Gold Diggers

“First you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the women.”

—Tony Montana, Scarface

“First you tell them you have money, then you act like you have power, then you hit it – quit it – and say you wasn’t with it!”

—Mr. Nova

Mr. Nova is not the richest man in the world. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I wasn’t even born with a wooden spoon in my mouth. I started working at age 14. I have a piece of shit station wagon with 111,000 miles on it. I am not materialistic in any way, shape or form. My only hobbies are fucking beautiful women and drinking beer. Unfortunately, one of the two is much more expensive than the other. A pitcher of shitty domestic beer is only about $8. A night out with a woman can foreclose an entire bank account.

So how do I do it? How do I bag countless babes without being a movie star, a politician with a cigar, an athlete, or a rapper with a phat car?

Confidence. Just like Wolverine says: “I am the best there is at what I do.”

When women see confidence… they are DRAWN to it, like a moth to a flame, or a pyro to a Zippo. The bitches can’t help it. I’ll give you an example: Two guys walk into a bar. They’re both about the same weight and height. They’re both fairly good looking – but not male models, by any stretch of the imagination. Guy #1 shoves some drunken clod out of his way, steals a seat at the bar, yells out an order of Jack & Coke, sees a hot piece of ass fiddling with a cigarette, and suavely offers her a light.

The other guy sticks his hands in his pocket, looks at the ground, waits in line for the bartender, and asks for a strawberry daiquiri.

Now, which one of the two is gonna walk home with a woman?

You’re goddamn right.

Plus, Mr. Nova likes to lie. A LOT. And women BELIEVE him. He especially likes to lie to women known as Gold Diggers. You know these women – they’re looking for an ATM with a penis. And their vag only accepts American Express Platinum.

Well, I can play the part… even if my ATM has an “Out of Order” sign stuck to the center screen. And lest you think, “Aw! That’s not nice Mr. Nova – lying to girls like that!” you gotta remember that Gold Diggers BY DEFINITION are liars! They PRETEND to love you for who you are… but actually only care about how many digits you’ve got on your bank statement. Hey, you’ve heard of preemptive war, right? Y’know, the strategy that worked so wonderfully in Iraq? Well, this is preemptive lying. And I do this to defuse the Gold Digger’s weapons of mass testicular destruction.

These bitches think that I’m confident because I’m a hot-shot, big-time, money-making asshole. And I do nothing to correct their horrendous miscalculation. I lead them on, letting these shallow cunts believe that I’m worth more than I am. It gets them so wet when they feel that I might be their passport to a Mercedes in the garage and a beach house in San Diego. Of course, what I’m really setting this particular group of women up for is what I like to call Nova-Vengeance. I do it for all the fellas who got dicked-out of money by some money-hungry broad.

To enact revenge I like to pick a bar about thirty miles away from where I live. I dress really nice in the one suit I own. Then I get a little drunk at the bar, start playing with a $20 cigar, and begin eyeing the preening chic that’s attracted this brand of Nuevo-yuppie cocksucker. This exchange usually happens:

“Mr. Nova, I want to fuck sooooo baddddd… Let’s take your new Jaguar convertible for a spin and then head back to your beachside penthouse!”

“Ah baby… I would love to… but I have had a lot to drink and I gotta go to a meeting in the morning. I am probably going to take a cab home – and besides, I wouldn’t want to put you in danger by drivin’ drunk.”

“But I LOOOVE danger, Mr. Nova!”

“And I love that sweet ass you got, but I don’t want to put it at risk just because I’ve had a few too many. ‘Sides, one of those DUIs could cost me my rep.”

“Ok…”

“Look, I gotta seal the deal with these bastards from New York… hey, I need a little something that will give me the edge tomorrow, put me in a great mood so I can get this million dollar account. Let’s head to the bathroom and fool around.”

“But the bathroom… c’mon, I’ll drive. My apartment is right around the corner…”

“Baby, you are more wasted than I am. Let’s just go back there and you can give me a blowjob so I can remember you better… And I PROMISE, I’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning and take you out for lobster, martinis, and caviar tomorrow night. Play your card right, sweet-tits, and I’ll buy you a car.”

It works! Then, post-hummer, you watch her as she goes to the ladies room to “freshen-up.” And as she disappears from view, you turn and run outside to your piece of shit station wagon and bounce. She returns to the bar and discovers that Mr. Nova Moneybags is history – and Little Miss Gold Digger is stuck with the $80 bar tab! HA! Nova rules!

This is how a player does it, boys and girls. If Mr. Nova ever sees the girl again, he just says he was too drunk, stumbled outside and hailed a cab. Unfortunately, he lost her number when the maid did the wash.

It is so easy. So fucking easy. These bitches are too blinded by their pursuit of money to notice the finer details of the Nova-orchestrated conspiracy. There’s no mark easier than a greedy mark.

Dumb bitches.

So Gold Diggers beware: Even if you figure me out – I still got what I wanted. You’ll get nothing from me but a smile and a middle finger. And that middle finger smells like sweet, hot gold-digging snatch…