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...