever. Don’t set up a date unless he does. If he doesn’t suggest a date, THEN call back before the weekend and ask.
It is ok to be a little aggressive; just don’t be psycho, crazy and desperate.
The first call is the most important step next to a first impression. If you want to seal the deal you have to know who you are signing up with. Do you research ladies, and things will be alright.
And if you STILL can’t meet anybody, just hangout near the condom aisle at the supermarket. SOMEONE will talk to you, eventually. I promise you that.
The very next day you wake up around noon, pop a few Aspirin, drink your coffee, and take a watery shit. Breakfast is cereal and beer. There’s a football game on TV that you SORELY want to see. Hell, if Chicago covers the point spread, you’ll have rent-money for the next two months.
Settled in with feet kicked up, tortilla chips and more beer in hand, life couldn’t get ANY better.
Phone rings. You check the caller ID. “Who the fuck is this?” you wonder.
“Hello?” you say, chips in mouth and beer in hand.
“Hey, remember me from the club? It’s ME! Blah blah blah blah blah blah! Wow, I had a super-wonderful time last night! It’s so HARD meeting new people! My last boyfriend was SUCH a dick. But you seem SO cool! I already told my friends all about you. By the way, what are you doing later?”
“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” you think, “the fucking GAME is starting!”
What to do? You hardly remember this girl from the night before. Maybe she’s crazy – or even worse: completely fuckin’ normal! You could wake up with a bunny rabbit in the boiling pot. She might drug your ass and Bobbitt your schlong. Yeah, the sex might be tremendous… but it wouldn’t be worth it. It’s almost never worth it.
“Uh, I am kinda busy,” you say (with nacho cheese sauce dripping into your new cell phone), “Can I call you back?”
Silence. Then: “Um, Ok, that sounds—”
Click.
You pick up your cell phone, click on the address book, find her number and erase it. Got a bad feeling from this one.
What was it? Lack of confidence? Yes, but even worse: Desperation. In this fucked-up world, NOTHING scares a single man more than a desperate woman. Someone who says things like: “I’m looking to get married. I want kids. I want a stable man to provide for me.”
The single man screams: “LIKE I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, ALREADY!”
Ladies, please let me tell you something about the single man: He UNDERSTANDS what you want. He has read about it in books, seen it on TV, maybe even been married before and has kids. But DON’T throw yourself out there in a desperate attempt to escape loneliness.
So let’s come back to the initial call back – our single woman’s first mistake. It is best to wait AT LEAST two days before dialing those digits. Give the single dude some time to breathe. Let him wonder and wait. If he doesn’t call you after the first week, THEN give it a try.
Call between 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. on a weekday. People are usually home then and winding down from work. A phone call would be a welcomed distraction at this stage.
Make the phone call brief, five minutes tops. Touch base, try to make the other person laugh. Remind the dude of a topic you discussed over body shots (if you were lucky enough to do those). Be clever. Don’t set up a date unless he does. If he doesn’t suggest a date, THEN call back before the weekend and ask.
It is ok to be a little aggressive; just don’t be psycho, crazy and desperate.
The first call is the most important step next to a first impression. If you want to seal the deal you have to know who you are signing up with. Do you research ladies, and things will be alright.
And if you STILL can’t meet anybody, just hangout near the condom aisle at the supermarket. SOMEONE will talk to you, eventually. I promise you that.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Mr. Nova’s Guide to Interracial Dating
Variety.
When you get stoned and stumble into the neighborhood Baskin-Robbins, you can choose from many different flavors. You may love mint chocolate chip. Your friend may go for a root beer float. Your ex might love plain vanilla. (Just for the record, Mr. Nova HATES plain vanilla – so don’t even ask him to have a scoop. I’ve had vanilla before. Vanilla is BORING. When I was Boy Nova, I had lots of vanilla ice cream cones at McDonald’s – and now I want something different. And take it from Professor Nova: vanilla tastes a hell of a lot better when it has chocolate syrup on it, some cherries, or even those damn sprinkles. Strawberry shakes are quite satisfying. Let’s not even get started on rocky road…)
Now, let’s turn this analogy around to dating. Do you go into Baskin-Robbins and pick plain vanilla every single fucking time? Of course not. You are open-minded about your choices. And just because you don’t understand the complexities of jamocha almond ice cream doesn’t preclude you from at least trying it. If you don’t like it you can always say, “Hey, it’s not for me, but somebody out there is gonna love it.” And the next time you’re at the ice cream store, you grab your spoon and try something different.
Apply this to the First Law of Nova: Fuck any girl that you find attractive.
(The Second Law of Nova is: Every woman is a whore but Mom. I’ll tell you the rest if the laws later.)
Ok, so your parents aren’t happy with you dating a girl outside of your religion. They found it strange when they discovered your collection of Big Black Booty porn mags. They’ll disown you if you marry a Mexican.
Fuck them all to hell. Fuck what your parents think. Fuck what your friends think.
Do you believe for one goddamn moment that I let the opinions of others preclude my dick from having its way with some hot snatch? Of course not! Hot is hot. Or, in the immortal words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: “Fuck any bitch that makes your trousers twitch.” I’ve sampled all the mouth-watering morsels from God’s feminine buffet table, rarely eating the same dish twice. Unfortunately, too many narrow-minded morons fail to grasp this concept. These five examples will shed some light on this complex topic. Grab your notepads, boys and girls, and listen to Mr. Nova deflate a few stereotypes regarding race and ethnicity:
Stereotype #1
“Once you go black you can never go back.”
Ah, white girls that date black guys are often called many names: Mudsharks, nigger-lovers, etc. They say that once you taste the black cock, you never will date a white guy again. This is so wrong in Mr. Nova’s case. I have fucked four different women who used to hop on the dark chocolate. One was even married to a black guy and she divorced his lazy ass for me! I didn’t do this to disrespect the brothers – hey, homey, we have the same taste in women! I did it because I felt like it. I wanted some sweet poon and I took it – Nova style.
Jeah.
White girls date black guys for many different reasons. Sometimes it’s to shock their parents, sometimes it’s to flip society the bird, and sometimes (but rarely) it’s because they truly love the brother for who he is. But the MAIN reason is because of the myth that black men own amazingly large penises. Now, I haven’t seen too many black shlongs in my day, being – y’know – heterosexual and stuff, so I can’t vouch for this myth’s credibility. Either way, if you start dating a white chic who used to date black guys, you can safely assume that for her, SIZE MATTERS! So if you ain’t packing meat, don’t bother knocking on the door.
Stereotype #2
“I don’t see a lot of black girls with white guys.”
I have fucked so many black girls I lost count – and this was even before the O.J. trial. All white dudes owe OJ a HUGE debt of gratitude ‘cause the Juice made it EASY AS HELL for white guys to bang hot black babes. Because of OJ, black babes are now AFRAID of black men – and thus covet the white cock the way dykes covet fresh batteries. (Alas, white girls will still bang black men ‘cause the “big dick” myth matters more than not getting killed, I guess.)
Black girls have some of the finest curves and greatest bodies on this planet! But let me tell you something first hand: a lot of ignorant redneck muthafuckers will give you some shit for spreading those purple pussy lips. And the brothers will look at you like you are stealing their Nubian princess when you hold hands with her while walking down the street.
To the rednecks: So I went muddy – who gives a shit? Deal with it, you needle-dicked pieces of inbred jizz. Mr. Nova ain’t gonna be taking any dating lessons from some narrow-minded hillbilly who keeps his crooked cock inside his sister’s mouth. By the way, Uncle Jesse: NASCAR is for queers, the South got its ass kicked in the Civil War, country music is for losers, and Barack Obama has a bigger dick than Ronald Reagan!
To the brothers: Deal with it, homies. You act so fucking PROUD when you bang some blonde chic – but when we step onto your precious African-American turf you get so defensive it makes me want to bitch-slap you back to reality. Besides, I’m doing you guys a favor: By the time I get tired of Tawanda & Shannana and toss their oversized asses to the curb, they’ll know a lot more tricks between the sheets! So enjoy that trick she can do with the carrot – she learned it from yours truly.
Stereotype #3
“Jewish girls are prudes and need to be carefully courted.”
Ha! Here’s all you need to know, kiddies: Monica Lewinski is Jewish. The Children of Israel produced some of the most splendid carrying cases for cooters in the world. So many hot babes – Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alicia Silverstone, Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, and more. You owe it to yourself to spread that Jewish snatch like a bagel and sample all its goodies. Spin her legs like a dreidel! Jewish girls will do all the nasty stuff you desire – and then they’ll make you some chicken soup. It’s win-win. (Just don’t buy ‘em any cubic zirconium jewelry ‘cause they WILL know the difference. Oh yes. ‘Course, as a general rule, you really shouldn’t buy ANY woman jewelry.)
Stereotype #4
“Asian women are insatiable sex-slaves!”
Asian pussy is fantastic… but an hour after eating it, you get hungry again. Unfortunately, Asian babes are just like any other babes – you have your nympho freaks who make their own duck sauce… as well as those snobby cock-teasers whose legs close at their knees. So pick your sushi order carefully. One word of caution: Asian girls tend to have EXTREMELY coarse pubes, so if you go down on Lucy Liu for a few hours, you’ll likely develop burn marks on your mouth. The solution? Lather and shave her twat, of course.
Stereotype #5
“I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl from a different race.”
All pussy is the same, fellas. All pussy is beautiful in its own special way. We have hot hairy cooters and freshly-shaved pink tacos! We have European pussy, Black pussy, Indian pussy! Pussy makes the world go around. And trust Mr. Nova on this – all pussy, no matter its place of origin – wiggles when licked. So get your faces messy and start licking!
Here is what I recommend to make the world a better place:
1. Go out and marry a girl of another race and have lots of babies. The sooner we can blend the colors, the sooner we can end prejudice. (Not that I really give a shit about ending prejudice and racism, but I’ll GLADLY exploit any opportunity to get laid. Nova rules!)
2. Fuck some women from the Middle East and videotape it. Mail it to the nearest embassy. Let those dickless terrorists know that we can fuck women better than they can. Make sure you get the girl pregnant too – and name the baby George W. Bush Junior. Raise him Jewish, just to fuck with ‘em.
3. Next time you see someone dating someone of a different race, don’t get all pissed off. Go up and congratulate them. They are standing up to an unspoken belief that far too many people hold.
Fuck popular opinion. Fuck what people think.
Go out and fuck somebody. Do it with flavor.
When you get stoned and stumble into the neighborhood Baskin-Robbins, you can choose from many different flavors. You may love mint chocolate chip. Your friend may go for a root beer float. Your ex might love plain vanilla. (Just for the record, Mr. Nova HATES plain vanilla – so don’t even ask him to have a scoop. I’ve had vanilla before. Vanilla is BORING. When I was Boy Nova, I had lots of vanilla ice cream cones at McDonald’s – and now I want something different. And take it from Professor Nova: vanilla tastes a hell of a lot better when it has chocolate syrup on it, some cherries, or even those damn sprinkles. Strawberry shakes are quite satisfying. Let’s not even get started on rocky road…)
Now, let’s turn this analogy around to dating. Do you go into Baskin-Robbins and pick plain vanilla every single fucking time? Of course not. You are open-minded about your choices. And just because you don’t understand the complexities of jamocha almond ice cream doesn’t preclude you from at least trying it. If you don’t like it you can always say, “Hey, it’s not for me, but somebody out there is gonna love it.” And the next time you’re at the ice cream store, you grab your spoon and try something different.
Apply this to the First Law of Nova: Fuck any girl that you find attractive.
(The Second Law of Nova is: Every woman is a whore but Mom. I’ll tell you the rest if the laws later.)
Ok, so your parents aren’t happy with you dating a girl outside of your religion. They found it strange when they discovered your collection of Big Black Booty porn mags. They’ll disown you if you marry a Mexican.
Fuck them all to hell. Fuck what your parents think. Fuck what your friends think.
Do you believe for one goddamn moment that I let the opinions of others preclude my dick from having its way with some hot snatch? Of course not! Hot is hot. Or, in the immortal words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: “Fuck any bitch that makes your trousers twitch.” I’ve sampled all the mouth-watering morsels from God’s feminine buffet table, rarely eating the same dish twice. Unfortunately, too many narrow-minded morons fail to grasp this concept. These five examples will shed some light on this complex topic. Grab your notepads, boys and girls, and listen to Mr. Nova deflate a few stereotypes regarding race and ethnicity:
Stereotype #1
“Once you go black you can never go back.”
Ah, white girls that date black guys are often called many names: Mudsharks, nigger-lovers, etc. They say that once you taste the black cock, you never will date a white guy again. This is so wrong in Mr. Nova’s case. I have fucked four different women who used to hop on the dark chocolate. One was even married to a black guy and she divorced his lazy ass for me! I didn’t do this to disrespect the brothers – hey, homey, we have the same taste in women! I did it because I felt like it. I wanted some sweet poon and I took it – Nova style.
Jeah.
White girls date black guys for many different reasons. Sometimes it’s to shock their parents, sometimes it’s to flip society the bird, and sometimes (but rarely) it’s because they truly love the brother for who he is. But the MAIN reason is because of the myth that black men own amazingly large penises. Now, I haven’t seen too many black shlongs in my day, being – y’know – heterosexual and stuff, so I can’t vouch for this myth’s credibility. Either way, if you start dating a white chic who used to date black guys, you can safely assume that for her, SIZE MATTERS! So if you ain’t packing meat, don’t bother knocking on the door.
Stereotype #2
“I don’t see a lot of black girls with white guys.”
I have fucked so many black girls I lost count – and this was even before the O.J. trial. All white dudes owe OJ a HUGE debt of gratitude ‘cause the Juice made it EASY AS HELL for white guys to bang hot black babes. Because of OJ, black babes are now AFRAID of black men – and thus covet the white cock the way dykes covet fresh batteries. (Alas, white girls will still bang black men ‘cause the “big dick” myth matters more than not getting killed, I guess.)
Black girls have some of the finest curves and greatest bodies on this planet! But let me tell you something first hand: a lot of ignorant redneck muthafuckers will give you some shit for spreading those purple pussy lips. And the brothers will look at you like you are stealing their Nubian princess when you hold hands with her while walking down the street.
To the rednecks: So I went muddy – who gives a shit? Deal with it, you needle-dicked pieces of inbred jizz. Mr. Nova ain’t gonna be taking any dating lessons from some narrow-minded hillbilly who keeps his crooked cock inside his sister’s mouth. By the way, Uncle Jesse: NASCAR is for queers, the South got its ass kicked in the Civil War, country music is for losers, and Barack Obama has a bigger dick than Ronald Reagan!
To the brothers: Deal with it, homies. You act so fucking PROUD when you bang some blonde chic – but when we step onto your precious African-American turf you get so defensive it makes me want to bitch-slap you back to reality. Besides, I’m doing you guys a favor: By the time I get tired of Tawanda & Shannana and toss their oversized asses to the curb, they’ll know a lot more tricks between the sheets! So enjoy that trick she can do with the carrot – she learned it from yours truly.
Stereotype #3
“Jewish girls are prudes and need to be carefully courted.”
Ha! Here’s all you need to know, kiddies: Monica Lewinski is Jewish. The Children of Israel produced some of the most splendid carrying cases for cooters in the world. So many hot babes – Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alicia Silverstone, Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, and more. You owe it to yourself to spread that Jewish snatch like a bagel and sample all its goodies. Spin her legs like a dreidel! Jewish girls will do all the nasty stuff you desire – and then they’ll make you some chicken soup. It’s win-win. (Just don’t buy ‘em any cubic zirconium jewelry ‘cause they WILL know the difference. Oh yes. ‘Course, as a general rule, you really shouldn’t buy ANY woman jewelry.)
Stereotype #4
“Asian women are insatiable sex-slaves!”
Asian pussy is fantastic… but an hour after eating it, you get hungry again. Unfortunately, Asian babes are just like any other babes – you have your nympho freaks who make their own duck sauce… as well as those snobby cock-teasers whose legs close at their knees. So pick your sushi order carefully. One word of caution: Asian girls tend to have EXTREMELY coarse pubes, so if you go down on Lucy Liu for a few hours, you’ll likely develop burn marks on your mouth. The solution? Lather and shave her twat, of course.
Stereotype #5
“I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl from a different race.”
All pussy is the same, fellas. All pussy is beautiful in its own special way. We have hot hairy cooters and freshly-shaved pink tacos! We have European pussy, Black pussy, Indian pussy! Pussy makes the world go around. And trust Mr. Nova on this – all pussy, no matter its place of origin – wiggles when licked. So get your faces messy and start licking!
Here is what I recommend to make the world a better place:
1. Go out and marry a girl of another race and have lots of babies. The sooner we can blend the colors, the sooner we can end prejudice. (Not that I really give a shit about ending prejudice and racism, but I’ll GLADLY exploit any opportunity to get laid. Nova rules!)
2. Fuck some women from the Middle East and videotape it. Mail it to the nearest embassy. Let those dickless terrorists know that we can fuck women better than they can. Make sure you get the girl pregnant too – and name the baby George W. Bush Junior. Raise him Jewish, just to fuck with ‘em.
3. Next time you see someone dating someone of a different race, don’t get all pissed off. Go up and congratulate them. They are standing up to an unspoken belief that far too many people hold.
Fuck popular opinion. Fuck what people think.
Go out and fuck somebody. Do it with flavor.
Expectations
Fellas. We have all had days like this:
You wake up with a hangover. You drank alone last night to kill some pain because a major deal didn’t go through... or because nothing was good on the fuckin’ TV. You spent some money you found in your brother’s jacket on a case of Milwaukee’s Best so you could go to sleep in a drunken haze. But waking up with a headache is a BITCH. You drink some coffee, pop some pills and turn on the tube. What time is it? Noon already? Jesus… thank God I don’t have a job to go to…
You skip past MTV Cribs. That show sucks SO much ass and makes you feel like SUCH a piece of shit. How do non-talented idiots get such nice stuff? Why do they waste so much fucking money trying to be cool? Look, just because you got an Escalade or a Bentley doesn’t make you The Man. Stop sampling other people’s music. Get original or your career is over. I might be a failure but at least… well, I can’t really finish that thought. This dude on TV is living in a mansion, getting a massage from a former Playboy Bunny. I’m sprawled atop a hand-me-down couch in a shitty apartment, smelling like an onion’s cunt.
You watch some SportsCenter. Peace for one hour.
You skip past MTV TRL. Our poor wasted youth will NEVER have the proper musical background to start a revolution much like Kurt Cobain did. Kids today… they wouldn’t know rock & roll if Slash grabbed a guitar and broke it over their heads. And let me say this: Anyone who likes techno music is hereby barred from reading my blog. Shame on you, you wanna-be Euro trash.
You settle on ESPN and head to the computer to write.
You get that call from your loan office. You owe some money. You say it is on the way. You feign surprise that they haven’t already received the check you haven’t yet mailed. You promise to call your bank immediately.
Headache slowly goes away so you can think. You start to feel a little better. In another hour, you just might be healthy enough to watch some porn and squirt out some spooge.
Then – without warning – the girl you’re banging calls your cell. She wants to know what ultra-dandy plans you’ve made for the weekend. Thinking quickly on your feet, you start to bullshit:
“Baby, we’re going to, um, that bar down the street from my apartment… then we’ll drink some, um, Boone’s Strawberry Wine and beer… um, maybe we’ll rent that Bruce Willis movie….”
“What!” she screams – instantly reviving your hangover. ”You SAID we were gonna do something SPECIAL!! You SAID we were going to figure out something BETTER than hanging out at your shitty little apartment with the toilet that doesn’t flush all the way!! My sister in Omaha – the one who married the SUCCESSFUL, HANDSOME lawyer – is ALWAYS doing better things than we are! But I guess HE really LOVES her!!”
“Oh, don’t be that way,” you sigh. “Hell, it was a rough week. I am working my ass off, but the shit isn’t paying off yet. I am doing the best I can to make things good for us, baby.”
Silence.
“So you are in a bad mood now?” you ask your precious bitch.
“I’ll call you back later.”
Ladies: You GOTTA give your man some space. Especially if he is a hustling, over-ambitious bastard like Mr. Nova. Shit ain’t always easy. Hell, shit is never easy. But fucking and connecting on some type of emotional level always leads to expectations. And you got to get RID of these expectations if you want to be with me. Just let things be. When I can give you the moon, I will. When I can rent a jet and travel the world in first class, you’ll be right by my side. But if all I can afford is a box of condoms and a bottle of Mad Dog, LET IT BE.
Don’t:
…expect me to call you right away.
…expect me to come through on everything.
…expect me to feel sympathy for any of your friend’s problems. They probably just tell you how much of an asshole I am anyway.
…expect me to be sober.
…expect me to give a shit about your sister in Omaha – or react positively to the not-so-subtle digs about her “successful lawyer husband.” I’ve MET her husband, and anyone with a pair of eyes can tell that he’s a repressed homosexual who’ll soon come out of the closet. And I can’t fuckin’ wait!
…expect me give you a diamond ring within the first two years of our courtship.
…expect me to take you out to dinner every fuckin’ night.
…expect me to write you a love song. Writing songs is not easy. There are too many bad songs – just like there are too many bad kids. (By the way, a quick memo to all you bitches with your legs spread wide: Just because you can have kids doesn’t mean you should. And to extend the metaphor, just because you can play guitar and sing doesn’t mean you have the cognitive capacity to create a masterpiece.) Maybe you ain’t worth a love song, bitch.
…expect me to CARE about everything.
But you can expect one thing from Mr. Nova: As long as my cock still functions, I will fuck you better than anyone in the world.
So give me some space. Cook me a nice dinner. Give me a backrub. Let me rub one out into your sweet mouth.
Ahhhhh… Much better.
Now you know a little more about how Nova-style works. Don’t expect anything and you will be Okay, ladies. I will surprise you along the way.
And you will love me… oh yes… you will.
You wake up with a hangover. You drank alone last night to kill some pain because a major deal didn’t go through... or because nothing was good on the fuckin’ TV. You spent some money you found in your brother’s jacket on a case of Milwaukee’s Best so you could go to sleep in a drunken haze. But waking up with a headache is a BITCH. You drink some coffee, pop some pills and turn on the tube. What time is it? Noon already? Jesus… thank God I don’t have a job to go to…
You skip past MTV Cribs. That show sucks SO much ass and makes you feel like SUCH a piece of shit. How do non-talented idiots get such nice stuff? Why do they waste so much fucking money trying to be cool? Look, just because you got an Escalade or a Bentley doesn’t make you The Man. Stop sampling other people’s music. Get original or your career is over. I might be a failure but at least… well, I can’t really finish that thought. This dude on TV is living in a mansion, getting a massage from a former Playboy Bunny. I’m sprawled atop a hand-me-down couch in a shitty apartment, smelling like an onion’s cunt.
You watch some SportsCenter. Peace for one hour.
You skip past MTV TRL. Our poor wasted youth will NEVER have the proper musical background to start a revolution much like Kurt Cobain did. Kids today… they wouldn’t know rock & roll if Slash grabbed a guitar and broke it over their heads. And let me say this: Anyone who likes techno music is hereby barred from reading my blog. Shame on you, you wanna-be Euro trash.
You settle on ESPN and head to the computer to write.
You get that call from your loan office. You owe some money. You say it is on the way. You feign surprise that they haven’t already received the check you haven’t yet mailed. You promise to call your bank immediately.
Headache slowly goes away so you can think. You start to feel a little better. In another hour, you just might be healthy enough to watch some porn and squirt out some spooge.
Then – without warning – the girl you’re banging calls your cell. She wants to know what ultra-dandy plans you’ve made for the weekend. Thinking quickly on your feet, you start to bullshit:
“Baby, we’re going to, um, that bar down the street from my apartment… then we’ll drink some, um, Boone’s Strawberry Wine and beer… um, maybe we’ll rent that Bruce Willis movie….”
“What!” she screams – instantly reviving your hangover. ”You SAID we were gonna do something SPECIAL!! You SAID we were going to figure out something BETTER than hanging out at your shitty little apartment with the toilet that doesn’t flush all the way!! My sister in Omaha – the one who married the SUCCESSFUL, HANDSOME lawyer – is ALWAYS doing better things than we are! But I guess HE really LOVES her!!”
“Oh, don’t be that way,” you sigh. “Hell, it was a rough week. I am working my ass off, but the shit isn’t paying off yet. I am doing the best I can to make things good for us, baby.”
Silence.
“So you are in a bad mood now?” you ask your precious bitch.
“I’ll call you back later.”
Ladies: You GOTTA give your man some space. Especially if he is a hustling, over-ambitious bastard like Mr. Nova. Shit ain’t always easy. Hell, shit is never easy. But fucking and connecting on some type of emotional level always leads to expectations. And you got to get RID of these expectations if you want to be with me. Just let things be. When I can give you the moon, I will. When I can rent a jet and travel the world in first class, you’ll be right by my side. But if all I can afford is a box of condoms and a bottle of Mad Dog, LET IT BE.
Don’t:
…expect me to call you right away.
…expect me to come through on everything.
…expect me to feel sympathy for any of your friend’s problems. They probably just tell you how much of an asshole I am anyway.
…expect me to be sober.
…expect me to give a shit about your sister in Omaha – or react positively to the not-so-subtle digs about her “successful lawyer husband.” I’ve MET her husband, and anyone with a pair of eyes can tell that he’s a repressed homosexual who’ll soon come out of the closet. And I can’t fuckin’ wait!
…expect me give you a diamond ring within the first two years of our courtship.
…expect me to take you out to dinner every fuckin’ night.
…expect me to write you a love song. Writing songs is not easy. There are too many bad songs – just like there are too many bad kids. (By the way, a quick memo to all you bitches with your legs spread wide: Just because you can have kids doesn’t mean you should. And to extend the metaphor, just because you can play guitar and sing doesn’t mean you have the cognitive capacity to create a masterpiece.) Maybe you ain’t worth a love song, bitch.
…expect me to CARE about everything.
But you can expect one thing from Mr. Nova: As long as my cock still functions, I will fuck you better than anyone in the world.
So give me some space. Cook me a nice dinner. Give me a backrub. Let me rub one out into your sweet mouth.
Ahhhhh… Much better.
Now you know a little more about how Nova-style works. Don’t expect anything and you will be Okay, ladies. I will surprise you along the way.
And you will love me… oh yes… you will.
The Drought
A desert is formed when the water seeps away from the land, thus rendering trees and plants dead. The roots decay underground and the soil erodes until nothing is left but sand… and the occasional cactus that has adapted to the non-fertile environment. The desert is the result, not the catalyst. It is formed because of man’s negligence and the cyclical fury of nature.
The same type of thing can happen to a man when he has not had pussy in a long, long time…
It is called The Drought.
Your Novanator has had a few droughts in his day. Some happened by choice, others because of house-arrest, and yet others because there was a lack of potential “Friends with Benefits” in my area. It isn’t a very fun thing to go through, particularly when one is used to a constant stream of sweet shaven snatch. When it happens a man must be prepared to withstand the storm (or lack thereof – as is most likely the metaphorical case).
So what can you do when The Drought kicks in? Let Mr. Nova lend you some advice…
1. Masturbate
Ain’t no shame in husking the cock-corn if you can’t line up some healthy ass. It is better than spending money on a whore – and healthier for you as well.
Releasing that pent-up sexual energy will make you feel better and reduce your risks for prostate cancer all at the same time. Think of it as killing two birds with one stone… while choking one chicken with one hand.
2. Save your money
I just told you that it was better to masturbate than spend money on a hooker. What to do with all of that saved loot? Build up your resources for when The Drought eventually ends and the “Friends with Benefits” show up again. You want to OPTIMIZE possible hook-up opportunities by having a nice bank at your disposal. Say you want to bang out some hot little cutie, but she wants to go out to dinner first? I know, it ain’t much fun forking over that cash to an over-priced restaurant, but it’s better not to sweat about whether your credit card is going to be declined or not.
3. Perfect your physical and mental well-being
During The Drought a man should strive to better himself in every way possible. Read up on some important events (or my blog), write down your experiences, workout those abs! If you need counseling, get it done quick before you start fucking again. A bitch doesn’t want to deal with YOUR inner problems. She wants YOU to deal with HER inner problems. Remember, it is better to be positive and constructive than lazy and destructive.
4. Drink and eat and watch TV
There is nothing wrong with downing a few cold beers, eating a few wings and flipping though some channels on the old idiot box. It is for your own well-being that you can still relax, even if you aren’t able to release jizz on some unsuspecting female’s face. Just make sure you always refer to item #3 – you need to workout if you want to have bad eating habits. Most bitches aren’t going to go for a guy that has Buffalo Wing-breath, a bad case of the beer farts AND is fat.
5. Write to your Novanator
Feel free to share your drought experiences with me. I am more than happy to provide useful insight to one of the worst things that can inflict a man. A drought can cause low-self esteem, paranoia and possible dementia. I want my Novanites to live long, happy and entertaining lives.
Remember: The desert is the result, not the catalyst. A man can survive The Drought if he chooses to come out of it stronger and ready to pound some sweet shaven snatch. Don’t let anything get you down, my Novanites.
Be a cactus. Adapt.
The same type of thing can happen to a man when he has not had pussy in a long, long time…
It is called The Drought.
Your Novanator has had a few droughts in his day. Some happened by choice, others because of house-arrest, and yet others because there was a lack of potential “Friends with Benefits” in my area. It isn’t a very fun thing to go through, particularly when one is used to a constant stream of sweet shaven snatch. When it happens a man must be prepared to withstand the storm (or lack thereof – as is most likely the metaphorical case).
So what can you do when The Drought kicks in? Let Mr. Nova lend you some advice…
1. Masturbate
Ain’t no shame in husking the cock-corn if you can’t line up some healthy ass. It is better than spending money on a whore – and healthier for you as well.
Releasing that pent-up sexual energy will make you feel better and reduce your risks for prostate cancer all at the same time. Think of it as killing two birds with one stone… while choking one chicken with one hand.
2. Save your money
I just told you that it was better to masturbate than spend money on a hooker. What to do with all of that saved loot? Build up your resources for when The Drought eventually ends and the “Friends with Benefits” show up again. You want to OPTIMIZE possible hook-up opportunities by having a nice bank at your disposal. Say you want to bang out some hot little cutie, but she wants to go out to dinner first? I know, it ain’t much fun forking over that cash to an over-priced restaurant, but it’s better not to sweat about whether your credit card is going to be declined or not.
3. Perfect your physical and mental well-being
During The Drought a man should strive to better himself in every way possible. Read up on some important events (or my blog), write down your experiences, workout those abs! If you need counseling, get it done quick before you start fucking again. A bitch doesn’t want to deal with YOUR inner problems. She wants YOU to deal with HER inner problems. Remember, it is better to be positive and constructive than lazy and destructive.
4. Drink and eat and watch TV
There is nothing wrong with downing a few cold beers, eating a few wings and flipping though some channels on the old idiot box. It is for your own well-being that you can still relax, even if you aren’t able to release jizz on some unsuspecting female’s face. Just make sure you always refer to item #3 – you need to workout if you want to have bad eating habits. Most bitches aren’t going to go for a guy that has Buffalo Wing-breath, a bad case of the beer farts AND is fat.
5. Write to your Novanator
Feel free to share your drought experiences with me. I am more than happy to provide useful insight to one of the worst things that can inflict a man. A drought can cause low-self esteem, paranoia and possible dementia. I want my Novanites to live long, happy and entertaining lives.
Remember: The desert is the result, not the catalyst. A man can survive The Drought if he chooses to come out of it stronger and ready to pound some sweet shaven snatch. Don’t let anything get you down, my Novanites.
Be a cactus. Adapt.
16 Gets You 20
Me and a friend were checking out this sweet young cutie’s delectable, apple-shaped ass. She had these tight black jeans on that showcased some of the sweetest curves I had seen in quite sometime. Damn if she didn’t make the Nova-jang want to pop out and play like a psychotic hand-puppet. She turned her head to look at something and I noticed that she was a lot younger than I originally thought. I could tell that underneath all of that makeup and lip gloss was a teenage girl trying to get some attention. The Novanator came to his senses and the Nova-jang died down.
“Damn if they don’t keep looking older and better all of the time. They didn’t dress like THAT when I was in high school,” I said in amazement.
My friend, on the other hand, didn’t care that this pretty young thing was barely 16. He wanted to go up and lay down some game. He turned to me with a serious face and said, “Mr. Nova, would you bang her out if an opportunity presented itself?”
I laughed. Then I thought about it for a moment: Could I use my Nova-style and get away with it? I came to my senses again, knowing full well that even for me it would be a bad idea. “Look,” I said, “she may seem like a playful little fuck-bunny, but deep down inside she is still a confused teenager. Sure, you might get a chance to fuck her, probably because she wants to piss off her parents and make her friends jealous. But what if someone found out? What if she suddenly decided that ‘Hey, this guy is taking advantage of my sweet little innocence! I think I should tell Daddy so he can call the cops and make a report. I don’t think I washed out that T-shirt I used to clean up the cum he spurted on my face. Daddy, can that be used as evidence?’ Then in court the judge will stare you down and pass a sentence, sticking you in a pen with Julio and his five fingers. No way, dude! Remember this lesson: 16 will get you 20.”
“20 what, Nova?” my dense, horny friend asked.
“20 years, my Novanite. In prison.”
He looked disturbed. I think he really wanted to pound this girl – no matter what. I had to impart some wisdom on this pent-up lad so he wouldn’t do something stupid and ruin the rest of his life.
“Ok,” I said. “It’s as plain as the vein in my shlong that you want her ass. Well, I have a way for you to get it.”
“How is that, Nova?”
“She looks 16, right? Well, put her on what I like to call the Two Year Plan.”
A bright light bulb suddenly shone over his thick skull. “That is a great idea, Mr. Nova!”
I put my hand on his shoulder and said to him in true Jedi master fashion: “You have just taken your first step into a larger world.”
“So what do I do now?” he asked.
“First thing I would do is become friends with her. Make her feel like you are the Cool Older Guy. Then she will start to dig you. She might become attracted to you because you’re different from the acne-faced douches she sees in high school. Get her e-mail address and start chatting with her online. That is a safe way to do it; she’ll feel comfortable. Just don’t mention anything about sex – EVER! After awhile she will come forward saying she wants to take the Wet Willy Ride. Once this happens, have a little talk with her. Explain to her the consequences of what will happen if you two do it. She’ll eventually understand. Then you give her your contact information and say ‘Hey baby, give me a call in two years.’ She’ll believe you to be the coolest dude on the planet and remember you no matter which stupid high school senior fucks her in the meantime. She will always dream about the cock that got away.”
“Damn, Nova! That is a great idea! You are truly a God amongst men.”
I gave an understanding smile. “I know, my young apprentice. Now go and talk to her right now, with the power of Nova-style on your side!”
Well, the kid went over… and got rejected. As I knew he would. See, there’s no such thing as a failsafe Two Year Plan. Sure… it might work every once and awhile. It might even work half the time. But if you succumb to temptation just once – 16 gets you 20. Like Poppa Nova used to say, “If you hang around the barbershop long enough, eventually you’ll get a haircut. And if you fuck around with underage girls long enough, eventually your ass will land in jail – and you’ll be getting conjugal visits from some black dude you don’t want one from! Now bring me my whisky, you worthless little kid.”
Good times.
“Damn if they don’t keep looking older and better all of the time. They didn’t dress like THAT when I was in high school,” I said in amazement.
My friend, on the other hand, didn’t care that this pretty young thing was barely 16. He wanted to go up and lay down some game. He turned to me with a serious face and said, “Mr. Nova, would you bang her out if an opportunity presented itself?”
I laughed. Then I thought about it for a moment: Could I use my Nova-style and get away with it? I came to my senses again, knowing full well that even for me it would be a bad idea. “Look,” I said, “she may seem like a playful little fuck-bunny, but deep down inside she is still a confused teenager. Sure, you might get a chance to fuck her, probably because she wants to piss off her parents and make her friends jealous. But what if someone found out? What if she suddenly decided that ‘Hey, this guy is taking advantage of my sweet little innocence! I think I should tell Daddy so he can call the cops and make a report. I don’t think I washed out that T-shirt I used to clean up the cum he spurted on my face. Daddy, can that be used as evidence?’ Then in court the judge will stare you down and pass a sentence, sticking you in a pen with Julio and his five fingers. No way, dude! Remember this lesson: 16 will get you 20.”
“20 what, Nova?” my dense, horny friend asked.
“20 years, my Novanite. In prison.”
He looked disturbed. I think he really wanted to pound this girl – no matter what. I had to impart some wisdom on this pent-up lad so he wouldn’t do something stupid and ruin the rest of his life.
“Ok,” I said. “It’s as plain as the vein in my shlong that you want her ass. Well, I have a way for you to get it.”
“How is that, Nova?”
“She looks 16, right? Well, put her on what I like to call the Two Year Plan.”
A bright light bulb suddenly shone over his thick skull. “That is a great idea, Mr. Nova!”
I put my hand on his shoulder and said to him in true Jedi master fashion: “You have just taken your first step into a larger world.”
“So what do I do now?” he asked.
“First thing I would do is become friends with her. Make her feel like you are the Cool Older Guy. Then she will start to dig you. She might become attracted to you because you’re different from the acne-faced douches she sees in high school. Get her e-mail address and start chatting with her online. That is a safe way to do it; she’ll feel comfortable. Just don’t mention anything about sex – EVER! After awhile she will come forward saying she wants to take the Wet Willy Ride. Once this happens, have a little talk with her. Explain to her the consequences of what will happen if you two do it. She’ll eventually understand. Then you give her your contact information and say ‘Hey baby, give me a call in two years.’ She’ll believe you to be the coolest dude on the planet and remember you no matter which stupid high school senior fucks her in the meantime. She will always dream about the cock that got away.”
“Damn, Nova! That is a great idea! You are truly a God amongst men.”
I gave an understanding smile. “I know, my young apprentice. Now go and talk to her right now, with the power of Nova-style on your side!”
Well, the kid went over… and got rejected. As I knew he would. See, there’s no such thing as a failsafe Two Year Plan. Sure… it might work every once and awhile. It might even work half the time. But if you succumb to temptation just once – 16 gets you 20. Like Poppa Nova used to say, “If you hang around the barbershop long enough, eventually you’ll get a haircut. And if you fuck around with underage girls long enough, eventually your ass will land in jail – and you’ll be getting conjugal visits from some black dude you don’t want one from! Now bring me my whisky, you worthless little kid.”
Good times.
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