The Novaverse

16 Gets You 20 comic adaptation Page 1

2009-12-21T18:24:00.000-08:00

The Trials of Peyote, Part 3 of 3: The Passion of The Wagga

2009-06-16T16:29:00.000-07:00

The Wagga, the Indian shaman known as He Who Passes Much Wind, and your humble Novantor were sitting around a fire, inside a teepee… in the middle of the desert.

“How long does this stuff take to work?”

“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.

“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”

Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.

Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.

It was not the wisest idea.

25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.

“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”

My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.

“Get a hold of yourself!”

“I gotta puke, mon!”

The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.

“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”

“The journey into what?” I asked.

The shaman smiled.

“Into the Novaverse.”

It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.

I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.

As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.

“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”

“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”

“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.

“It must’ve been the peyote!”

It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…

But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.

A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.

“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”

“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”

We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.

The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.

“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.

“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.

“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.

“Word,” another disciple confirmed.

“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.

The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.

“Who is this, Wagga?”

“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”

There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.

“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”

“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”

The men laughed.

“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.

“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.

“My words? Destroyed?”

I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.

It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…

“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”

I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.

“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.

“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.

I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.

“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”

Johnson grew grim.

“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.

“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”

The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.

“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.

“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”

“But they worship me!”

“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.

The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.

“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.

“Thanks, mon.”

We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.

It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.

At one point one of the disciples had to leave.

“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.

“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.

“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”

“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.

I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:

“Bring on the bitches!”

At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…

As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.

“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”

The young lady shrugged here shoulders.

I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.

“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.

“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.

I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.

I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.

After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!

“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.

The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.

Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.

“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.

“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.

What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”

“After him!”

I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…

…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.

Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…

Then I woke up.

I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.

“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.

I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.

In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.

“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”

“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”

He stopped running and looked down at himself.

“Why am I naked?” he asked.

“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”

“Was it real?”

“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”

The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.

“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.

“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”

“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”

The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…

The Trials of Peyote, Part 2 of 3: Varmint Man

2009-05-14T16:24:00.001-07:00

After two days of driving and two nights of hard drinking, The Wagga and I crossed the Texas border in search of the mysterious shaman known only as:

HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND

We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.

The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.

“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.

“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”

Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.

“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”

I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.

“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”

Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”

Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.

“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”

Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.

“There will be no need for that.”

I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.

“This a bribe, son?”

“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”

“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”

The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.

“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.

We knew immediately who it was.

“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.

“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”

“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.

“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”

“You’re a fucking superhero!”

“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.

The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.

“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”

“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”

But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.

“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”

He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.

“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.

“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.

“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”

I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”

He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.

“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”

We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.

The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…

The Trials of Peyote, Part 1 of 3: The Quest Begins

2009-04-30T16:20:00.001-07:00

“It’s called peyote, the Divine Cactus!” The Wagga proclaimed gleefully.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”

The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!

“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."

I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?

“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”

The Wagga let out a grin.

“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”

“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”

“You have been a little uptight these days.”

“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”

“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”

Ah yes, I did know.

“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”

The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.

“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.

“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”

I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.

“What do with have to do?” I asked.

“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”

“Texas?”

I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.

“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.

“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”

He let out a sigh.

“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”

I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.

“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”

“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”

Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.

So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…

One Thousand Dollars

2009-04-20T01:02:00.001-07:00

Mr. Nova was going through a bad period a few years ago. It was at the height of my drinking and drug-use days, a real dark time for the Novanator. I was seeing this little 19-year-old redhead. All she cared about was getting high and trying to fuck with Mr. Nova's head. The dumb bitch thought she could destroy my life with her feminine wiles and sinister ways. Little did she know that Mr. Nova has no emotions or life left to destroy, just beliefs and memories. But still, tempt me she did—in a way so shocking and demented, I feel obligated to share with you what I experienced.

She had this identical twin sister. Imagine two red-haired, big-titted look-a-likes, cute as hell, sick and depraved! These young twins had a strange relationship with each other. It was like they were in love. They would hold hands while watching movies! They would even give each other little kisses. I have never seen anything like it before, my brothers. I know we have all read about things like this in magazines, heard stories from rock artists, dreamt about it in our most private fantasies…

But this was REAL! Maybe because they were twins, they figured that touching the other was no different than masturbating. I didn't understand the dynamics of their relationship. I didn't understand their mentality. All I knew was that me likes it. Me likes it a lot.

On one strange day, my girl and I were talking.

"So, your sister and you are very close."

"Yeah… would you pass the joint?"

"I noticed you two cuddled up together watching the Mary Kay and Ashley special. I thought that was sweet. "

"Yeah… we like to watch stuff together." She took a hit and zoned out. Then she came back to reality for a second. "You hungry, Mr. Nova?"

"Nah, I am fine. By the way, I saw you two kiss."

"You like that? You sick man."

She started laughing. A really strange, shriek-like laugh. She sounded like a cheetah getting castrated with a broken Coke bottle.

"You two have never… you know? Done… stuff with each other? "

"Fucked? No… but there was this one guy who offered my sister and me $1,000 to do each other in front of him. "

Suddenly she had my complete and undivided attention. A nuclear bomb could've exploded in the backyard and I wouldn't have moved from the sofa. " What happened?"

"He didn't actually have the money," she said.

"So… what if he did have the money? Would you have done it? "

"Oh, yeah! Hell yeah! My sister wanted to do it, too. I told her I would buy a strap on and fuck her better than anyone ever. And she likes to fuck, too. I would lick her shaved pussy and finger her until she came all over herself. Then I would bite her nipples and spank her and make sweet love to her over and over again. "

I sat there dumbfounded. This was some crazy inbred shit—and I loved it! It must be illegal as well… but y'know, when you're smoking dope on a Thursday afternoon, you really don't care about the law. I just couldn't believe she was being so matter-of-fact about fucking her sister! It was like, " I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing with puppies, opening my presents on Christmas morning, and incestuous lesbian relationships with my twin. Please pass the mashed potatoes. "

I tried to play it cool. "Well, why not do it for free—if you love her so much?"

"Oh, it would be a one time only thing. I figure if money was involved it would make it even better. But we won't do it for less than One Thousand Dollars. A girl must have her standards, Mr. Nova." Say what? Standards?! A whore is a whore. Fucking for money is fucking for money. But of course, I kept this to myself… no need to ruin our relationship by being honest. Honesty and relationships go together like fire and gasoline—one destroys the other.

The next day I went through my bank accounts. I didn't have anywhere close to $1,000… so I had to be creative. Over the next two weeks, I cashed in my government bonds and sold off some expensive items I had shoplifted over the past few years. I stole my brother's TV and sold it on eBay. I even asked for an advance from the editors at www.LastStory.com.

"Fuck off, Mr. Nova! You know we can't give you company money to spend on prostitution!" my editor said. I tried to argue with him that the money was for a column—and I'd let him watch. But the stupid prude wouldn't budge. The bastard.

At the end of two weeks I manage to borrow, steal, swipe, swindle, and leverage together one thousand dollars.

"Ok, I have it!" I told my 19-year-old redheaded girlfriend.

She was stoned. "What do you have? Chocolate? Chocolate is like, cool and stuff."

"The $1,000! Don't you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? How you'd let me watch you fuck your sister for $1,000? "

"Oh, well my sister just got engaged a couple of days ago. I don't think she can do it anymore."

I sat there with a blank look in my eyes.

She smiled. "I am sorry… I wanted it to happen more than you did, Mr. Nova. Hee, hee! That would've been pretty cool. Ha, ha. Do you have any more pot? "

I broke up with her and went home. I never talked to her again. Last I heard she was in rehab after a bout with some bad PCP. I don't know what happened to her sister. Crazy bitches. They left me hanging on what could have been the best Mr. Nova story ever…

…Unless I can find me some triplets.

$45: A Mr. Nova Adventure

2009-04-14T19:52:00.001-07:00

Mr. Nova won’t pay for sex. It is not in his nature. I tried to do it (once) when I was 17. In fact, I actually handed over $100 to a prostitute in Atlantic City who looked good—but smelled like a strange combination of feces and sperm. But I couldn’t get Little Nova up for the dirty whore. My wanker doesn’t like the fact that I have to give up hard earned money for a piece of low-quality ass. Hell, with my ego, I believe these sluts should be paying me!

That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…

“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”

“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.

“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”

“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”

I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.

It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.

“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”

“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”

“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”

I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.

He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.

We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.

“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”

Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.

“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”

I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.

We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.

“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.

“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”

I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.

“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”

He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.

After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”

“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.

On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.

“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”

The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.

Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!

Mr. Nova's update 2.24.28

2009-02-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

Your Novanator is slowly crawling back from the depths of a binary coma. I hope to recount exactly what happened at the end of 2004 for my Novanites someday soon. What transpired in the following years almost caused my demise at the hands of The Grim Reaper. Until then, Nova needs love on TWITTER.

The College Years, Part V: 6:00 a.m. in the Morning...

2009-02-06T11:26:00.000-08:00

The kegs were kicked and the party was winding down at the ZAP House. Most of the partiers had either staggered back home, or found places to pass out – be it in on couches, the floor, or inside of a coed’s vagina. Your Novanator, as usual, was reviewing his options for carnal debauchery:

“Ok, you – the red-head with the tiny tits and great ass. Why should the Big Novowski choose YOU as his hook-up partner?” I demanded.

Tiny-Tits Red giggled. “You should choose me ‘cause I want you to join my threesome! Tee-hee!”

This sounded promising. “Very good, my Novaslut. Who’s the other bitch that’ll be joining us?”

Tiny-Tits mischievously grinned. “Who says the other person has to be a female? Would you ever join a threesome with one girl and another GUY?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “But only if I get to fuck the girl first – the other guy ain’t in the room with me at the time – and I can leave when I’m done to eat my sandwich.”

“That – that’s not what I want!” pouted Tiny-Tits.

“I really give a shit, Flatty. Dismissed!”

Tiny-Tits stormed off. Who the fuck did she think she was anyway?

Next in line: “You – the brunette with the monster jugs and the nose piercings – what do YOU have to offer the Novanator?”

Monster Jugs lipped her lips. “Oh, baby! I wanna massage your back and suck your dick ALL NIGHT LONG! I wanna sleep with your dick in my mouth, sucking away like it’s a pacifier!”

Interesting. “So far, so good,” I admitted.

And then she smiled at me. Crap! She had a mouth full of braces. No fucking WAY I’m gonna let my stain-stick sleep on the railroad tracks.

“Sorry, Juggy, but I can’t risk a puncture wound on the Novacock. Call me when your mouth is de-wired.” Monster Jugs burst into tears and ran away. Must’ve been her time of the month, or something.

And right there – as Allah is my witness – the most AMAZING blonde walked before me. Huge tits, an iron-hard stomach, and a perfectly round ass. Her legs stretched forever and her lips sparkled with pre-sperm goodness. I nearly shot a load in my pants.

“Hi, Mr. Nova!” she purred… in a strange accent that I couldn’t quite place. “I’ve heard so much about you! And I’d like for you to take me home and fuck me proper! Not only that, but I want you to fuck my new friend, too!” She pointed to another babe who was staring shyly at the floor, but DEFINITELY sneaking a peak at my package. Whoa – it was the bass player’s girlfriend! And everyone told me that she was a stuck-up bitch!

Strange…

But hey, who am I to argue? A fuck-fest is a fuck-fest. And that blonde – she was hotter than Oprah’s thong after running the Boston Marathon. Hotter than Satan’s pitchfork in late July.

As everyone knows, the Novanator has nailed THOUSANDS of sluts throughout the years, but I don’t think I had EVER nailed anyone sexier than that blonde. Imagine Jessica Alba – but with blonde hair… and a better body… bigger tits… a better ass… Caribbean blue eyes… and an insatiable expression of lust splashed across her face.

“Alright, Blondie. You got yourself a deal!” I took her by the hand, and we all walked back to the bass player’s girlfriend’s apartment. (And that girlfriend, by the way, walked behind us without ever saying a word – just like an obedient robot. I felt like a sexual pied piper… but was it MY skin-flute she was following? Or something else?)

We entered the abode and Blondie immediately dove for my richard. “Calm the fuck down!” I said, pushing her off. My bladder was bursting at the seams. “Wait right here. Just start kissing each other, or something. Nova has got to take an angry piss.” Ain’t I a romantic?

“Ok Nova, but hurry back,” they said in unison, like a pair of sexually-connected twins. I looked back when I reached the bathroom door and saw that they were locked in a passionate lezzie embrace. Tongues were jousting. It was a glorious sight. I hoped that soon some spanking would commence.

With a smile on my face I went into the bathroom and proceeded to urinate. Almost immediately, I started to feel a voice calling to me from beyond:

“Nova, you’ve done it!” Nova SX exclaimed from his distant homeworld. “By pissing so much a second time, you have knocked the transmission between our universes back into alignment! Seriously, though, I do think you might have an infection. When was the last time you drank some cranberry juice?”

“Shut up!” I shouted. “I am getting ready to bang out these crazy bisexual bitches I just met! And stop staring at my unit while I’m pissing!” I was getting so frustrated with this meddling interplanetary voice that I was pissing all over the place – spraying the bathroom floor like an out-of-control fire hose. The bass player’s girlfriend’s collection of Cosmopolitan magazines was drenched in my acid urine. Countless perfume ads were surely ruined. I redirected my stream and finished up.

“Nova, are you Ok in there?” Blondie inquired.

“Yeah, just give me a minute!” I said in an uncharacteristically agitated tone. “Go back to kissing, you whores!”

Then the strangest thing happened: Nova SX appeared in the bathroom mirror. He seemed happy that he had discovered a way to contact me visually.

“Greetings, Nova! It is me, Nova!”

“Dammit! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Well, if that is accurate, then this looks like the correct place to have done it. Should I give you time to clean up?”

“No, you didn’t literally scare it out of me! It is a figure of speech on this planet,” I explained to him.

This was getting very strange. The ladies were waiting and I was having a conversation with my parallel self through the bathroom mirror.

“Nova, I have come to warn you!”

“Again? You gonna tell me that I’m in danger again, or something? Look, the only danger I faced tonight was from an angry horde of drunken students who wanted to kill my friend Dick ‘cause he wouldn’t vacate the bathroom and let ‘em piss. That was it.” Dammit, I was drunk, angry, and horny for a threesome. Not the best combination. But do you know what is a GREAT combination? Turkey, pepper-jack cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, onions, green peppers, pickles, and jalapeno peppers – on a Kaiser roll. Oh, baby! Maybe after I bang these broads I can talk one of ‘em into making me a sandwich…

“No, the danger has yet to pass, Brother Nova,” he said through the mirror. I wanted to punch his stupid blue face. He looked like a Smurf version of me.

“Look, as long as my cock still functions I will bang out hot shaven snatch across the globe. Now leave me alone, you interfering blue-faced bastard. You are the worst cock-blocker I have ever met, or talked to, or communicated with through a cosmic channel. Listen, we’ll discuss this tomorrow. I got to bang them out now!”

“There won’t be a tomorrow if you go back in there,” he ominously warned. “Examine those bitches closely. Does anything seem a tad askew? Is one of the bitches acting as if she’s under a mind control trance and acting out of character? And does the other bitch seem as if she doesn’t quite fit the profile of your typical college frat-slut?”

I then experienced a moment of great clarity. “Wait a minute. One of those chics is the sub-dimensional bounty hunter you warned me about! Isn’t she? The blonde, right?” Blondes always want to kill me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I laugh at ‘em if their drapes don’t match their carpet. (It’s false advertising, dammit.)

“I didn’t want to say...”

“I get it now, you evasive fuck! Why couldn’t you just tell me out right?!”

Nova SX looked grim. (Well, as grim as anyone could look through a cosmic channel relayed through a bathroom mirror.) “I had to let you find out by yourself. If I had told you at first, you wouldn’t believe me – and then it would be too late. But the cosmos knows about you, Nova. It wants you gone. Why do you think the police stole your Ultimate Pleasure Device? Why do you think you have already had visits from the Grim Reaper?”

“You know about that bitch?”

“Yes, Nova. She can cross the cosmic divide to ALL universes. I have outwitted her five times already. I fear, though, that the next time she will take me.”

“Yeah, she does suck,” I sympathetically said. “She’s got nice tits, though.”

“Nova, listen to me. The cosmos has many agents at its disposal. I am public enemy number one – constantly on the run and never at peace. And because I’ve proven that Novas possess the unique, godlike power of 100% sexual pleasure, all Novas are at risk! And you especially, for your genetic composition most closely resembles that of my own. Blondie over there plans on capturing your ass and taking you back to my planet as her sex slave. And stop smiling! Being a sex slave is no fun in my universe. You’ll be forced to fuck old fat women. So if you value your freedom, you MUST evade her sinister clutches!”

“How do I do that?” I asked. My worst fear was losing my freedom (just after my fear of knocking some girl up, losing control of my bowels on a first date, and clowns). On planet earth, male freedom was forfeited via monogamy – but now, my freedom was threatened by something decidedly intergalactic.

The girls were really getting impatient in the other room. “GET BACK IN HERE AND FUCK US, YOU BASTARD!” they shouted. And you know, they made a compelling argument. Blondie was REALLY, REALLY hot.

“Don’t go back in there,” Nova SX pleaded. “As for how to escape, you must exploit her weaknesses. Remember, she is from my world – and as I told you in the Novaverse, on my planet, the men have one testicle and the women have two clits.”

“I understand,” I said, bowing my head in low homage.

“Good luck, Brother Nova. Until our next meeting...” And then Nova SX disappeared from the bathroom mirror.

I walked out into the room where the two girls lay in wait. They had already stripped down to their bras and panties, and were wrapping their legs around each other like good little lesbians.

“Come to bed Nova,” Blondie cooed seductively. She twirled the hair of the musician’s girlfriend. The Novacock was fighting like an angry black man for the lack piece of fried chicken, literally BEGGING me to let him out of my drawers and into the female honey pot. But was I strong enough to keep him in check? It was like tugging on a marlin at high sea.

I walked over to the couch. Bam! I bitch-slapped the FUCK out of the musician’s girlfriend with the back of my hand – knocking her ass out of the couch and unconscious atop the floor. Now, just for the record, it ain’t Nova-style to beat-up women – not even when they burn one of my sandwiches – but this was for her own good. If she was under a mind control spell, then her life was in jeopardy. Knocking the cunt out was a necessary precaution.

Alarmed, Blondie scooted over in the couch. “Nova, why the hell did you do that?!”

“Calm down, Sugar-Britches – that’s how we swing on earth. There’s something I need to show you…” I unbuttoned my pants and whipped out the Nova-balls.

“My GOD,” she whispered. “TWO balls! I’ve… I’ve never seen anything like that!”

Of course she hadn’t. As Nova SX told me, on her planet, the guys are all uni-ball. But I still had a trump card to play: “There’s one thing else you haven’t seen. Slide open your legs, bitch.”

Blondie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You know who I am, don’t you? That bastard Nova SX must’ve somehow warned you of my mission, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. You fate is sealed, Earth Nova. We’ve studied Nova SX for a very long time. We know all his filthy secrets – from the Dirty Sanchez to the Donkey Punch to the Angry Pirate. He knows all the sexual tricks in the cosmos – and we know ALL he knows! There’s nothing you can do to evade my capture, foolish earthling. Your fate is sealed! You WILL be my prisoner!”

“If my fate is sealed, what do you have to lose?” I asked. “I’m unarmed.” I rolled up my sleeves and loosened my wrists. “Just humor me. Open your fucking legs!”

Maybe it was curiosity – or maybe it was overconfidence. Either way, Blondie parted her thighs and allowed the Novanator to work his magic.

I warmed up my fingers, cracking my knuckles a few times and shaking my joints loose. I only had one chance to get this right… or risk spending all my days fucking fat alien grannies.

Finally, I was ready for action! “Blondie,” I stated, “Nova SX is a very wise man. He knows much of the sexual arts. He knows more than me. But the one thing he doesn’t know – the one thing he COULDN’T know – is the ultimate technique invented by yours truly. You see, Blondie, I am the Master of the Hummingbird. The Hummingbird Technique overwhelms the clitoris of earth-babes, bringing them to the point of mind-numbing ecstasy. But earth girls only have ONE clit! Imagine what happens if I do the Hummingbird on a girl with TWO clits!”

Blondie looked confused – as if she didn’t quite understand her predicament. It didn’t matter. I slid over her panties and surveyed her twin clitorises. With both hands, I latched onto her clits and began working feverishly.

“OOOOHHH MMMYYY GOOOOODDDD!!!!!! WHAAAAAT ARRRRRE YOOOOU DOOOOOING TOOO MEEEEE!!!!!!” Blondie screamed. The pleasure cortex of her alien brain couldn’t handle the orgasmic rush. Trust me: The Humming Bird Technique KICKS THE FUCKING SHIT out of the Dirty Sanchez. It creates a feeling of such intense pleasure that the recipient’s mind loses its ability to engage in cognitive thought. In other words, it’s sort of like tequila – only more so.

And I didn’t stop. I kept the Hummingbird Technique going for one solid hour! Most one-clitted women can barely handle the Hummingbird for more than a few minutes. Imagine having TWO CLITS and feeling the wrath of the Hummingbird for an entire fucking hour!

By the time I finished, Blondie was a drooling, two-clittie invalid. Her brain was destroyed; her body reduced to jelly. Boogers were free-falling from her nose; drool poured from her mouth like a pedophile at Boy Scout camp.

The Big Novowski had escaped!

I high-tailed it back to my three-room apartment and tightly locked the door. Once in bed I crashed for a good 14 hours. I eventually awoke to the phone ringing. Dick was on the other line, telling me about how he left the ZAP House – but in his drunken, woozy state, he walked two miles in the wrong direction. A strange person took pity on him and drove him home. According to Dick, this person looked like me… only his face was blue. Could it be? Was that Nova SX?

I pretended to not know anything. I didn’t tell him about Nova SX, the Novaverse, interplanetary bounty hunters, or any of the other strange things I discovered.

“What did you do after I left?” Dick asked.

“I drank some beer, Dick. I drank some beer, rubbed a few clits, and called it a night…”

The College Years, Part IV: My Friend Dick Always Gets Me Into Trouble...

2009-02-05T04:40:00.000-08:00

“Nova-dude, will you get your buddy out of the bathroom?! Like, NOW!”

Slim Gene Cream, the 300-pound fraternity brother, was pissed off. Apparently, my friend Dick had locked himself in the lavatory. Worse yet, the drunken partygoers had no place to urinate except the sink (which was full of dirty dishes, dirtier panties, and even dirtier used condoms).

“If you don’t get him out, we’ll put the hurt on him – and then on YOU, MR. NOVA!” Slim said with his finger jabbing at me.

It was decided then. I didn’t want this behemoth finding a way to put me out of commission; I still had much work to do. Much snatch to pound.

“What happened? What he do to your frat?” I asked, opting to stall using the inquisitive approach.

“First of all, don’t EVER call my fraternity a ‘frat!’ I don’t call your country a ‘cunt,’ do I?! As for Dick, he knocked a beer off of a ledge when he was packin’ his smokes! Total party foul! Then that beer spilled all over the bass player’s girlfriend’s tits! She was always a stuck-up bitch and this made her face turn redder than a faggot’s asshole!”

I briefly pondered how Slim would know what a faggot’s asshole looked like, but thought better of asking that question. “Damn, that sounds major,” I empathetically conceded. “I can’t believe Dick would waste beer like that. So what made him go into the bathroom?”

Slim looked as if he was remembering a battle from long ago... like he had been on the frontlines as a Marine grunt during the Vietnam War, and was experiencing a flashback of the time Bob Hope shit his pants onstage during the USO tour. He just stared at the bathroom door and spoke as if narrating a movie: “He look embarrassed... but then he offered the stuck-up bitch his own shirt. It was a heroic gesture, but she gave him the meanest look I had ever seen. Then her boyfriend came over to see what was going on. She told the bass-playing dude to stand up for her. She showed the dork her beer-drenched shirt. Her nipples were all perky and hard and sticking out. He said to Dick, ‘That’s not cool, man.’ Dick then looked like he was going to puke. He pushed the unhappy couple out of the way and headed for the bathroom. After throwing out the occupant, he slammed the door shut behind him. He has been in there ever since.”

“When did this happen?”

“30 minutes ago, Nova. The people are getting angry. I don’t know how much longer their bladders can hold out!” Slim Gene Cream put his hand on my shoulder and in his most urgent tone said to me: “You must get him out of there or the consequences will be cataclysmic!”

I thought to myself that this 300-pound fraternity brother had a helluva vocabulary, especially for someone who just won a 15-team beer bong tournament and downed four shots of Jägermeister. I looked over at the bass player and his girlfriend, and saw that she was crying onto his shoulder. He looked dazed. Probably did some nasty drugs before his performance and really didn’t give a shit. Slim Gene Cream’s frat (oops, fraternity) brothers were flanking him – and giving me stern (but drunk) looks. I made my move.

“I will do my best, but the only way I know how: Nova-style, baby!”

I felt just like Jesus Christ, right before he escaped from the whale’s belly to slay Goliath. (Or whatever he did. Nova never went to Sunday School.) The people waiting in line gave me such looks of animosity that I actually feared for Dick’s life if he ever made it out of the poop-room. Guys and girls were squirming in their pants, desperately awaiting the chance to relieve the immense pain building up after consuming massive amounts of alcohol. One freshman girl was crying hysterically, with a gigantic yellow stain over the crotch of her jeans. I honestly didn’t know what the big deal was; between the balcony and the fish tank, there were plenty of places to take a leak.

I reached the bathroom door and lightly tapped on it. “Dick, come out... These people are starting to become angry. I don’t want to break up another mob.”

“My hand is stuck. And I’m drunk,” Dick said. He sure sounded pathetic. Why was his hand stuck?

“Why is you hand stuck?” I asked.

“I punched a hole in the wall. I got mad. I offered that bitch my shirt when I spilled all of that sweet beer on her. She wouldn’t take it. So I got mad and came in here. After I puked, I got so pissed I punched a hole in the wall!”

“Well let me in, you dumbass! I’ll help you get your hand out.”

I heard Dick sigh. “I am blocking the door. My hand is stuck right above the light switch. I am lucky I didn’t electrocute myself.”

“You are damn lucky! If you were to die that way it would be an electrocity!” I don’t think Dick got my joke. In fact, I was so drunk, I don’t even understand that joke. (It must be a play on words, or something.)

I had to think fast. The mob was starting to form. I didn’t want the Nova Bastille to fall and face death via the guillotine. I liked my heads, especially the one that has one eye and spits.

“Dick! Just grab some soap, lube your hand up, and pull it out really fast!”

“But it is gonna hurt!” he whined.

“Quit being a baby and fucking do it!” I commanded.

I heard some shuffling of feet and the faucet being turned on. He must have been getting the soap wet. There was a sound of fumbling and then something dropped to the floor.

“FUCK!” Dick yelled.

“You alright?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door to hear better.

The mob was swelling, getting closer. They were yelling at me to “Get him the fuck outa there!” I stayed focused.

I could hear Dick twisting his hand in the hole he made out of anger. “I’m ready,” he said.

I pulled away from the door. I held the mob at bay with my back to them and arms outstretched, ala Gandolf. Those people SHALL NOT pass!

“Alright, Dick! You can do it! Pull it out, buddy!” I exclaimed like any good coach would in a last-minute situation.

There was a loud “Ahhhhggggghhhhh!” and then a thump and a crash. The bathroom door swung open and Dick emerged with a bloody left hand. I ran forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out into the hallway and into safety.

The mob calmed down and went about the process of relieving their bladders. I went back in to tell Slim Gene Cream that everything was alright, explaining Dick’s unseemly behavior with an elaborate story about how he was actually a frickin’ retard. Nobody doubted a single word I said.

I looked around; Dick was nowhere to be seen. Where had my new friend gone? He needed to go to a hospital. Something had to be done.

How this epic tale ended is beyond Earthly comprehension...

The College Years, Part III: The Party of the Century

2009-02-04T09:12:00.000-08:00

Oh my Novanites, I had made it to the block party of the century! I had just survived an afternoon of heavy drinking and Buffalo Wing gorging. (Only extra-spicy for the Novanator – I ain’t no pussy.) Dick and I stumbled our way towards the party’s command center – located in a cookie-cutter apartment building. The whole complex surrounding the bash was buzzing with swarms of students huddling outside, holding plastic cups filled with frothy goodness.

It was a chore pushing people aside as we headed for our destination. The building was packed tighter than a Samoan fetus in the belly of a Japanese gymnast; people were so smooshed together that a babe in a miniskirt could be stripped of her panties and never once see her assailant. (At least, that’s what I was counting on. Nova RULES!) Our target was the fifth floor, room 508, the ZAP House. Their letters were spelled out in Christmas lights on the balcony.

Once they had been a powerful fraternity, but countless incidents of drunken mayhem (including pushing a professor’s car into a lake – while the professor was still IN the car) left them without an official charter or school recognition. Fuck, they didn’t even have a BUILDING anymore; the ZAP “House” was half-a-dozen apartment rooms that the fraternity brothers had rented. They were like a little guerrilla commando unit, working with the bare essentials and a tiny base of operations. Think of them as al-Kega. But they knew how to party, so that made them the kings of the campus.

One of the frat boys at the door demanded a $5 cover charge. I pretended like I was reaching for my wallet – and then kicked the dude squarely in the nuts and walked on in. Mr. Nova does NOT pay cover charges, my friends. We squeezed through the masses crowding the stairwell, avoided several freshmen puking their guts out (and a few girls whom I had bumped-and-dumped over the past few years). We made it to the ZAP House and saw that the crowd was pushed out into the hallway. A huge 300-pound bouncer named Slim Gene Cream asked Dick for the password.

“SX,” Dick said. His freshman roommate joined this fraternity and always kept Dick up to date with the password.

But I was thinking, “SX… this must be a sign.” The Mr. Nova from Universe SX was trying to contact me again through some type of code. SOMETHING was about to happen. I had to be ready for it. We were let into the apartment and were promptly handed a couple of beers by a nice, hot blonde piece of ass with huge tits and pointy nipples.

I don’t know how the ZAP boys managed it, but they crammed a local rock group into the corner of their apartment. People were stumbling over pedals and cables to get to the six kegs on the balcony. It was INSANE how much mayhem was being packed into such a small place. The band was wailing through a cover of Pearl Jam’s Alive when I finally got my message from Nova SX:

“Nova! Damn, your toxic piss has the power to break a cosmic channel! That’s never happened before. Seriously, dude – you might have an infection. Go see a doctor. I had to reroute my transmission through one of the guitar amps in this room! Now listen to me: I must warn you – your Nova-life is in great peril!”

“Danger?! From WHO?! Why can’t you leave me alone, you other-dimensional bastard!”

I spoke that last line out loud and in an agitated state. A few people standing next to me were a little concerned about my behavior. They were wondering why I was yelling out to seemingly no one. One guy asked me if I was Ok, so I kicked him in the nuts . Dude, I’m communicating with an alternate dimension, for fuck’s sake! I got no TIME for stupid questions. So I just kept drinking my beer like nothing happened. I headed out to the balcony and did a keg stand. When I came down to the floor and regained my balance, the alcohol hit my bloodstream harder than a Lexington Steele money shot.

It was then that I first entered the inner Novaverse:

My Novanites, it is a strange feeling, separating yourself from reality and opening a portal into the Novaverse. “What is the Novaverse,” you ask? It is the place where all Novas across the parallel universes can come together to exchange knowledge on an astral plane. It has no borders and cannot be fully described as an actual place – more like a surreal state of mind. As I went within and opened the portals, I found Nova SX leafing through a dog-eared copy of High Society magazine while resting a large book on his lap. He looked up as I entered.

“What took you so long?” he asked. He looked almost exactly like me, except his skin was blue.

“Well, I am at the party of the century, you meddling fucktard! Why do you keep bugging me? And what is up with that oversized book you have on your lap? …And when is it my turn to look at that High Society magazine?”

I paused for a moment and thought of something else: “Say, isn’t this a purely theoretical environment? So WHAT THE HELL are a magazine and a book doing here?! Besides, if you can bring earthly objects to the Novaverse, then I want some nachos, dammit!” I was pissed.

Nova SX softly chuckled. “If only you knew half of what I know, fellow Nova. This book contains EVERYTHING! All sexual knowledge from the known universes is recorded in these pages. Now it cannot leave here, lest the information infect the entire cosmos and set up a chain of events that could lead to the end of life as we know it. But you can glean from it while within the Novaverse. I have read all there is in here... and have learned of sexual techniques you couldn’t possibly comprehend!”

“Yeah? Like what,” I demanded.

“Well, have you ever heard of the Dirty Sanchez?” Nova SX smugly queried.

“Of course, dumbass. That’s when you stick your finger up the girl’s ass and draw a chocolate mustache underneath her nose. Been there, done that. And I know all about the Dirty Soon Chin as well, so don’t even bother.” (FYI, the Dirty Soon Chin is the same as the Dirty Sanchez – only you draw little gook eyelines with your brown finger tip, and then make the bitch do your laundry.)

“Well, fine, those were easy ones. How about the Donkey Punch?”

I yawned. “That’s when you’re banging the bitch from behind – and without warning, you punch her right in the back of the head. The sudden impact causes her sphincter to tighten and squeeze your Novacock nice and tight. This is basic shit, dude.”

Nova SX was getting agitated. “Alright, Einstein – how about the Angry Pirate?”

Your Novanator was stumped. “The Angry Pirate? What’s that?”

Victorious, Nova SX explained, “The Angry Pirate is when you shoot a load in the girl’s eye – and then you kick her hard in the shin! Half-blinded, she staggers around like an angry pirate!”

I had to admit, that one was pretty good. “Ok, I cede defeat. There’s still more for me to learn. But what’s that High Society magazine doing here?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s just so I can rub one out. You were taking forever to visit the Novaverse and I got bored.”

“You are fucking crazy,” I exclaimed. I was starting to feel uncomfortable… as well as hungry. Where were my nachos anyway? That’s the trouble with traveling to theoretical dimensions; there’s never anything good to eat.

“No, Nova, not crazy. It is more like I am exhausted – and constantly on the run. I’m the first Nova in the HISTORY of the cosmos to EVER gain the penile-power to produce 100% sexual pleasure in bitches. And an intergalactic conspiracy of female alien overlords will sacrifice ANYTHING to capture me.”

I was confused. “So… you’re tying to tell me that you’re a Scientologist? You mean – Tom Cruise is RIGHT?!”

Nova SX flapped his arms like a spastic chicken. “Quit being a fuckin’ idiot. Listen closely to me, Brother Nova: I’ve learned all there is to know about carnal bliss. With the knowledge imbedded in my mind, I can make any woman on my planet achieve orgasmic bliss in an instant. I’m a sexual GOD!”

“What about going to other worlds and conquering the sexual planes there?” I figured sex was like playing Super Mario World; you conquer one level and then move on to another.

He laughed. “You and I are the only Novas that are remotely human-looking! The Nova in Universe 698 is a twenty-foot tall reptile with a five-foot yoo-hoo! The females of that species would think of our shafts as tiny Tootsie Rolls compared to that beast!”

“Wild, dude. I guess it would be like being an Indian man here on earth. So other than the fact that you’re the color of a Smurf, the people on my planet and the people on yours are identical?”

“Not exactly,” replied Nova SX. “I have one ball, and our females have two clits. But you and I – we’re more similar than different. And if the female alien overlords cannot capture me as their sex-slave, they WILL come after YOU. Brother Nova, you have a price on your head, and sub-dimensional bounty hunters will surely try to collect the prize!”

“Uh, huh. Whatever happened to my nachos?”

It was at that instant that I was yanked out of the Novaverse by someone slamming my ass against the ZAP apartment wall. It was Slim Gene Cream.

“You gotta get your friend Dick out of here! He committed a TOTAL party foul!” the blimp-sized dude said.

Damn if I didn’t have business to take care of in the real world...

The College Years, Part II: The Path to the Novaverse

2009-02-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

Damn if I wasn’t drunk off $1 pitchers – and happy from 10 cent wings. Dick and I had just gorged on beer and food at a local watering hole, and were ready to hit the college party scene. As we stumbled down the street towards our destination, I could feel the twilight fill the sky. It was moments like these – drunk but still aware – when my mind was most dangerous… and open to telepathic communication.

That was when the Mr. Nova from Universe SX sent me a message across the cosmic channel:

“Nova! It is me! It is you! What up, homey?” his voice called from beyond.

At first I furiously shook my head, trying to shake these strange sounds out of my mind. I was getting freaked out. I popped open the emergency beer I always keep in my jacket pocket and pounded its sweet nectar, hoping it would make Nova SX go away. But it didn’t work. I tried not to let Dick notice that my counterpart from another universe was communicating with me… but who writes a handbook on how to keep your parallel self a secret anyway? I was in virgin territory, like the time I fucked that Miss Teen USA contestant.

“What’s wrong, Nova?” Dick asked.

“I… I gotta take a piss, Dick,” I babbled. “I am going to go behind this tree to squeeze the weasel. I gotta shake hands with Mr. Destiny. Gotta drain the main vein. Um… Be right back!”

Dick didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He just stood there in a drunken stupor and stared at a gaggle of giggling coeds. I went behind the tree and started to let Nova SX have it.

“Stop bugging me!” I yelled aloud to inter-dimensional Nova. “I don’t care that you ARE me! I have beer to drink and snatch to pound! Besides, you’re ripping off that ‘Bill & Ted’ movie! Do something original!”

Inside my mind he replied, “You don't have to shout, just use your thoughts, Brother Nova. I have something urgent to tell you...”

I realized that I was still pissing and lost my concentration. Man, that’s a LOT of piss. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, how much beer had I been drinking?! I must have let out a gallon of yellow liquid – at LEAST. Damn my bladder! I looked down and realized that the grass would die from my toxic urine. It STUNK too. It smelled like a Hindu outhouse. But there were no more voices in my head. Nova SX was gone from my mind...

I wondered what he was trying to warn me about. I stumbled up the embankment to rejoin Dick. He was lying down on the side of the road, half-asleep. I kicked him in the side.

“C’mon Dick! We’ve got snatch to find!”

He staggered up off the ground and we continued on towards the party. I sent a message out to Nova SX, hoping it would get to him. I don’t know how I did it; I just concentrated and looked within myself – within the inner Novaverse.

“Fellow Nova,” I said (thought): “I have long pondered if there were others like me. Men who had found a way to maximize pleasure with the ladies. You have found me and I want to know more about other Novas across space and time – but tonight is not the night to wax philosophical about the Great Beyond! Tonight is the night to get drunk and get laid!”

Even though I remained your confident Novanator – ready to drink and score with beautiful bitches – Nova SX’s sense of urgency still weighed heavy in the back of my mind. What did it mean? Can an alternate reality really exist? Do all Novas share one soul, or are we all uniquely part of God’s divine plan?

And how do I get the piss stains out of Levi’s?

The College Years, Part I: Making Friends

2009-02-01T06:53:00.001-08:00

My (short-lived) scholastic career was an Era of High Adventure. And by “high,” I mean your Novanator was INSANELY fucked-up all of the time. I somehow managed to bullshit my way into the nation’s premier party school – and was working harder than a dyke with small fingers to obliterate brain cells, disseminate globs of personal DNA, and treat my liver like a honky prison bitch.

I had never been happier, my beloved Novanites. The beer flowed like wine, my stain-stick spray painted countless tonsils, and the Big Novowski smoked more ganga than a Jamaican with glaucoma. Adrift in messy, orgasmic glory, I crafted a pleasure-dome of beer bottles and condom wrappers – and stayed in a perpetual state of being juuuust sober enough to get hard… yet too inebriated to give a shit about anything other than myself.

Yes, Young Nova was staking his claim in this crazy universe, banging out sweet shaven snatch with hedonistic glee. He was also breaking through on a scholastic level. The challenges presented within the hallowed halls of academia presented an opportunity for Lord Nova to ruffle feathers and moisten panties. Your Deacon of Novanometry debated subjects with the best of them. He made teachers blush and fellow students cry. He even made a few friends along the way… such as a certain person who went on to become a famous dot-com gazillionaire. To shield his identity, let’s call him Dick.

At first, I honestly didn’t know what to make of Dick. He was in most of my classes and always had something ridiculously grandiose to belch. He loved the Dallas Cowboys and I didn’t (Go Bears!). He earned a reputation as a political mastermind, engineering clandestine takeovers of political clubs and student government organizations. According to the college rumor mill, Dick once conned the administration into fully funding a gangbang at a Korean massage parlor by timing the fuck-fest during Asian Awareness Week. When questioned by school administrators, Dick maintained that he was simply exploring creative ways to make egg drop soup.

So I decided to test this guy’s mettle. At first I would make fun of him by interrupting his political tirades. He would say something like, “Professor, it is plain to see the numbers on this issue don’t add up. If we examine Keynesian economics and the theories of Friedman, then clearly the variables at hand are woefully askew. How ON EARTH can ANYONE justify such a grotesque fiscal misappropriation of precious wealth and treasure?”

I would raise my hand and the professor would reluctantly nod, “Yes, Mr. Nova? Would you care to respond to Dick?”

“I just wanted to say that I am mad at numbers. Numbers make me angry! That is all.” Then I’d put my head on the desk and fall back asleep.

The class would look at me in disgust (or disbelief), but fuck if it wasn’t funny. One of the girls dug my humor and gave me a little smile. She was cute as hell and needed a good spanking. I took her home that evening and deflowered her shitake mushroom. Then she made me a sandwich.

The following morning, while I was banging her from behind, making her suck on a pacifier and wear a bib, I slowed down and pulled out.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Nova?” my buxom coed cried.

“That Dick guy. Something is… quite strange about him.”

She was offended: “That is what you were thinking about while were having sex? I thought you were just concentrating on me! And now you tell me you were think about Dick?!”

“Don’t flatter yourself, jizz-breath. I think about a lot of stuff during the old pelvis-polka. I think about the universe and the fact that it is infinitely expanding. Within these quantum expansions are celestial offshoots – parallel universes like our own, except not our own. Right now, for example, the Mr. Nova from Universe SX is probably wondering if there is another Mr. Nova out there, and what his fingers smell like. Our thoughts are connected through space and time—”

“Mr. Nova, what does this have to do with Dick? And more importantly, what does if have to do with ME?! By the way, this bib is really uncomfortable.”

“I believe that the Mr. Nova from Universe SX is trying to warn me about… something. You see, last night I had this crazy dream: An intergalactic version of me was seeking to tap into my consciousness and communicate from the Great Beyond – and Dick played a minor role in this message. I just don’t fully understand how it all ties together. It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” I shook my head, shaking out the inter-dimensional cobwebs. “Now, as for you, young lady: Put that pacifier back in your mouth and get on all fours! Daddy Nova has to give his naughty little girl a good spanking!” Smack, smack!

After she limped out of my apartment, I sat there in a pool of spooge and pussy juice, pondering once again the very meaning of existence. Of course, I was high off some chronic I stole from her purse and was kickin’ a 40 of Bull Ice – but like I always say: Uh… This is good chronic. I don’t remember what I always say. Go Bears?

The next day I was walking out of class when Dick walked up to me. “Yo, Nova! You say some weird stuff in there, man. What’s your story?”

“Dude, I am just bored. I am trying to get through this college shit so I can get my music career going.”

“Yeah, I saw your band the other week. Was that girl REALLY blowing you on stage?”

I smiled. “What do you think? I don’t even remember. I was too into our cover of ‘Breakin’ the Law.’”

Dick laughed, “You seem to have a knack for that. I remember the time you missed a week of class because you had to serve jail time. What was up with that?”

I looked far away into the distance. After a long silence, I replied in my most grave and serious tone: “That is a story I can never tell.”

“Well, shit, sorry for asking. Anyway, the reason I stopped you is that there’s a party tonight you might wanna check out. I think it could use some Nova Style.” Dick waited for my answer.

I pondered the invitation. I was always careful in picking friends; now a new one wanted to enter Novanator’s mad, mad world. Plus, I still needed to learn the significance of that bizarre dream…

“Will there be snatch and beer? Lots of it?” I asked.

“Guaranteed. Why don't we go grab a pitcher, some wings, and a plate of nachos? We can do some pre-party warm-ups and hit the festivities later.”

“You got yourself a deal, Dick.”

Maybe this Dick guy wasn’t that bad after all. Maybe the Mr. Nova from Universe SX was trying to tell me that I should go to the party tonight and shake up the cosmos.

What followed was pure madness...

The Night I Almost Died, Part IV: The Grim Reaper Makes a Modest Proposal

2009-01-20T09:22:00.000-08:00

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.

The Night I Almost Died, Part III: A Sacrifice is Made

2009-01-19T05:24:00.000-08:00

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…

The Night I Almost Died, Part II: The Dice’s Inn

2009-01-18T05:51:00.000-08:00

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?”

The Night I Almost Died, Part I: Say Hello to Stinky

2009-01-17T06:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Drunk by Noon, Part III

2009-01-16T04:16:00.000-08:00

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!

Drunk by Noon, Part II

2009-01-15T05:27:00.000-08:00

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...”

Drunk by Noon, Part I

2009-01-14T07:01:00.000-08:00

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...

The Call Back

2009-01-12T04:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Mr. Nova’s Guide to Interracial Dating

2009-01-11T10:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Expectations

2009-01-11T07:56:00.000-08:00

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.

The Drought

2009-01-11T06:36:00.000-08:00

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.

16 Gets You 20

2009-01-11T06:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Mr. Nova’s Guide to Strip Clubs

2009-01-10T04:42:00.000-08:00

The lure of the strip club can be intoxicating, my beloved Novanites. It is like a beacon of neon lights, calling you inside from the cold. These glowing lights promise warm, hot shaven snatch for you to view (and perhaps take home with you). It all seems so seedy and dangerous. It makes you feel like you are getting away with a CRIME just by being there. And if you have a girlfriend or are (imaginary-God forbid) married, you find the strip club a place where the inner-male-dog can come out and play for a while. Woof!

But it is all an illusion. A façade devised to take one thing away from you:

Your money!

Strippers are gold diggers. They sell their bodies much like a prostitute, except that most of the time no orgasm is involved (Unless you go to the backroom of a certain dive in West Virginia – where you can get $10 blowjobs from heroin addicts. And of course, unless you’re a coke dealer.). It is all tease and titillation. Smoke and mirrors. Nudity and no climax.

Hell, most of the bitches that work at these clubs aren’t even that hot!

So why do we, as hot-blooded males, waste our money in these sanctuaries of pussy and boobs?

It is because we can. And we will. And hey – it is fun to look.

We are voyeurs.

Nova has long since given up going to the strip clubs. Unless it is the occasional bachelor party (most of my friends are married – poor fucks) your Novanator prefers to call up one of his many Friends with Benefits, or to stay at home and work on some sick beats Dr. Dre only WISHES he could lay down. It just isn’t worth the time and money. It isn’t like you can whip your jang out and stroke it while the stripper dances in front of you.

That can get you arrested. (I’ll tell you a story about it later.)

So if you must venture out to the neighborhood strip club, take these following warnings to heart. I hereby present:

Mr. Nova’s Eleven Rules for Tittie Bars

1. Don’t bring your credit card with you
Cash only, my Novanites. If you give the establishment a credit card to run your tab on, you are most likely going to end up spending three to fives times as much money as you thought you would.

2. Don’t go into a strip club alone
Nothing screams “desperate” or “loser psycho” more than going to a strip club by yourself. Rent a porno instead, for fuck’s sake! Smoke a bong, nut on a towel, and then pass out. You’ll feel better about yourself and save a lot of money. My neighborhood porn shop sees me so much, I have a line of credit. You think a strip club is going to grant you one of those unless you have millions of dollars in the bank? And don’t go to a strip club while there’s still daylight outside.

3. Don’t ask a stripper to be your girlfriend
The ONLY thing these bitches want is your money. They are paid to be nice to you, even if you are a dork with a comic book collection – or a three-toothed invalid from Kentucky. They most likely HATE YOUR FUCKING GUTS so much that they want to puke each time they have to grind their ass in front of you. In a way, it’s justice that these whores are demeaned in such a filthy manner – all for a few greenbacks. Money can buy you a lot of shit, but it can’t buy back pride.

That being said, NO WAY is a stripper going to go out with you unless you are loaded. In Stripper-World, it’s considered bad etiquette to even give out your digits. One stripper I know did this and even called “clients” on the days she was working. Stupid bitch thought this was an innovative way to make more money. She figured she would bring them in, build a business relationship, and not have to fuck any of them. But when the dudes realized she wasn’t going to give up the trizzle, they stopped coming. And the money ran dry.

Repeat after me: Strippers cannot be girlfriends. And even they WANTED to be your girlfriend, once the excitement of fucking a stripper wears off and the infection clears, you won’t be able to handle the realities of her profession. Think about how PISSED you got when you caught your girlfriend talking too much to that guy at the Halloween party. Ok? Now multiple that by a zillion. I mean, just imagine saying this everyday: “Bye honey, hope lots of dudes drool over your tits and try to reach up and smack your ass! Hope you sell a lot of lap dances! Give me a kiss before you spread your beaver in front of all the guys I knew back in high school!”

If the dude can look past all of the shit that goes along with being a stripper, more power to him. But he is probably one sick muthafucker in the head.

4. Don’t buy the strippers any drinks
I warn you, my Novanites, when the stripper does her rounds to talk to you she is looking for one thing: MONEY! She might ask you to buy her a drink. She’ll tell you that she is only allowed to drink Champagne. This is bullshit! The drink will cost you $15 or more. Chances are this will turn up as a hidden charge on your credit card when you get the receipt back. You won’t even know it has happened until it is too late! These bitches are shiesty!

Besides, she has PLENTY of whisky, weed and crank backstage.

(Oh, and when making small talk with the strippers, constantly hint at having a big supply of coke in your car. You’ll get LOTS of one-on-one attention this way, and might even be able to swap a bag of Sweet & Low for a hummer.)

5. Don’t get too wasted
There are a lot of mean, horrible people who run these clubs. Many of them are just DYING for an excuse to kick the shit out a patron. Getting extremely drunk anywhere is usually a bad idea, unless it is done in a calculated effort to violently piss someone off (preferably with a gallon of gasoline, a Zippo, and a designated driver). You don’t want to make the strip club owners angry. They have plenty of bouncers and weapons.

It could get ugly.

6. Don’t touch the girls
You don’t know where the fuck these bitches have been! More importantly, you don’t know how ornery the BOUNCERS are. If you ever want to get your ass kicked in record time, start getting grabby with a stripper. Most of the bouncers are over-protective eunuchs with a rap sheet.

So even if you really, truly believe that the bouncer’s Mom is a crackhead whore, it’s probably best if you kept that opinion to yourself.

7. Don’t touch anything in the bathroom
Pretend it’s a soccer game and only use your feet!

8. DO NOT be a sucker and insist on getting a lap dance from the hottest, sexiest stripper in the bar.
Or only focus on the stripper with the biggest tits. That’s a rookie mistake. Instead, get a lap dance from the stripper who’s most obviously hooked on illegal drugs – ‘cause she’ll be FAR more liberal when it comes to “touching.” Trust your Novanator on this.

9. Never wear underwear into a tittie bar.
And always wear your absolutely thinnest pair of pants. It’ll make the lap dances much more enjoyable.

10. If you’re at one of those strip clubs that’s fully nude and doesn’t serve alcohol, make sure you’re butt-wasted BEFORE you pay the cover charge.
‘Cause the LAST thing you want is to be sober enough to realize how fuckin’ pathetic your life has become.

11. Finally, if you’re at one of those high-end tittie bars that has a tuxedo-dressed guy in the men’s bathroom with a supply of cologne and a tip jar, DO NOT feel obligated to give him a frickin’ dime.
Besides, he’s not really in there to sell you a spritz of Polo anyway, man. He’s there to make sure you’re not wacking off in the john! Tittie bars NEED their patrons to be horny and frustrated in order to be profitable, and operate under a strict “no-wacky” policy.

Yes, print out these eleven rules and send ‘em to your friends. This is important information, my Novanites!

Your Novantor will always prefer porn to strip clubs in terms of more value for your buck. In this information age, we all want to be able to control our entertainment options – and the nudie bars just don’t do it for most people anymore.

Hopefully, if you do decide to hit the strip clubs, you’ll plan ahead and ask a Friends with Benefits to wait for you back home. That way you can get turned on and then come home and bang her out.

Maybe even have a pole installed in the bedroom where your girl can spin around like a dancer! It is better than wasting your time with a bunch of fake-titted whores who are going to be burnt out hags in a few years, turning tricks on the streets of Albuquerque.

Serves those money-grubbing, gold-digging bitches right!

Just lookin’ out for my Novanites.

Why I Hate Fucking Models

2009-01-09T12:29:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I pulled into a Denny’s parking lot late one night with a semi-famous model riding shotgun in the front seat of the Nova-wagon. I needed a few cups of coffee to sober up after a bout with a bottle of Jim Beam, and I figured the dimly lit parking lot might be a nice venue for some impromptu backseat ass-grinding. But the moment I put my beloved wagon in park, the model hopped outside, lit up a cigarette and IMMEDIATELY started yapping about her weight:

“Mr. Nova, does my butt look big? I have to do a photo shoot tomorrow and I SIMPLY MUST fit into a size two! I feel SOOOO fat. Maybe I should go barf up my dinner? That always seems to do the trick. You wanna snort some coke? Shucks, my ass is bulging out like an old tomato! I was SO naughty during lunch – I ate THREE croutons! And it wasn’t even my birthday! What do you think? Is my butt too big?”

My little model looked at me with her sweet, pretty doe-eyes. She was about 5’11” and 95 pounds soaking wet (which she was). She needed to eat something (preferably full of protein – hehehe) soon or I feared she would fade away, not unlike a fart on a windy beach. I couldn’t help but give her an honest answer:

“Too BIG?! Your butt is not big ENOUGH! I try to feed ya, but you are always complaining about your stupid diet! And I swear, if you throw up one of those sandwiches again I am going to dump your ass and fuck your sister!”

She then got this sad look and turned her skeletal-back away from me. “Why do you have to be so mean to me, Nova? First you make me dress up like a nurse to play ‘What Are You Hiding from Your Doctor?’ and now you tell me I have to eat those stupid sandwiches. I just don’t understand…”

“First of all, NEVER insult one of my sandwiches EVER again. My sandwiches RULE. Second of all, maybe if you were eating properly I’d be a lot nicer. I would call you sugar-ass and bang you out real good – but who wants to fuck a goalpost? You’re so damn skinny, your tits have vanished! From your bellybutton to your neck, you look like my little brother!”

She started to cry and I felt bad. I tried to cheer her up: “C’mon, baby, I was just venting. My PlayStation broke and I’m in a bad mood. ‘Sides, I can at LEAST call you doe-eyes and treat you to the dinner special at Denny’s. You just need to get some back cuz’ you know how much Daddy Nova loves a nice ass to smack!”

With that I spanked her on her left butt-cheek. It was so bony that there was no bouncy cushion for me to protect myself. I reeled back in horror as my hand throbbed from the impact. And the girl was such a waif that she flew 20 feet forward. A pie-eating, porkchop-looking cop inside of Denny’s saw the whole thing and arrested me for assault. You talk about a bad day – a wasted sandwich, a wounded hand, AND a night in the slammer. (Seriously – who THE FUCK is SHE to criticize one of MY sandwiches?)

All this happened because I wanted to date a model.

Why do I do it to myself, my Novanites? Why do I punish myself during my constant quest for sexual gratification? If I start fucking a model I always end up bored and desperate for a plate of Buffalo Wings with a cold, frothy beer to wash them down! There’s just something about seeing an anorexic person naked that makes a guy desperate to eat.

It is my own fault, really. I meet a model and think that it might be fun to fuck her for awhile. Maybe it is the mystique of banging out supposed premium, highly-sought-after snatch. It might even be that it is a challenge to fuck what most guys think that they can’t have (oh, if you have drugs, fellas, you can get them). More often than not, however, it is because I am trapped in a vicious cycle where I go after extremely boring but halfway-attractive women. I have hope that these vacant mental parking lots in high heels will one day surprise me with a spark of life in their glazed-over but inviting eyes.

Until then I have compiled a list of grievances with the models that have left my Nova-jang feeling cold:

1. Models are too concerned with their looks.
Alright, this is an obvious observation, but if you want to look at these whores objectively, sometimes you have to state the facts – plain and simple. Models rely too heavily on their appearance, thereby reducing their capacity to be great fucks. By only concentrating on THEMSELVES they lose the potential to satisfy another (especially when you try to have a threesome with a model and another girl).

2. Models have bony poon.
You ever try to bang out one of these model bitches? It is like trying to fuck a skeleton. No meat on the bones! No cushion for the pushin’! Nova needs his bitch to have a phat ass! How the hell am I supposed to bounce off of some chic after I use the old jang-a-bang with my wang hanging out technique?

Eat some fucking food you dirty sluts! Which leads us to…

3. Models don’t like food, which in turn means they make horrible sandwiches.

4. Models give terrible blowjobs.
If a photo shoot is happening the next day, forget about even getting a half-assed hummer, let alone a full-out suck-fest. A model will worry about lines around her mouth and possible blood vessel breaks on her tongue.

Don’t even bother, fellas. The only thing going in a model’s mouth is cigarettes, speed, and laxatives.

5. Models don’t give a shit about you when you go with them to parties.
These bitches will ditch you right away at a social event. They want to be the center of attention and won’t even feel obligated to introduce you to anyone. It is best to get drunk off your ass before you go and then hit on her friends. At least then you can get her attention… along with her scorn…

So my Students of Novanometry, let’s review:

1. Models suck… although not very well.

2. Your beloved Novanator is better off finding bitches that will worship the ground he walks on, fix some nice sandwiches and bring him beer from the fridge without complaining.

3. No matter how hot a chic looks, it is better to have a bitch with a nice ass than a pretty face. I mean, how often are you looking at a girl’s FACE anyway?

4. Giving into a model’s demands for time, money, and attention will make you less of a man.

I hope this helps you out. Next time you meet a model, beware of her intentions and always make sure you hide your wallet away.

Remember, these bitches are PAID to smile.

The Book of Novatry

2009-01-09T12:09:00.000-08:00

Many, many moons ago – after a lusty night of topless dancers, binge drinking, and whip-cracking unprotected sex with blurry-looking hookers – I awoke in the middle of a gravel road… and a Christ-like revelation came to me. My booze-numbed mind rattled a beautiful psalm of love and humility. Hastily, I crawled home and fired-up the computer.

I wrote down what I would later call my first “nome.” Now, what is a nome, my dear students of Novology? Well, if you had opened your textbook entitled The Book of Novatry you would find out!

A “nome,” my beloved Novanites, is a poem – only done Nova-Style! Instead of poetry, think novatry!

Here is an example:

The Novanator

I’m the Sexecutioner of the clitoris
I always hit and never miss
And keep my bitch in a state of bliss
I pull out my jang and nut on her belly
I leave that girl smelly
Her name was Kim... or maybe it’s Kelly?

Now go and make me a sandwich, bitch
Your rash better not make my Johnson itch
Slice some turkey and some cheese
Go put some Band-Aids on your knees
I’ll eat the sandwich really fast
And bust a nut in your ass!

It’s because I am the Novanator
A fornicating instigator
When I was a kid I was a chronic masturbator.

I looked at my first nudie mag at age seven
Even if there isn’t a God, I knew there was a heaven
Saw two bitches eat each other in front of me at age 11
I’ll NEVER have sex with someone named Kevin.

I am the person mothers fear the most
Because I’m cool as jelly and hot as toast!
I am the Novanator!

Yes, there is nothing like crafting a good, high-quality nome. It may not be better than banging out sweet shaven snatch, but it is a nice way to get some thoughts out after pounding a 12-pack of Corona.

Here is another one:

Ode to the Hummingbird

Oh Hummingbird, you take flight,
You stick your beak into nectar,
Find a flower nice and tight,
Eat ‘em up like Hannibal Lecter!

You don’t like chewing bubble gum,
But vibrate with the greatest of ease,
Flap those wings ‘til it’s time to cum,
‘Cause the flower is a bitch to please!

It is easy to write a nome, my beloved Novanites. Whenever I get a chance, I write down lines of novatry, always gleaning inspiration from a myriad of sources. Write about what you know! Write about what you WANT to know. Better yet, write some sappy sentimental shit that’ll get your ass laid. Want an example?

Dearly Beloved

Your beauty takes my breath away,
And makes me glad that I’m not gay.
You cast a spell upon my worm,
I love you, bitch – now eat my sperm.

See? Ain’t novatry magical? You can almost hear the harps playing in the background, can’t you? Bitches get so WET when they hear a well-written nome, they’ll literally slide across the floor, as if water skiing. Swoosh, swoosh!

And if your nome falls upon deaf ears, well, just put a hip-hop beat behind it and start rapping. Fuck, it’ll STILL be better than that repulsive Ludacris garbage.

So start writing – and start making this world a more melodious place.

Jeah.

30 Minutes of Doggystyle

2009-01-09T12:04:00.000-08:00

Mr. Nova loves booty. He loves nice, healthy round asses. Bubble butts. Ass cheeks that need a good spanking. So long as there is no cellulite, the bigger the better. The Novanator does NOT love skinny, beanpole, anorexic bottoms that feel like jawbreakers when you squeeze on them while fucking. Consider me Sir Nov-a-Lot.

Mr. Nova is always on the lookout for the perfect ass – and I am sorry to say, that bitch J-Lo never had it. P. Diddy bought it for her anyway, had it implanted several years ago so she could appeal more to the black market (at least, that’s what I read on the Internet, so it’s GOT to be true). No, Mr. Nova likes natural ass. The kind of ass you can be proud to bring home to Momma: “Hey Mom, look at the birthing hips on this one! C’mon! Give it a squeeze!”

In my sexual quests and orgasmic odysseys I have come (cum) across booties that would make grown men cry – and bested young punks who think they’re Mack Daddies. These idiot kids spend their days IMing one another and shaving their sack in the bathroom, instead of learning proper sexual techniques. Meanwhile, good ol’ Nova is pounding the butt cheeks like a blacksmith beats iron.

Many fellas I have met along the way share my belief that an ass must have some cushion for the pushin’. I used to work with some crazy Mexican dudes and they would comment on this subject all day long. It was a profession for them, grading pairs of the golden ham hocks like Olympic judges. I can still remember what my Mexican friend said to me one day while were discussing a potential Friend with Benefits:

“You see that culo (‘ass’ in Spanish) over there, Mr. Nova? Look how skinny it is. She needs to eat something. I could cook her up some burritos. Cook that bitch plenty of meat and put some hot sauce in it. I would also bang out her pink taco, sure, but I fear that I might break her in two with my cock. I would fuck her way too hard, like a sledgehammer. I am like fucking Speedy Gonzales when it comes to my pumping motion, but I am also like a turtle in how long it takes to spurt my Spanish-flavored sauce. I would make sure that I reamed her out nice and long. But she would be pleading in pain for me to stop, I am sure. No way that bitch could take 30 minutes of doggystyle!”

I laughed and replied, “Yeah, bitch needs to get some protein in her diet. Probably a vegetarian who misses her meat products. Gotta fatten up her ass. I know! Maybe I’ll give her an injection of Doctor Nova’s deep-throat dietary supplement! Time for a little bit of vitamin Nova!”

“You are one crazy muthafucker, Mr. Nova.”

“Shut up and pass me the nachos, Peppi – or I’m callin’ I.N.S.”

He was right about the girl’s ass. She had fallen prey to the Madison Avenue belief that being a 97-pound waif was attractive. She probably puked out everything she ate in a pathetic attempt to catch a man’s eye. I personally blame those fag fashion designers for only hiring lamppost-looking models. Sure as hell ain’t a HETEROSEXUAL who picks these models. Real men like big tits and nice curves. Fuck the American media for making that girl feel bad about herself! She should just make sure she exercised and watched less television. Then she could eat like a healthy girl and have enough energy to fuck for hours.

So I decided to test my friend’s theory out. Could this girl last for 30 minutes of hardcore, from behind, toe-curling, ass-reaming doggystyle?

“Hey, honey, my name is Mr. Nova. You’ve probably heard of me. No? Well, you WILL. I’m the man your mother WARNED you about, sweet-tits. What are ya doing tonight...”

I had the skinny thing back at my apartment a few hours later. She wanted to fuck BAD, but I had to make sure she would stay wet for a long time. So I broke down and did some foreplay. One thing I know about skinny girls: They are terrible kissers. Their damn teeth always knock against yours – and being on top of them is like lying down with a skeleton. (Not that I’ve ever laid atop a skeleton, except that one time I got drunk in a morgue and started feeling horny. Yup, even after all those years, that Marilyn Monroe is still one TERRIFIC fuck. Next up is Aaliyah! But I digress.)

I did a pretty good job with my Hummingbird Technique and brought her close to climax. That was when I decided to make her get on all fours like a doggy and fuck her good. Five minutes into the sex session and she was doing fine. She bucked against me like a horse trying to dismount a rider. I thought for a moment that she might have what it takes. Eight minutes in, I checked my watch and gave her a good spank on the ass.

“Good girl! Nova likes you! Here’s your carrot!”

At the thirteen minute mark she began showing signs of wear. (Plus, I was getting tired myself, but GOD BE DAMNED if I was going to surrender!) After fifteen minutes of Nova-pounding she screamed, “C’mon and cum already!”

I decided to pull out and lay a fatty on her sweaty backside. Bitch failed me.
She washed off and came back to bed. “Feel better?” she asked me.

“No.”

She was stunned. “Why?” she inquired.

“I bet that dirty Mexican I could bang you doggystyle for 30 minutes and you only lasted half that time! Now I owe him $50. Do you have any idea how much beer and nachos I could’ve bought with that $50?!”

She was shocked. “I could just lie to him and tell him we made that far.”I gave her a little nudge on the chin with my thumb. “Sorry, kiddo. I can’t lie to the bastard about something like this. It just ain’t my style.”

The Hummingbird Technique

2009-01-08T08:51:00.000-08:00

Take your seats, boys and girls. Professor Nova is here with the lesson of the day. Quiet down! Hush! Hush! You, the cheerleader with big tits in the corner – quit talking! Or I might have to bend you over my desk and spank you in front of the entire class. And stop playing with your pom-poms.

I digress. Now, I know you all have taken a lot of abuse because of my alcohol-fueled rants. Well, tough shit! You gotta learn things the hard way. Hey, I SAID to stop talking, Missy! Do I need to stick something in your mouth to shut you up?

I know you have been asking the question: “What is this Ultimate Pleasure Device that you mentioned in last week’s lecture, our beloved Novanator?” “Can I build one of my own?” “Is it true that this device has taught you how to make women cum with orgasms so powerful it’ll make our freckles pop off?” “How did you train your hands to do what that machine is so proficient at?”

First of all, there were only five Ultimate Pleasure Devices ever made . My father found one and gave it to me. It was then stolen from me by some corrupt cops (“Corrupt cops” – that’s kinda repetitive, ain’t it?) and I have not been able to recover it. Second, unless you are a sick, perverted technological genius with the artistic talent of H.R. Geiger, the craftsmanship of Bob Villa, and the money of Bill Gates, you will NEVER be able to build one. And as to how I got my hands to do what it does...

Class, you know what a hummingbird is? This creature flaps its wings at a rate of 50 times per second. They have a long bill that seeks out the calyx of flowers. They take the nectar at a rate of 13 licks each second. When you see them feeding it seems as if the bird is stationed in midair. Then they leave the flower almost ENTIRELY untouched.

Apply this understanding to the topic of fondling the female genitalia.

Before I continue with this lecture, I must warn the ladies of the class: Don’t start to get a reaction that leads to wetness in your panties and prevents you from taking notes. I know this is a sexy (and sticky) subject, but you have to control yourselves. And gentlemen, quit your snickers! This information is VITAL to your very sexual existence. Do you really want to go through life thinking that doggy-style is the ultimate in sexual taboos? There is SO much more we haven’t even discussed yet, including Donkey Punches and the Angry Pirate. This technique opens the door to other topics that will further your exploration of women and what they mean to us. Plus, it will show you how to give a girl so much pleasure she will NEVER forget you – and it’ll ruin her for all others.

Now back to the subject, class. Ladies, when you masturbate, (and I know you do, Professor Nova has cameras in place in all of your dorm rooms) I have noticed you sometimes insert your middle finger into the pussy. From there you place your thumb on the clitoris and begin vibrating. Now through careful research I have discovered the secret to how you achieve orgasm: It is ALL in the wrist.

Gentlemen, can you picture in your heads what I am saying? Do you understand what this means? You must use their technique against them! Your hand is just as good as theirs! In fact, your wrists are stronger –thanks to online porn and chronic masturbation. And since the woman is feeling the sensation of someone else touching her private goodies, it should arouse the female even more.

Remember the lessons of the hummingbird! Does the bird show fear? Hesitation? I think not! Your hand must become like the hummingbird. You must use your middle finger as our little friend uses his beak. Insert and vibrate, using your wrist to maintain a stationary lock. Place your thumb on the clitoris and vibrate that as well. Kissing and biting her nipples may add to her experience. I also like to throw in a few good lines, like “Take it ALL, you dirty little girl! Call me Daddy Nova! Cum for me, you filthy, rotten whore!” (I find that this enhances her sexual pleasure and brings the female to an earthshaking climax.)

Well ladies, I am sure you are amazed I discovered your secret to pleasuring yourselves. It took years of research. Many subjects were left unfulfilled. Much crying ensued. Several lawsuits were filed. Gentlemen, heed the lesson of our flying feathered friend. The hummingbird is an example to us all. Go now with this knowledge and pollinate the land.

And as for the location of my stolen Ultimate Pleasure Device...

(Also, check out my Hummingbird Technique petition right here. You see, NBC’s shitty new show My Own Worst Enemy recently featured my patented Hummingbird Technique on the air, and those fuckin’ THIEVES failed to credit me as the move’s inventor. I hereby DEMAND that they give the Big Novowski the credit he rightly deserves. Rat bastards. Oh, I WILL get even with them. Just you wait. Before the end of 2009, I’m gonna skull-fuck that show into submission. Jeah.)

The Five Times Mr. Nova Couldn’t Get It Up

2009-01-08T07:24:00.000-08:00

Mr. Nova is a sexual crusader – a fearless explorer of unknown cracks and crevices. He has planted his flag in many women from many different countries. He has porked beautiful debutants of all races, shapes and levels of sobriety. He has crossed deserts to reach wet vistas full of hot, naked, shaven snatch. But along the way – during the bloody battles to reach blissful bounty – Mr. Nova sometimes stumbles… or wilts… or undergoes the shameful metamorphosis from the Incredible Hulk back to David Banner.

In other words, every now and then my dick shrivels up like a stack of dimes.

I cannot lie to you, my Novanites. There have been times when I’ve failed to perform in the way most women have come (cum) to expect of me. Yet unlike most men, I freely acknowledge these penile shortcomings. I will not hide from my defeats and wallow in shame. Are you kidding me?! I am MR. FUCKING NOVA you muthafuckers! I am PROUD of the times I couldn’t get it up. My wanker was looking out for me, protecting your Novanator from hornball indiscretions by turning my York Peppermint Patty into a Junior Mint.

That being said, here are the five times my little lieutenant stayed stuck to my scrotum instead of standing up and saluting:

1. Atlantic City
The first time I couldn’t get it up was with a street whore in Atlantic City. I was 17-years-old and on a beach trip with three other delinquents from my neighborhood. Being too young to legally gamble, we thought it would be cool to rent a hooker’s snatch and play her slots. Now, for all of you that haven’t been to Atlantic City, you probably know this scene from the movies: Casinos on one side of the pavement – filled with all the Champaign-swilling high rollers… and ghetto trash just across the street, with seediness and despair stretching for blocks upon blocks.

We all pooled our money together and came up with $375. The prostitute wanted $400, or she wouldn’t let us take turns stabbing her stink-hole with our adolescent cocks. So Mr. Nova had to ask the guy at the casino if he could use the cash machine. The bouncer said, “21 and over only, kid! Take a fuckin’ hike.” I replied, “Hey, all I want is some money so I can get a taxicab ride home. My Pops left me outside so he could gamble. I haven’t seen him for hours and my Mom is worried. You guys don’t wanna be held liable for a young kid wandering the streets of Atlantic City at night, do you?” He reluctantly escorted young Nova to the ATM. I stood in line behind a bunch of old people spending their prescription drug money on blackjack and video poker. After finally getting the cash, I ran back outside to seal the deal with our hooker friend.

Now she wasn’t particularly bad looking. She had a big ass, platinum blond hair, some silicone-stuffed tits, and the strange smell of sperm and urine. But Mr. Nova was slated to go third after a quick round of Rock, Scissors, Paper with my buddies. (I always choose rock.)

Going third didn’t sit well with me.

When it was finally my turn to dump some jizz inside the skank, my wanker just wouldn’t function. The prostitute gently implored me to get in the mood by softly whispering in my ear: “Get hard already, you little fucking faggot!” I suddenly had an epiphany and stated out loud for the very first time: “Mr. Nova goes first – or not at all!”

I left the room. Two minutes later, the dude batting cleanup ran towards the whore with his shorts around his ankles. He was screaming like a madman: “Only one minute, baby!”

I thought to myself, “Dude, you paid $100 and nutted in one minute. I paid $100 and discovered a lifelong belief.”

Nothing really made sense that night.

2. I was 18, she was 16, it was a very good year…
I had just convinced my former girlfriend to give the Big Novowski another twirl in the sheets after spending a year apart. The fact that I once had to have her ARRESTED for trying to set fire to my car never entered my mind. All I was thinking about was dirty sex.

This tramp was a lithe little vixen with a stud in her tongue and a ring in her clit. I like that. Any woman who’s willing to painfully mutilate her body in order to marginally enhance a sexual experience is MY kinda babe. Unfortunately, she was also moody and emotionally unstable. Yeah, I know that ALL women are moody and emotionally unstable, but this bitch was borderline psychotic. For example, she believed that Sebastian Bach was channeling her secret love messages in his Skid Row songs. When I pointed out that Bach doesn’t even write his own lyrics, she got all defensive and tried to beat me over the head with a shovel. True story.

She had a new boyfriend (a little factoid that never really matters, does it?), but couldn’t stop thinking about 18-year-old Nova and his stringy 80s-era Heavy Metal hair. I told her we should go see a movie to catch up. Something romantic. While we were watching Full Metal Jacket she kept squeezing my hand so tight I knew I was going to get some sweet, sweet snatch.

We ended up making out on my parent’s driveway. I told her I wanted to make love to her.

“I can’t, Nova! My boyfriend is waiting for me!”

“It won’t take long… c’mon. Be a sport.”

She gave in and moments later we were upstairs.

She was great at giving a blowjob. Damn, I still miss that girl for her oral skills! But during this session she kept rushing me.

“I gotta go soon, my boyfriend will be mad!”

This did nothing for my stain-stick, as he retreated from battle like a Frenchman on the frontlines. I called my shlong a bastard piece of shit. The bitch got fed up and left. From this experience I had another moment of great clarity and discovered that Mr. Nova hates to be rushed.

3. Hairy girls
There was this girl in college who loved the Novanator. This was during my grunge period, where I kicked long (non-stringy) hair and played rock music all day and night. She was a fan. Nice face, big tits. One teeny tiny problem: She didn’t believe in shaving. Anything.

I decided against better judgment that I would fuck her anyway. It didn’t work out too well. She smelled strange, like sweat… and it was too close to the odors coming from my own body. I got grossed out. And that pubic hair! My Novanites, there is nothing worse than an untrimmed jungle near a girl’s snatch. Her pussy looked like guitar legend Slash – without his hat. Shave that shit OFF, ladies!

Her legs would rub against mine, creating a sound I imagine human-sized crickets would make. Hair against hair just doesn’t feel right. It’s disgusting.

She got pissed at me. “Why won’t your dick work?! My friends told me that you were the best ever!”

“Baby, you gotta shave. I can’t perform under these conditions.”

“But I believe in the equality of the sexes,” she replied, regurgitating the college feminist bullshit she’d been fed.

“That may be all good and well, but if you want the Novacock, you better do some trimming of the hedges. Nova ain’t fucking no Wookie.”

4. Drunk Nova and Jumanji
There was this girl named Jumanji. I don’t think that was her real name, but that’s all I knew her by. She lived two hours away in a friend’s hometown. He told me she was easy and introduced me to her while I was visiting. We exchanged numbers and I proceeded to pass out in the backyard Nova-style after a battle with a liter of rum and a six-pack of Coke.

About a month later, my VCR broke and I couldn’t watch any of my porn (this was before cyber-pussy was just a mouse-click away), so I gave her a call from my house. She drove two hours to see me. But I had forgotten it was strip club night. I didn’t want to bail on Mr. Nova’s friends and miss the tit-fest. This girl was going to have to come along.

She arrived. To my credit, ladies, I did cook her a damn good meal. I’m a helluva chef. But to all of you vegetarians, I grilled up New York strip steaks – marinated with a few packets of Taco Bell fire sauce that I found underneath my sofa cushions. (Mm! Steak! Take THAT, you dumb humus-eating bitches.) After the classy dinner, I joined my boys and hit the town.

She was pissed when all the clubs we went into had naked ladies prancing around. I tried to make her give the girls a $5 bill, but she resisted. The more she tried to deny her innate lesbian tendencies, the more I drank. And drank… and drank…

I don’t know what time we got home. All I know is that she drove. That was a mistake! I should never have let her behind the Novamobile’s wheel. I would have been better off passing out in the driver’s seat and telling her to fetch a cab back to her car. She changed my rearview mirror around and everything.

Anyway, when this mirror-changing-control-freak-of-a-babe got us back to the house, she said she was gonna spend the night. I was too shit-faced to argue. I put in Good Will Hunting as our late night cinema experience. I was really, REALLY intoxicated. I asked her for a blowjob. She said she didn’t do that. I should have kicked her out then, my Novanites. Yet another mistake – ‘cause I knew for a FACT that she had blown Chicago Cubs pitcher [NAME CENSORED] during spring training.

“You blew [NAME CENSORED] and you won’t blow ME? C’mon! Baseball’s a pussy sport anyway. So drop to your knees and get ready to brush your teeth with tartar-control Nova!”

She just laughed, thinking I was kidding. (I wasn’t.) Next thing I know, she slid off her thong, pointed her ass in the air, and was ready to be mounted.

“Fuck me, Nova! Fuck me! Ooh, ooh! Fuck me, Nova! Fuck me!”

I saw this dog in heat – twitching, ready for the cock. I started to laugh. And laugh… and laugh. I was so drunk it was funny. Needless to say she got up and left without saying a word.

Never heard from her again. It was a COMPLETE waste of steak.

5. That time I ate all those jalapeño poppers.
Needless to say, this was an ugly night. The poppers were on special for happy hour. So were the margaritas. She wasn’t a beauty. It didn’t matter. I got sick while on top of her while we were shedding clothes in the restaurant bathroom.

Have you ever had to puke while also having the shits? Let’s just say she didn’t look all that presentable when we left the restaurant.

Well, my Novanites, I hope we all learned something from this. I did. I learned that my wanker is looking out for me at ALL times. Even when I desperately want him to work and Punxsutawney Nova keeps seeing his shadow, I know his slug-on-salt routine is always in my best interest.

So next time you get frustrated – ‘cause it’s closing time and you’re trying to bang a heifer with a hairlip in the back alley – don’t get mad at your pecker for going AWOL. He is just doing what is right.

Any dissenters still in the audience? Well, look at it this way: the human dick will normally fuck just about ANYTHING. And guys fuck weird things, too – animals, holes in grounds, socks, carved-open fruits, pastries, their hands, other men, rolled-up magazines, Star Jones, etc. So, on the odd occasion when your richard refuses to play ball, don’t start poppin’ Viagra or cursing the little guy out. He has your best interests at heart.

Thanks, buddy!

The Most Fucked-Up Place Mr. Nova Ever Worked At

2009-01-08T04:41:00.000-08:00

I know some incredibly fucking stupid people. Back when I was a bartender at a private restaurant (owned by this oversexed middle-aged woman) I met a lot of incredibly fucking stupid people. Every single person employed there was relatively good-looking – which was highly fortunate since they had the collective brainpower of a fingernail clipper. Their sugar levels were all hyped up… but their brains couldn’t deal with the energy-overload. So what did they try to do with their unspent energy? They FUCKED like gangbang stars on Red Bull with A.D.D.

It was a fun job; I got to drink while I worked. I would wander in at 4:00 pm and the very first thing I would do was pull down that sweet bottle of Absolut Kurant vodka off of the shelf. I would whip out the cranberry juice and mix up a healthy drink. It was the best way to drink because I could mask my beverage as plain juice. Pouring a beer would have been a lot more obvious (although, on busy Friday nights, I would drink a healthy pint of Guinness to get warmed up). After I was primed, I would talk to all of the young girls that worked there. Their ages ranged between 16 to 20-years-old. I never wanted to fuck them – just to look at them. Their incessant banter proved too harsh for my Nova-ears, thus destroying the little sex appeal they had. But for some reason they loved your humble Novanator. They listened intently to what I had to say and always brought me tasty sandwiches to eat.

Let me tell you kids something about sex appeal: It is STRICTLY inherent. It cannot be learned. Rich girls who think only of themselves and work a part-time job as a waitress just to get Mommy and Daddy Warbucks off their backs do not have sex appeal.

Neither do middle-aged women with kids who run a restaurant to get away from their hard-working, perfectly decent husbands.

The shriveled hag of an owner made this restaurant a memorial to the time when she was a college girl, so she hired young high school and college chics. She still wished she was a 19-year-old slut and was desperately clinging to those teenage fantasies of hanging out with the popular kids. But her days as a teen vixen were gone forever – as were the days of her having non-droopy tits and a cellulite-free ass. She was now just a rotted-out bitch and a cock-hungry whore. Her sex-appeal was that of a squashed pile of maggots. And not cute maggots either! I’m talking ugly maggots.

This owner-bitch even had the nerve of coming onto the Novanator. While her husband was working on some construction upgrade for the restaurant, she sautéed her dimply ass over to a party I was throwing. Expecting my attention, she was flatly ignored all evening. She wanted Nova to bang the cobwebs out of her cunt and not tell a soul. Sorry, Granny: Ain’t gonna happen – not now or ever. She left pissed off and the next day she let everyone know that the Big Novowski was numero uno on her shit-list. My reaction? Big fuckin’ deal.

She didn’t understand that Nova is all about the challenge. He is also unconcerned about your secret agenda. In fact, having ulterior motives is the biggest turn-off. The Nova-jang doesn’t respond at all to your needs, you deceitful cheating bitches!

So hey, I wasn’t about to get involved with the vindictive cuntbag. She fired people left and right, all on a whim. I still needed a steady source of income, and if I had bagged that nasty piece of trash (and she wasn’t particularly bad-looking my Novanites, just old and evil) I would have been put into a situation where she made the rules. Since I didn’t fuck the dirty bitch I was in control. I could tell her husband about her deceitful ways at anytime, thus solidifying job security.

At least, that was how I justified the whole thing in my mind. Truth be told, I hated the cunt and simply didn’t want to fuck her.

As time went on, I would bring a notebook into work. I would jot down notes about all of the fucked-up happenings. She would go behind the bar and ask me to make up 10 shots known as Red Headed Sluts. Hey, she ran the place, so I made them. Then she would bring back all of the 16 to 20-year-old bitches she was pals with and they would take the shots while at work. Hey, what fun, huh? Dirty slizzes put the Novanator at great risk with the law – ‘cause if the shit went down, it’s the bartender who takes it up the poop-chute.

Over the course of the months I worked there, I noticed that I was drinking more and more. The only way I could get through the day was with my dear friend, Mr. Alcohol. And since the owner threw parties after hours (leaving my bar a mess for me the next day to clean up) I figured I was owed the drinks as payment for not squealing to a number of special interest groups.

I thought the status-quo was working fine. I had a ton of regulars and my business at the bar was steady. The same couldn’t be said for the restaurant itself. The waitstaff was young and inexperienced. Just because you hire good-looking people doesn’t mean that they will do a good-looking job. (Nova Factoid: I once knew a manager who said he only hired ugly people because they were like worker drones: They were happy to have a job and did their best to make sure that everything was done by the book. Also, Fritos are not free, nor are they toes. Talk amongst yourselves.) The servers would yap on their cell phones in front of their tables. They would eat like pigs in front of their tables. They would cuss in front of their tables.

From behind that bar I watched on in a drunker stupor as the sales plummeted. I knew she would have to sell the place soon or go bust (which reminds me – she did have nice tits, by the way). I lined-up another bartending gig across town and gave my notice. Being honorable, I offered to stay on an extra month so she could find a replacement.

She immediately started to treat Nova like shit. She fucked with my schedule and destroyed my cash intake. When a bitch does that, well, I have to get revenge! The Nova-way, baby!

(Sure, a SMART MAN might’ve quit on the spot, but I was still owed money. More importantly, not unlike Dr. Samuel Beckett on Quantum Leap, I needed to right some wrongs before I leaped the fuck outa there.)

I started something called “Free Tab Night.” If you were a regular, you drank for free all night long. Just hand me a $20 and you were good to go. I figured that made up for the lost hours she cost me. I also worked out a “Drinks for Food” program with the cooks. That would cook me up a nice meal and they would get a tasty beverage to help them deal with the overbearing owner-bitch and her 19-year-old manager.

I caught her and the manager fucking. One of the cooks and I noticed that the bitch and her Boy Toy were missing in action. We performed a stakeout and discovered them in the act. She dropped him off at the backdoor. My cook friend and I took several pictures to use as blackmail at some point. I kept the information to myself, because if she ever fucked with me I would reveal the truth to her oddly-devoted husband. I would also go to the ABC board and let them know about the fact that a 19-year-old dude was considered a licensed alcohol beverage manager. This idiot would go behind the bar, grab a beer, and go back to count money.

But my revenge plans got the best of me. It is hard to fight a war that really isn’t worth fighting, my Novanites. Two weeks into the final month she called me up and let me go. She also informed me that she would not be giving me my final paycheck. I kinda figured she didn’t have the money to pay me and that was why I was fired. I told her that her actions were illegal. You cannot withhold someone’s final pay. She then accused me of stealing. I told her to take a good look around, because her so-called friends were robbing her blind. I just did what I had to do to survive in the little microcosm she created.

She called me a fuckin’ asshole – and with the sort of smirk usually reserved for Presidents and dignitaries, she asked me if I knew that I’d NEVER amount to ANYTHING.

I shrugged my shoulders and asked her what the manager’s dick tasted like. The smirk immediately vanished from her face and tears started welling in her eyes. Mr. Nova then reached into her purse, pulled out a wad of cash, and walked out the door.

I left a hero. I never returned.

Dirty bitch gets what she deserves, my Novanites. She is still trying to keep that place afloat… but you reap what you sow. And she created the single most fucked-up place I ever worked at. I know she will drown in her own middle-aged insecurities. I know that one day her stand-up husband will realize the truth: That he married an inhuman she-beast monster that can never be happy. I feel sorry for her kids. And I feel sorry for her thong, for having to crawl inside her ever-growing ass. Gross, man.

So to you, my former boss that desperately wanted the Nova-jang: I hope you choke on your inevitable defeat. Cellulite Sally will one day be destroyed. And to you, my beloved Novanites, be glad I escaped with my sanity...

Just one more thing: If you think you know who I’m talking about… then you probably don’t. But I know who I’m talking about and that’s all that matters.

I’m an Ass-Man – And Proud of it!

2009-01-08T04:34:00.000-08:00

Mr. Nova would like to pay homage to his favorite recreational pastime: Getting beautiful women drunk enough to let me fuck them hard in the asshole.

(Look, we all have hobbies. Some people collect stamps. Others play golf. I prefer to spend my weekends ass-fucking drunk girls. It’s all good.)

First of all, let me thank the wonderful women who have let me enter their most sacred of realms. They really should be given a round of applause for their caring nature and sweet bottoms, allowing me to open that tunnel and do some spelunking. You all have TRULY made my life a remarkable (and slightly unpleasant-smelling) adventure. Here’s why ass-love is king:

1. The ass is tighter than most pussies.

Sure, every once in awhile you can find a nice, petite Japanese gymnast whose snatch can constrict on your dick like a snake swallowing an apple. And that’s fine. But let’s face it: tiny girls just don’t have enough meat on their bones to handle ass-love. You need a good, healthy American woman who’s been raised on a diet of Happy Meals and deep-fried McNuggets – so you can slap their ass and ride in the wave. Too great an onus (I love that word) has been placed on women being toothpick-skinny in order to be attractive. This isn’t plausible due to the way most women are built. Girls are meant to bear children – so wide hips and big butts are a must! Mr. Nova came from a nice, Victorian-painting style mother! Mom might’ve has a little cushion for the pushing, but at least she was fun to do in the ass (At least that’s what Poppa Nova used to tell me whenever he drank whisky. Pops also told me to NEVER try to score with a woman who has a black eye – ‘cause obviously she already HAS a boyfriend, and apparently she doesn’t listen very well. But I digress.).

Mom did shave her pussy, though. (I accidentally walked in on Mom and Dad while they were role-playing “Dirty Dentist” and examining each others’ cavities. Don’t ask me any more about this, please.) Back to the article:

2. Anal sex reduces the risks of pregnancy.

It is damn hard to get a girl pregnant by cumming inside her sweet anus. Here’s a hint: If you’ve only ass-fucked the waitress at Denny’s a few dozen times, and she shows up on your doorstep nine months later with a stroller and a deed to your bank account, chances are she’s a lying bitch who smells like the Grand Slam menu.

3. Hey, It is a huge turn-on to be inside the anal nether region.

I love it because it is dirty! There is no natural lubrication! You gotta go buy stuff and squirt it on that sweet spot. I put a little on the head of my cock so it will slide in better.

For more excitement, do it in front of a mirror so you can watch her boobs bob up and down. And make her wear a bib. Then give her a good spanking while you are at it. Bad girl! Bad girls need to be punished.

4. It feels good.

Hey, she may be uncomfortable for a few moments… but she’ll get used to it. Remember, ladies – this is for the progression of your relationship. If you don’t do it, your man will find a girl who will.

Don’t hold it over our heads that you don’t find it pleasurable. Read a few books on the subject and I am sure you’ll come (cum) around. It will feel good when done right. Coach your man on what feels pleasurable… and shut your mouth if it hurts! Relationships aren’t all about YOU, ya silly bitch. Sheesh. Give a little, you shallow wench.

5. It is a sin.

According to many churchgoers, ass-fucking violates the celestial mandate of God Almighty. Hey, I don’t believe in God, so I’ll pound away! It is forbidden by many laws, state and federal. Well… how many laws do we break every day, every hour? This is one law I will proudly violate, with videotapes to show the judge as evidence. I will scream from the mountain tops, from the halls of justice, and inside my prison cell:

“America, I admit it: I am an ass man!”

(Say… anyone got any soap? My dick stinks.)

Follow your humble Novanator on Twitter

2009-01-07T16:33:00.000-08:00

Mr. Nova has joined Twitter and would like you to follow his teachings HERE.

Shaving 101 with Professor Nova

2009-01-07T10:50:00.000-08:00

There is NOTHING like sweet shaven snatch, my Novanites. It makes your Novanator wail like a fat-assed opera singer stretching his vocal chords to the limit – or like a heavy metal guitar player shredding his ax with a multitude of infectious notes.

(Say, you still remember heavy metal music, don’t you? No? Do you remember rock & roll at least? You know – original music with drums, electric guitars, and big-haired groupies in the audience? NO?! Man, I fuckin’ HATE today’s music. Justin Timberlake is an asshole. I hope he gets raped by a Haitian drug-mule, that untalented FUCK. Would serve him right.)

Anyways, back to pussy:

Yes, diving in on a smooth pink taco is something your Master of the Technique enjoys almost as much as eating a primo sandwich.

Now, lapping up a delicious cootch is not for all fellas. A lot of guys will tell you that they don’t like going south. Well, I hate to break it to ya kids: if you don’t munch a little south of the border, your girl is going to find some other cock to suck. It is true.

Cunnilingus seems to be a cultural thing. I’ve banged plenty of babes who used to go out with brothers, and for whatever reason, black guys don’t like to gnaw on the anatomical taco. I say to my Negro Novanites: Pour some hot sauce on that cooter and pretend it’s a Buffalo Wing! ‘Cause why do you think that fine sister dumped your lazy ass to be with me? It’s because I ain’t afraid to get my face dirty!

Think about it: If you enjoy her gorging on your jang, why wouldn’t you return the favor? It is not all about you, now is it? Well, in my case it is. But for some reason I like making bitches squirm in delight, so I use my love of eating snatch to my advantage. However, I will only behave like a cat lapping milk if the pussy is smooth as silk.

Now fellas, you and I know that a bald cootch is a big turn-on. In that respect you can use your love of Egyptian hair-removal (check your history books) to protect your face. So if you want to stay top dog in her life, tell her you’ll happily use your tongue for her pleasure if she does one thing:

Get rid of the hairy beaver!

Being your helpful Professor, I have even provided some reasons you can give your vaginally-challenged significant other in the form of a letter you can deliver (along with some razors and some shaving cream).

Before you give her the information, start the conversation delicately like this:

“Honey, would you mind shaving your repulsive hairy-ass snatch? I want to eat you out good tonight.”

“What the FUCK did you just say?!” she’ll ask in disbelief (she’ll probably also start to get wet at the thought of oral sex).

Your reply will be soft and gentle: “Wait a minute, darling, hear me out. Here is a piece of paper Professor Nova gave me, it explains everything…”

Then you’ll hand her this:

Dear Buxom Beauty with the Nice Clitty,

Hi, this is Professor Nova. I know you are thinking “Hey, who the hell are you?” Well, I don’t have time to explain everything to you right now, so please shut the fuck up, my sweet. One day I will sit you down on my lap and tell you about the wonders of the Ultimate Pleasure Device, the Hummingbird Technique, the Novaverse, and how to make a great sandwich…

But not today! I know you are curious, sweet-tits, but it will have to wait until another time.

Where was I? Oh yeah…

Babycakes, you gotta shave your snatch for your man. Wait! Before you hit him, hear me out. He really loves you and wants to you to be happy. He is willing to go south on you so that you can receive bliss, but on only one condition:

You have to shave your pubic hair.

Hey, before you rip this letter to shreds, take some time to read the reasons I have come up with – thanks to hours upon hours of careful scientific research and intense oral gratification.

So, without further ado, I present my case as to why your snatch should be bald and beautiful:

1. No hair in the teeth!

Do you really like hair in your teeth when you suck on your man’s jang? Hell no! Nothing ruins the mood like having to gag on a pube. But it’s even rougher for us guys since we have to dig a little deeper to get to that G-spot. You’re simply mouthing a fleshy shaft; we’re tunneling through a thorn bush! Shaving it off provides a clear view of the pleasure zone and zero turbulence when approaching the runway.

2. Health reasons.

I don’t want to get nasty, but do you know how many microbes love to live in pubic hair? Just lather up, use the razor and get rid of those pesky bastards forever!

3. You’ll look better in a bathing suit!

No worries about nasty pubic hair sticking out from your bikini like octopus(sy) arms if you just shave it all off. Send me a picture in of you in your hottest swim attire and let Professor Nova rate your camel toe!

4. Better chance of getting a modeling contract.

Hey, I may hate models, but they are well paid. You love money, don’t you hon?

5. You won’t get the jang if you don’t shave it off.

It’s true. You love getting pounded by hard cock, don’t you?

I hope this helps you make the right decision. Your man really wants to please you, but won’t do it unless you make one tiny sacrifice. I promise you will love it and you will be happy. And it looks better as well.

Now, you might be a little offended. You might even think, “I won’t shave my snatch for anyone! I’ll just find a new man who’s attracted to my hairy bush!” I hate to break it to you toots, but any guy who’s turned-on by hairy body parts is probably a closet homo. So why bother going down that route? Stick with this man. Shave your pubes, make him a sandwich, and treat him right.

—Professor Nova

If you gentlemen need to print this letter out to give to your lady, go ahead. By all means, I am more than happy to help. The more pussies that get shaved, the better off our planet will be. Less cheating, more productivity due to healthier sex lives, and less problems all the way around.

Ladies, if you don’t want to do it for your man, do it for the good of the world – and for me, your humble Novanator!

The Trifecta

2009-01-06T15:34:00.000-08:00

All of mankind’s greatest discoveries begin with an idea, my beloved Novanites. This idea becomes a dream – a goal to strive for – an obsessive desire that many would die to accomplish. And this sexual discovery of mine is no different.

It is a secret hidden deep within the minds of spooge-spewing adventurers across the world. Monks in distant temples lock away its secrets in dusty catacombs that no mortal can comprehend. All who know of its existence cling to the knowledge like it’s the last bastion of all that’s perverse and good.

Listen closely: The secret is called The Trifecta, my Acolytes of the Hummingbird. I first realized its importance when I was 17-years-old. I was banging out this hot 18-year-old brunette in her parent’s living room late at night when the headlights of a first-edition SUV flashed through the windows. The girl got scared: “We got to put our clothes on! My mom will be so pissed if she sees us fucking on her floor! They just steam cleaned it – and my Mom HATES IT when my boyfriends leave pecker-tracks on the carpet!” (I was beginning to sense that my sweet innocent princess wasn’t a virgin.)

“Ah, the carpet does smell fresh! I compliment your Mom on her housekeeping. But hold on, I can finish quick!” With that I started pumping faster.

“But you’ve been reaming me out for over an hour!” she whined, in a mixture of pleasure, urgency, and affinity for her carpet’s sanctity.

“Don’t worry, my buxom buttercup, I have been reading this book I found at the library, and it allows me to cum at a moment’s notice. It’s called Jizz at Will with Nary a Spill by Dr. Eli Hummer.” One second passed. “Ahhhhh, there we go!”

After I was done we grabbed our clothes and raced for the basement. As we finishing getting dressed, the door opened and her parents walked inside.

“WE’RE HOME!” her mother cried out. It is typical of parents to announce their presence – for they know that evil is always lurking when their teenage daughter is left alone. And yes, I was evil that night! I also left some of that evil on the carpet. Oh, well. I could jizz at will… but I hadn’t read the “Nary a Spill” chapter of the book yet.

After we composed ourselves, my girl and I headed upstairs. The parents were unpacking groceries. The father never paid any attention to me and probably thought I was just another in a long line of suitors for his daughter. I would be gone within a month – two months tops. Why bother getting to know me? Smart man.

The mother took a liking to me. She gave me little smiles here and there. I always thought she wanted the Nova-jang.

I played the good boyfriend and told my girl I had to go home. We walked outside and before I opened my car door I said: “Your Mom looks good. How old was she when she had you? You two could be sisters.”

Girlfriends HATE that shit. But I wanted the answer.

“She had me when she was 16. God, what a fucked-up way to put things, Nova! She is like, totally old and stuff. Sisters?! Ew!” She started to walk away.

“Yeah, Ok, don’t worry about it. But don’t forget, tomorrow is Sandwich Day in the cafeteria. I think this week’s special is roast beef on rye. But the cafeteria ladies don’t know how to make a decent sandwich, so could you make one for me? I like turkey, pepper-jack cheese, mayonnaise, mustard, onions, green peppers, pickles, and jalapeno peppers – on a Kaiser roll. Thanks, Sweet Tits!” I affectionately called out to her as she was nearing the front door of her house. She opened it and slammed it behind her.

As I drove home in the first Nova Wagon (a yellow masterpiece with wood paneling), I started thinking about my girl’s mom. If she was 16 when she gave birth to my buxom beauty, and now her daughter was 18… that would make her… carry the one… 34. Not a bad age to bang out!

Then I also thought about how all of the dudes at school always talked about fucking their girlfriend’s moms. It was the topic of many stupid lunchtime debates – whether or not you could score with someone’s mom, or if that car in Knight Rider was real. (And I STILL think scientists could build that car if they really wanted to, and I don’t care what ANYONE says. But I digress.)

To nail a hot babe AND her Mom would surely make you a high school deity. Unfortunately, most of these adolescent fantasies are fueled by the skewed caricatures of Hollywood films. (Besides, most of my numb-nut classmates hadn’t eyed a piece of adult ass since they wandered into the wrong dressing room at J.C. Penney’s. What the fuck did they know?) But teen-Nova’s sexual-musings were something different. Mine were fueled by the spirit of an adventurer!

I knew it would be AMAZING to Nova-Style a daughter-mother combo, but I was interested in taking it one step further. And I had to work out the details...

I pulled up in my driveway and raced up to my room. I passed by my parent’s door (locked again, with animalistic sounds echoing throughout the house) and headed straight for my desk. I had to start messing with some numbers (and you know how much I hate mathematics) to come up with the ultimate equation.

18 (my girl’s age)

+ 16 (her mother’s age when my girl was born)

= 34

Now, if my girl’s mother’s mother was anywhere between 16 to 20 when she gave birth to my girl’s mother… then Grandma would be in the 50 to 54 age range.

Still perfectly fuckable!

“Wait!” I said out loud. I could hear my father banging out my mother in the next room. It was disturbing, but for some reason the headboard clanking against the wall jarred something loose in my mind. I had to get past a certain wall that young men put up for themselves that limits sexual possibilities.

Young men have this crazy belief that fucking a Grandma is bad.

I had to get past the fear of knocking the cobwebs out of older snatch. I had to overcome my prejudice against dusty, wrinkly, calloused pussy. I realized there are plenty of benefits to Granny-Loving, such as the lady’s experience in the sexual arts, and not having to worry about her popping out any new kids. As to the negatives... well, you just don’t go bragging to the fellas about how you banged out some 54-year-old cooter.

Unless you complete The Trifecta.

When I was 17 it came to me. The Trifecta takes it all the way, past the primitive “Mothers I’d Like to Fuck” (commonly referred to as a MILF) fantasy and into an almost Zen-like state of perfection. After wrestling with mathematics I discovered the Trifecta equation – with the help of Novanometry, if you will:

Bang the daughter + Bang the mother + Bang the grandmother = The Trifecta.

Have I ever achieved The Trifecta? Not yet, my Novanites, but one day I shall.

I never had the chance to get into the panties of the 18-year-old girl’s 34-year-old mother. I broke up with the bitch when she forgot to put pickles in my turkey sandwich. (Stupid cunt.) But if I did, I would’ve made a V-line straight for the grandmother’s nursing home and put on the Nova-charm:

“So Granny, have you heard of the Hummingbird? Pop in your teeth and spread your legs!”

“Ok, Sonny, Ok. But first, put a doily on the floor. We don’t like to stain the carpet in my family.”

“I know, I know…”

Gold Diggers

2009-01-06T12:44:00.000-08:00

“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…

Living Together

2009-01-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in many a relationship when this unholy question escapes the lips of the slow-witted bachelor: “Hey, most of your shit is over here already, sugar-tits – why don’t you move in?”

After this, the man who uttered such a horrendously foolish statement punches his mind from the inside. It was fuckin’ foolish to say this, and the BEST he can hope for is that his girlfriend will say, “No, that’s OK! I RESPECT your personal space and wouldn’t DREAM of intruding upon your sovereign apartment! In fact, why don’t I grab you another beer and perform oral sex while you watch some nice cartoons on TV? Tee, hee! Here, you can rest the remote control on the top of my head.”

Yet for some inexplicable reason, this response almost NEVER happens. Instead, the lady usually replies with fiendish glee: “That sounds perfect, honey! Here, lemme put your scrotum in a leash and redecorate this shithole of an apartment. Hey, let’s replace your marijuana bong and AC/DC poster with some pictures of small children holding flowers. And clean up your crap, for fuck’s sake – you LOSER! This is OUR home now.”

Fellas, if you are thinking of asking this question, bury it DEEP away. And consider what you will be giving up:

1. Sleeping in. Unmarried women ALWAYS wake up earlier than us. It’s some strange genetic code melded into their DNA. Women have no concept of “resting away” a hangover… and some of them even go to church on Sundays, where they tell God about all the bad things you’ve done. Think about it: Do you REALLY want a rat living in your house? It’s best to keep girlfriends and Deities in the dark.

2. Boxing on HBO. Good luck getting her to watch THIS on a Saturday night. She’ll most likely want you to take her out for dinner at some pretentious restaurant that doesn’t even serve nachos. (And a good rule of thumb is, if the bathroom urinal has a fresh urine mint, you’re paying at least 50% too much for your drinks. Order water and bring a flask.) Better hope to get a blowjob out of the dinner date, at least. But sadly, once a bitch lives with you, she won’t EVER buckle her knees until you get your face dirty first, if you know what I mean.

3. Having other women spend the night. It’s so much harder to cheat when you’ve got your new housemate eating Twinkies on the couch, watching one of those bullshit MTV teen-and-relationships shows. Unless she is into threesomes, you better get used to her face – and her face ALONE – every single fuckin’ morning of your life… and that morning face doesn’t come with makeup. Sure, she looks semi-good with lipstick, her hair teased, dim lighting and a quart of whiskey coursing through your system – but how is she gonna look lying on a pillow with her hair 16 ways from Sunday, fiber pills on the nightstand, wet farts escaping her ass, and drool dangling from her mouth like long strands of spaghetti?

4. Freedom. She may accept your ball scratching, your beard trimmings, dirty dishes… but you will NOT be allowed to piss in the sink because you are too lazy or drunk to go the bathroom. And forget about urinating in an empty beer can ‘cause you don’t wanna miss any of the game. Fuck, forget about leaving the ROOM without giving Madam Warden a full report on where you’re going and when you’ll return.

I could go on with MANY more arguments for days and days and days. Yeah, you might say you’re in love and that it will last forever… but c’mon, man. Don’t be a naïve asshole. We all know in this day and age that isn’t true. Most relationships fail. So why go through the mess of becoming a unit when you can keep her at arm’s length and fuck her when the timing is right?

Remember: Your home is your castle. Keep up your drawbridge or surrender your kingdom.

The Best Ways to Let a Girl Down Easy

2009-01-06T07:23:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in all relationships when you MUST let the girl go. Perhaps she has become boring, an annoyance, or a downright liability. Maybe she cut her hair too short or gained five pounds over Thanksgiving. It doesn’t matter the reason; you must find the best way to deep-six the skank without making her feel bad – or seek revenge on your ass.

And let’s face it, fellas, it’s far better for her to think you’re an asshole than for her to lose any self-esteem. ‘Cause any woman who’s fucked-up enough to date a loser like YOU is probably nuttier than one of Mr. Peanut’s bowel movements anyway. No need to push her COMPLETELY off the cliff.

I found that one good way to do let her down easy is to tell her that you are gay. “Hey, so I like the cock. Yum, yum. Let’s go to that gay bar and see if anyone will push my stool in. Hand me a beer bottle! First I’ll drink it, then I’ll sit on it. Yum, yum.”

She’ll be either instantly repulsed by you, or – in some SICK circumstances – actually TURNED ON by the challenge. Hey, she might even like guys who take the cock. But that’s a rarity. More often than not, she’ll call you a fag, punch you in the balls, throw your PlayStation through the window and never talk to you again.

(And OF COURSE you don’t like the cock! And as a guy, it’s gonna KILL YOU to even CLAIM an attraction to the inside of another dude’s sweaty asshole. Get over it. And remember, your PlayStation can always be replaced.)

And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Hey, it ain’t like you were 100% honest and upfront with her, is it? Did you tell her about all of those German movies you downloaded? Did you tell her about the gang-bang with that dirty little Mexican hooker? Did you tell her about that time in the 10th grade when what you THOUGHT was a simple fart turned into an unexpected bout of diarrhea? Hell no. And a relationship is NO TIME to suddenly start being honest.

Sometimes, claiming to be gay will even work to your sexual advantage. Her friends might think that your newfound queerness is all HER fault; for whatever reason, she’s simply not able to please you – which means that all of her hot little girlfriends will be there to console you and try to get you back on the vag. Women are INSANELY competitive with one another – and NOTHING would make a chic happier than banging a dude who found one of her close, personal friends completely unattractive.

Women are weird.

Another classic way to get rid of a bitch is to get drunk constantly. Girls hate that. Mr. Nova once got rid of a girl using this technique in conjunction with another tried and true method: being an absolute pig. Mr. Nova pounded two 23 oz Guinness beers and three shots of Irish whiskey over lunch. Mr. Nova ate a huge plate of tacos while she watched. Belches commenced along with extreme flatulence. And what happened? She still kept calling. But if at first you don’t succeed…

See, this just proves that girls LIKE assholes. You just gotta take it further, fellas. Push that envelope! Make fun of her dog, piss in her sink, shit in her closet, whatever it takes. Mr. Nova once took a huge bong hit in a car outside a nightclub, went in and consumed three pitchers of Newcastle Brown Ale – along with two pounds of spicy Buffalo Wings. He saved the aftermath for when she came home. His poor girlfriend had to clean up more puke than that scene from Stand by Me.

She still loved him. So he went ahead the next night and passed out on her while he was fucking her in the bathroom at a party. He was too heavy to get off of her. Shit all over himself as well. Poor girl had to wait for someone to come in to pry Mr. Nova from her naked, soiled flesh.

She broke up with him the next day.

If that is what it takes, that is what we have to do, fellas. The point being that once you want to get rid of a girl, you don’t ever want her calling you again. Ever. These methods will make sure she thinks you are nothing but a rotten pig… and protects her from feeling bad about herself and going on a man-hating binge. The LAST thing we want to see is a crying girl in a sports bar holding a bouquet of dead flowers and a shotgun.

It also sets up your friends for their shot at her for rebound sex.

Just looking out for you all.

Lying: A Man’s Best Friend

2009-01-06T06:44:00.000-08:00

Lying is a great way to save the girl you love a lot of heartache. It’s a caring, considerate gesture. With a few well-placed lies, you’ll never have to go through countless hours of fighting. No longer will there be a need to file restraining orders, ice-down your nuts, or retrieve your bunny Fluffy from the boiling pot.

Here is how you do it:

Example 1

Hypothetical: You are cheating on her with that cheap slut named Pamela who is a waitress / hooker at the local pub.

The Lie: “Honey, I need some time with the fellas. Here’s your chance to go with your friends to watch that movie about the plain-looking girl who meets Mr. Wonderful while taking dance lessons, or whatever. You know I get a violent reaction to those stupid chick-flicks! Now, it is only until last call and I promise to call a cab home if I have too much. I love you!”

This type of general comment does four important things:

1. Creates an alibi. “Hey, I was at the bar. I know you called up there, but I was helping Jimmy out. He was drinking too much because he got into a fight with Amy. He ended up in the bathroom puking his brains out. Poor bastard. He kept telling me how lucky I am to have you.”

2. Turns the focus of the conversation back to her. Reminding her of the things she does in her free time makes her more sympathetic to your chance to hang with the boys.

3. Lets her know when you will be home. You better fuck the waitress really good in a short amount of time. You are getting away with cheating here – it’s best to stick to your story and return home when you say you will.

4. An excuse for being limp. If she’s inexplicably horny when you arrive, you’ve got a reason for your flat tire: alcohol! “Sorry, baby! I guess I had more to drink than I thought. Looks like a case of whisky-dick. We’ll make love tomorrow – I promise!”

Example 2

Hypothetical: You lost some money on the Super Bowl. Ok, you lost $1,000 gambling at the casino. And your car is being held until your check clears.

The Lie: When she asks, “Honey, where’s your car?” you reply, “At the shop, damn thing is going to cost me $1,000.”

She, being an idiot about anything mechanical (sans her vibrator), responds, “That sucks.”

Now, seeing that she’s suddenly sympathetic, you go in for the kill: “Yeah. I’m awfully sad now. Can we have sex? That will make me feel a lot better.”

All you gotta do is pawn some of her jewelry and make sure your check clears. Take a cab the next day, saying you are going to pick your car up at the shop. No need to elaborate anymore. Most women don’t care about the details of fixing cars. If she asks, use the knowledge you gleaned from documentary films such as The Fast and the Furious and Gone in 60 Seconds.

Example 3:

Hypothetical: You got arrested for urinating in public and never made it home last night.

The Lie: This is trickier, necessitating the help of a friend.

Call up your lawyer buddy – the dorky guy you knew in college who never got laid and thus spent his free time reading and stuff. Have him call your girl up and say that you’re doing him a huge favor by driving to a nearby state to pick up something. It’s a big emergency and a client’s freedom rests on its outcome. The reason the lawyer can’t do it is that he has to be in court in the morning. The lawyer will also explain that you left your cell phone by accident. Once released on bail, wait a few hours and call her from a pay phone – collect, of course.

Check into a hotel, wash up and go home the next day. If you were urinating in public you were probably pretty wasted, so it is best to look sober… but tired.

And never ever introduce your lawyer to your own girlfriend. Always keep this a mystery. Plus, if she asks about anything, you can always claim lawyer / client confidentiality, or use some of the other buzzwords you remember from My Cousin Vinny.

Final Point

It is easy, isn’t it? Lying gets you what you want: peace. It creates a world of beautiful, intricate façades that makes sure your life never will be stressful – and keeps the kinky sex flowing.

Kinky sex! Your girlfriend is a kinky bitch, right? If not, you might have to be honest about your relationship’s future.

Dump her ass! Hey, why lie to yourself?

66.6% Saved: The Unholy Trilogy, Part III

2009-01-05T04:40:00.000-08:00

Note: Part I of this deliciously riveting series can be viewed here, and Part II can be viewed here. If you don’t read this series in order (and then send me money), Baby Jesus will shit his pants and damn you to Hell. So be a good Christian and do what you’re told. Jeah.

66.6% Saved, Part III: Vengeance Is Mine, Sayeth the Nova

Just like the pre-prom hymen of a teenage cheerleader, we knew our Bible adventure would soon be busted. Our next class would probably be our last. Hey, at least we got one piece of quality poon and ruffled a few ecclesiastical feathers; at a bare minimum, my prayers were answered. Hell, we weren’t even going to return until we got bored at 7:45 pm that next Wednesday.

I was disemboweling Sonya Blade and prank-calling my professors while D.S. rifled through his Polaroid collection. You know what they say about idle hands…

“Let’s go back to that Bible study group!” D.S. exclaimed. “Maybe we can bang that big-tittie brunette! You know – the one with the average face and the blimp-sized udders!”

“Fuck yeah,” I concurred. Hey, why not? It’s not like God would punish us, right?

So we showed up at 7:55, ready for some fun-loving blasphemy. But not unlike St. Peter guarding those Pearly Gates, Brian stood within Lounge Three, on the lookout for Team Slappy. (And incidentally, WHO stationed St. Peter at the Pearly Gates anyway? For fuck’s sake, those douche-faced Muslim jackoffs blow themselves up on a school bus – killing 30 innocent little kids – and they’re rewarded with 72 virgins? But Christ’s right-hand man is forced to spend all of eternity working as a fucking doorman?! No pussy at all?! What a rip-off! But I guess the Lord works in mysterious ways.)

“What’s up, fellow Christian?” D.S. chortled, offering Brian a high-five. The Bible Boy left him hanging, however.

“I need to speak with Mr. Nova,” Brian huffily retorted, as he pulled me aside.

“Uh… Ok. May Christ be with you,” D.S. said. When Brian walked away, Billy Broden strolled into the study group and immediately sat next to that so-so coed with the nice floppy tits.

“We need to talk. Now,” Brian commanded, frog-marching me down the hallway. He pointed to an open lounge and stomped his Keds, ordering the Novanator to follow him. And so I did.

“What’s this about, Brian?” I asked, mildly curious of his babble. The normal Nova-response would’ve been to punch him in the balls, steal his wallet, and head straight for the tittie bar… but this cretin was such a Bizarro version of me, I felt oddly compelled to hear the preacher’s goofy Gospel.

“You’re roommates with Mr. Billy Broden?” he demanded.

“Yeah.”

“What the gosh darn heck are you guys up to?!”

“Huh?” I feigned total ignorance – a skill I mastered in order to keep teachers, policemen, and babes with delinquent periods at arm’s length. Being perceived as a complete moron really does come in handy. And you know what else comes in handy? Masturbation. (Ha!)

“I’m quite familiar with Billy Broden’s sordid reputation, and quite frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he doesn’t even believe in God! I’ll have you know that he did despicable things to my roommate’s ex-girlfriend! Terrible things! He took his baby-maker and diddled her in the forehead! Gross! You, however, I don’t know so well, but Jesus preached that we’re judged by the company we keep, so—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted, “I thought Jesus said ‘judge not lest ye be judged.’ So how could I be judged by the company I keep?”

Brian crumpled his face and glowered. “Don’t you DARE get smart with me, Mr. Nova! Enough’s enough! Poor Janet – she was so close to being saved and now she’s reverted to staying out late at night, consuming alcohol, and letting perverts touch her sacred feminine flower! I saw those pictures of her on the bulletin board and it disgusts me! Sick! It’s time for me to take a stand! I’m convinced that you two joined my Bible group just so you can mess with us ‘silly Christians.’ I know what you are up to, and as God is my witness, I will not tolerate it!”

“It’s not YOUR Bible group, Brain. It’s CHRIST’S Bible group. But to answer your question, no, we’re not up to anything at all.”

“No?”

“No, we both decided to join your group because we, like, totally dig Jesus. Awesome guy – we love the bastard! Certainly not to fuc— I mean, mess with silly Christians. And of course we believe in God! We both love Him AND His son, even more than we love nachos and doughnuts. Jesus is super-cool! He’s Christacular!”

“Fine. Then I have to ask you one final question before I allow you back into my— er, Christ’s Bible group. And you MUST tell me the truth, for I swear to you, Jesus himself is listening!”

“Fire away, bro. What’s your final question?” For some strange reason, Brian smelled like an unpleasant combination of chocolate milk and urine. Smelling like urine I could understand. Hell, I’ve had some drunken episodes where I’ve pissed all over myself (and all over other people). But chocolate milk? On a college campus? What the fuck is that all about?

“Are you 100% or 0% saved? Do you fully accept Jesus Christ?”

“Technically, that’s two questions. You promised me that you were only gonna ask one final question. Remember: Jesus himself is listening.”

Bible Boy Brian fumed at Darth Nova. “Answer me this instant or— or— or no more doughnuts!!”

“Alright,” I conceded. “To answer your first question… I don’t feel 100% saved, nor do I feel 0% saved. I am somewhere beyond the middle… but not quite there.”

Brian wanted to say something, but before he could—

“I am 66.6% saved,” your humble Novanator concluded.

“You can’t be!” Brian cried with self-righteous indignation. “You HAVE to either be either 100% saved or 0% saved! There is no middle ground when it comes to Christ!”

“Huh? No middle ground? There’s always middle ground!”

“You’re dead wrong, Mr. Nova! Sometimes there is no middle ground! You can’t be ‘a little’ or ‘half’ saved, just like a woman can’t have ‘a little’ or ‘half’ an abortion.” Brian was making those annoying quote marks in the air while talking to me. Seriously, this dude was heading for an ass beating of Biblical proportions.

I tried a Vulcan mind-meld with the Jesus-freak: “What if a woman is pregnant with twins? Then, couldn’t she have half an abortion? Y’know… just kill one of the kids?”

Brian shook his head furiously, trying to shake free from my sinful influence. “Stop it! Stop it! Abortion is an abomination against GOD! You have no right to make jokes about abortion!” he shrieked.

“Say, when you ask a pro-life person how old they are, how come they don’t automatically add nine-months to their birth age?” I asked. Actually, that’s a damn good question.

Saint Brian didn’t appreciate the Nova-wit. “What kind of SICK person would DARE joke about abortion?! I TOLD you to knock it off!” Brain’s nostrils flared like a woman’s clitoris amidst orgasmic delight. It was actually kind of sexy.

“I’m not making fun of abortion, you spazz. I’m just thinking out loud here. And by the way, have you ever stopped and considered what an amazingly versatile household device a coat hanger truly is?”

“What?!”

“Well, not only can it suspend clothes in mid-air, and not only can it open a locked car door – but it can also scrape away a fetus and terminate a pregnancy. Few household devices are so versatile. Plus, you can even bend a metal coat hanger into a straight line to cook some delicious s’mores! Did Jesus eat s’mores? Maybe after a long day of eating goat cheese, levitating the dead, and arguing with Judas?”

Brian narrowed his eyes and jabbed his bony finger right into my manly Nova-chest. “My suspicions about you were right!” he screamed. “You’re EVIL! You’ve rejected the blood-oath of Jesus Christ and are therefore destined for eternal damnation in the fiery bowels of HELL!”

“Oh,” I replied, “I didn’t realize you were a disciple of the Christian Fear Doctrine. I’ve been battling against that since it was formed on a hilltop 2,000 years ago.”

“Christian Fear Doctrine?”

“Yeah. C.F.D. It’s an acronym,” I explained.

Brian’s whole body trembled, like he was Muhammad Ali on a tilt-a-whirl. “You can’t be 66.6% saved, Nova. It’s not possible. And if you’re not saved, then you’re destined for Hell!”

The sheer futility of this conversation was beginning to bore the fuck out of me. I felt a little uncomfortable. And hungry. And a little gassy. I squeezed out a small fart. It sounded exactly like Minnie Mouse singing.

“Brian, have you ever stopped and considered that Hell might be fictional? Just because you read something in an old religious book, it doesn’t automatically make it true.”

“Yes it does!” Brian insisted. “The Holy Bible contains the literal, eternal word of God!”

“Dude, you gotta think this stuff through,” I reasoned. “The Bible claims that when Noah was a 600-year-old geezer living in the Middle East, he built – by hand – a big fuckin’ boat. And then he filled that boat with every single animal in all of existence, which would’ve included American buffalo, penguins, gorillas, hippos, polar bears, Wooly Mammoths, French women, bees, kangaroos, kimono dragons, head lice, skunks, rattlesnakes, termites, and pubic crabs. Do you really believe all that?”

“Yes! I believe every single word of it!”

I sighed. The big-tittie brunette with the so-so face wasn’t worth the headache. If Brian wanted to swallow this silliness, more power to him. I got up and headed for the door.

“You are one lost man, Mr. Nova!” Brian shouted after me.

“At least I know where I stand, in the middle, somewhere between the alpha and the omega. And in that middle ground I’m gonna bang out a few angels and party with a few demons. That’s what life’s all about, you soft-minded dupe.”

“You’re going to roast in Hell, Mr. Nova! Hell! HELL! And I’ll be sitting on Jesus Christ’s lap while you’re being tortured by demons! Ha, ha, ha! I’m gonna watch you BURN!”

Just like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, I freakin’ snapped. I figured, what the fuck? If I’m destined for Hell anyway, I might as well earn my ticket. I turned right around, marched straight towards Brian, and bitch-slapped his ass. I tore off his crucifix, pocketed the golden trinket, and punched him squarely in his belly. Bible-Thumping Brian immediately puked chocolate milk all over his shoes, lost control of his bladder, and pissed all over himself.

“You evil jackass! I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I ever do!” Brian shrieked at me, sounding like he had a piece of the original cross wedged up his sanctimonious ass.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “No name-calling. Remember: W.W.J.D.”

Of course, Brian promptly told his resident advisor about our little altercation, and I got into my first of many skirmishes with the university administrators. In fact, I was probably going to be expelled for this transgression, but Brian mysteriously dropped out of college just one day prior to my judicial hearing. I think his disappearance was somehow linked to photos of a passed-out Brian – with an unknown assailant’s shlong paddling him in the face – being posted over all the campus bulletin boards. Apparently, SOMEONE put a roofie in his chocolate milk. (It turns out that one of The Dick Slapper’s biggest fans was a certain shemale who had a VERY disturbing run-in with Lord Nova several months ago. Long Dong Debbie used to buy porn from Broden and lent him one of his / her little pills. Rape and redemption. Ain’t karma impossible to figure out?)

According to Brain’s roommate, the horrified Bible Boy packed his bags the following morning, fled the college in shame, and headed for parts unknown. After all, it’s a sin against Christ for a dude to be on the receiving end of slap-happy pecker. Nobody ever saw or heard of Brian again. Well, that’s what he gets for threatening my fucking doughnuts.

As for D.S. Billy Broden, last I heard he was serving time in a federal prison. See, a few years later he graduated from dental school, used way too much gas on his patients, and got caught filling the wrong cavities. Talk about turning the other cheek…

W.W.J.D. indeed.

66.6% Saved: The Unholy Trilogy, Part II

2009-01-04T05:40:00.000-08:00

Note: Part I of this riveting series can be viewed here.

66.6% Saved, Part II: W.W.J.D.?

“I need to ask you, my God-fearing brothers and sisters: What led you to join my seminar about the Prince of Peace and King of Kings? While all of our fellow students are wantonly violating the divine edicts of God and engaging in carnal wickedness, why have you chosen to walk the path of righteousness? In other words, why are you here?”

Brian the Bible Boy stood upright before his flock, looking like a cross between Alex P. Keaton and Cameron Diaz’s retarded brother in There’s Something about Mary. Brian hoisted his oversized corduroy pants well above his bellybutton, and draped a shiny golden crucifix around his pale, fleshy neck. (By the way, is it just me… or are golden crucifixes just about the polar opposite of EVERYTHING Jesus stood for? Millions of poor people can’t even afford a pot to piss in – and rich goobers like Brian waste their money on gaudy religious symbols, in an infantile effort to flaunt their faith and wealth. What an insecure cocksucker! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The only people I’ll tolerate wearing large golden crucifixes are ugly black kids who NEED the bling-bling in order to trick women into thinking that they like Jesus and have money. Nobody else. And certainly not a chromosome-challenged propagandist like Brian.)

Anyway, five girls and four dudes surrounded the Bible Boy (myself and D.S. included). One of the females replied to Brian’s question in typical Christian fashion:

“To learn about the teachings of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ!” this top-heavy brunette robotically blurted. She wasn’t particularly bad looking, my Novanites; a guy could definitely fuck her in the ass without getting teased by his friends. But other than those nice floppy tits, she wasn’t anything particularly special. Frankly, on at least three separate occasions, I’ve banged a higher quality of pussy at the old age home.

“Exactly, my fellow Christian!” Brian cooed, stretching a ridiculously elongated smile across his ever-so-pious face – the kind of exaggerated smile that babes use on bartenders to get free drinks without having to put out. “Who else?”

“To better understand how we can spread the word of God to our classmates,” cheerfully chimed an acne-ravaged mess who almost certainly came from one of those strange, fictional households with 2.5 children and a white picket fence, where everyone always eats dinner together and Dad only beats the shit out of Mom when she burns the meatloaf.

“Wonderful answer,” Brian grinned. “Anybody else?”

A smoking hot cutie who, I later discovered, went by the name of Janet Dubowski and had recently turned her life over to Jesus Christ after fucking up so spectacularly that nobody else would talk to her, spoke next: “To avoid eternal damnation and embrace the spirit of our Heavenly Father!”

“Excellent, Janet! You’ve learned so much,” Captain Christian beamed, still looking like a young Michael J. Fox with Down syndrome. Brian flipped open the Good Book and gazed downward. “Now let’s all turn to Genesis 4:12 and—”

“Uh, I know why I’m here,” D.S. interrupted, cutting off Bible Boy just as he was about to delve into a discussion that probably would’ve bettered the world.

“Oh. Ok, Billy. Uh… why are you here?” Brian’s smile immediately faded from his mealy mouth. This would-be minister learned of Billy’s slap-happy reputation after D.S. penis-whipped his roommate’s ex-girlfriend last month, and Brian obviously feared for the safety of his vulnerable minions.

“I know you wanna get into Genesis, and that is, like, a totally killer book, but I’m more interested in the end of it all. You know, like Revelations. That story trips me out, man.”

“It’s not a story, it is reality. But go on, Billy.”

“Well, I’ve been reading this series of books called Left Behind. They deal with the End Days, and, like, WOW! Super spooky! I mean, that’s really some heavy-duty shit.”

“Yes, I’ve read all those books as well. And please refrain from profanity. Remember: W.W.J.D.”

“W.W.J.D.?” Billy asked.

“It is an acronym. It stands for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’”

“You don’t think Jesus ever cussed? Seriously, when Christ was on the cross, you don’t think he screamed the Hebrew equivalent of ‘shit’ as the nails were hammered into his palms?” Billy asked (while shoveling a jelly-filled doughnut into his pie-hole).

“Jesus spoke Aramaic, not Hebrew. And I don’t understand what that has to do with Genesis or Revelations, Billy.”

“It has everything to do with it. I am here to tell you that the End Days are here. Already. Like, right now.”

The study group fell quiet. Everyone sat transfixed as Billy Broden spun his theological web:

“Listen,” D.S. lectured, “don’t you feel like the world is falling into the abyss every time you look around? War, death, famine, and Mormons are everywhere. Wake up, my fellow Christians! The Biblical signs of the apocalypse are all around us! You see your fellow students partying, doing drugs, drinking, fucking—”

“Billy!” Brian exclaimed. “Remember: W.W.J.D.”

“I’m more of a fan of the W.W.F., but that’s cool. Can I continue?”

“Wrap it up. We have some extremely serious scriptures to catch up on. And I want to share with everyone a very interesting parable about a greedy king and a gassy frog.” Brian tapped his Casio wristwatch like a self-important wonk. And my Novanites, this apostatizing doofus sorely tempted my fists to launch forward and pound the fuck out of his holier-than-thou face. Just the way he looked, for some strange reason, annoyed the shit out of me. I hadn’t instinctively hated anyone with such a fiery passion since that rat-bastard Kenny G.

“Alright,” D.S. continued. “To make a long story short, I’m here to help my fellow Christians understand that the Devil walks amongst us in human form. Today and now! No, he doesn’t wear horns or wield a pitchfork, but he’s readying his plans for the earth’s Armageddon. The Devil is evil incarnate! And he’s probably a Jew, or something. Heavy metal music, homosexuals, and all those abortions give him great strength. But he can be defeated; the Book of Revelations proves this fact to all good Christians willing to learn! We must stick together, comforting God’s children with unbridled love. And we must heed Christ’s commandments, such as ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ For when the End Days comes, I don’t want to be… left… behind!”

Brian looked puzzled. The rest of the group sat stunned.

D.S. peaked over at Janet and flashed her a timid, Christ-like smile. She seemed frightened by this apparent zealot, but at the same time intrigued.

“The end of the world is going to be very cold,” he whispered to her. “We must do everything we can to bring warmth and light into this temporal life while there’s still time.”

That was all it took. When Brian left the room to take a tinkle, your Novanator and D.S. hightailed it out of the discussion group with gentle Janet in our arms. After several beers (plus a few fagotty Zimas for the lady), we both banged Janet in our dorm room. I went first – while Billy Broden was running around campus, posting candid camera shots of last week’s cum-covered coeds – and D.S. batted cleanup after I left for a beer run. He later claimed that he got the Christian clittie to orgasm six times. I had to take his word for it, as I was busy eating a sandwich in the lobby, got distracted by some drunk chick with an apple-shaped ass, and spent the night over at her place. He naturally showed me some dick-slapping photos he took of Janet after she fell asleep.

But W.W.N.D.?

66.6% Saved: The Unholy Trilogy, Part I

2009-01-03T07:20:00.000-08:00

66.6% Saved, Part I: My Roomate D.S. Billy Broden

Residing on the seventh floor of Madison Hall – blasting tunes and downing brews in a dreary dorm room awash in beer bottles, soiled clothes, and various items stolen from my classmates – your humble Novanator surveyed the impish nerds and stupid sluts scurrying to class from his dusty dorm window. As a lowly, serf-like freshman away at college, university rules & regulations mercilessly humiliated me with their draconian, torturous edicts, such as mandatory “diversity tolerance” classes, the horrors of public transportation (freshmen were prohibited from keeping cars on campus), and communal shitters in a hallway bathroom. But none of those quasi war crimes came even close to matching the shameful indignity of living on-campus… with a roommate.

Having a roommate means having to share – and Mr. Nova HATES sharing. Sharing sucks. Let those starving villagers in piss-poor Africa share; I know what’s mine and I’ll kick you in the nuts if you try to take it. Like my Uncle Ennis used to say, “Sharing is for communists and faggots, young Nova. Always protect your shit. Now bring me my whisky, my shotgun, and a roadmap to the Governor’s Mansion.” (Then Uncle Ennis would down a few dozen shots, smoke a joint, and spend the next seven hours trying to cook hash browns in the kitchen.) But university rules & regulations required ALL freshmen to live on campus with a roommate, so I bit the bullet and bowed in low homage to senseless regulatory conformity.

Fortunately, the roommate assigned to me was a legend in his own right: a 19-year-old cutthroat who amassed a considerable fortune pushing crack cocaine to drugged-out whores along the mean streets of Chicago, as well as hawking amateur porn tapes of his neighbors fucking to businessmen on their way home from work. He was a despicable deviant, even more perverted than Catherine the Great’s pet pony.

Scoundrel or not, the dude had the entrepreneurial spirit of a young Alphonse Gabriel Capone. In middle school, he netted a cool $200 selling the custodial staff cartoon flip-books of all the cute white teachers getting gang raped by the Harlem Globetrotters. (Curly was the ringleader.) A few years later, he cleared his first $1,000 by going door-to-door, selling fat-assed housewives a line of vibrating bicycle seats he designed with discounted Schwinn parts and $10 vibrators he ordered from an Adam & Eve catalog. By the time he sold-off his porn and narcotics enterprise to an anonymous Italian-American “business” association, he was worth close to $700,000. Attending college was his way of going legitimate… while also pursuing pleasures of the flesh.

Enter D.S. Billy Broden.

Within those hallowed halls of higher education, Broden quickly achieved widespread notoriety for taking pictures of his drunken conquests as he smacked their passed-out faces with his eight-inch cock. Somehow these pictures would find their way onto campus bulletin boards at random times during the week, thus starting a myth amongst students of the mysterious man known only as “The Dick Slapper” – D.S. for short.

(My Novanites must keep in mind that Broden’s reign on testicular terror coincided with those Dark Days of the early-to-mid 1990s – that unfortunate epoch just prior to the Internet boom and Bill Clinton’s popularization of the casual blowjob. As such, mass pornographic picture-sharing necessitated the physical postings of smutty photographs at key public places. And getting your dick sucked actually required a modicum of effort. You kids of today have NO IDEA how fortunate you truly are. Thanks to sperm-tossing trailblazers like the pervs behind Internet porn, D.S. Billy Broden, President Clinton, and your humble Novanator, today’s coeds suck cock like the cum contains the cure for crabs, or something – and porn is ridiculously plentiful online, catering to every conceivable fetish and bestial orientation. You kids OWE us; we braved the sexual wilderness with nothing but a boner and a dream – and together, we made this world a far better place. But where is OUR parade, I ask? Where is OUR statue? Where is OUR Clint Eastwood movie? You bunch of ungrateful fuckers... But I digress.)

The fact that D.S. was roomies with the infamous Mr. Nova made Madison Hall the most diabolically decadent den of debutante debauchery in school history. Not only was your Novanator orgasmitizing young coeds with his Hummingbird Technique, but D.S was always on hand to film the fuck-fests with any one of his four video cameras.

School administrators lacked the evidence necessary to expel D.S. or myself. Sure, they undoubtedly knew we were both lowlife hoodlums, but the university pencil-pushers and campus crusaders had more crucial matters to deal with; drinking and violence was at an all time high that year, and militant feminist groups were constantly filling time-consuming complaints about silly shit, like the objectification of cheerleaders, or exclusion of fat chicks from the dance team. This – coupled with the fact that our grades were surprisingly excellent – left D.S. and I alone to pull off one of the stunts that I am most proud of…

…Namely, infiltrating a Bible study group.

Now, my Novanites understand that God and I don’t get along. I don’t like Him, and He doesn’t like me. We’ve argued, fought, and even compromised in the past, but we’ve pretty much given up on each other. I wasn’t there for God when His kid was getting nailed to the cross for being a smartass to the Romans, and He wasn’t there for me when that shemale put a roofie in my pitcher of Guinness and played shuffleboard with my fudge-factory (never ask me about this). Basically, my attitude is that God can do His thing… and meanwhile, I’ll be over here, drinking beer and fucking your girlfriend.

So why would your Novanator choose to join a Bible discussion group?

To get laid and fuck shit up, of course!

Christianity attracts feeble-minded dolts like the Goth movement attracts pampered suburbanite losers. For whatever reason, Christianity captures the attention of those striving sooooo hard to be good, moral boys and girls – but also those who keep an angry sinner trapped inside of them – and in most cases, a LOT of pent-up sexual frustration.

Hey, maybe those bitches feel bad because they sorely want to spank their beavers – and those hypocritical Christian ministers tell them that masturbation makes Baby Jesus lose control of his bowels, or something. So they pray in church to atone for their sins, but can’t quite shake the perfectly natural desire to get royally FUCKED by a guy who swings a big, throbbing, purple-headed stain-stick. And eventually, they all succumb to pelvic temptation. A Christian girl is a sexual time bomb… and if you’re fortunate enough to be in close proximity when her pussy explodes, you’re in for a religious experience. Cum all ye faithful, indeed.

When will those morally-meddlesome Christian activists realize that NATURE knows best? Embedded within our DNA is a specific genetic code that, when heeded, guides us all to happiness and fulfillment – so if masturbation feels good, then go ahead and do it. I’ll give you kids a quick example about nature knowing best: if you ask most guys what their ideal woman looks like, they’ll probably say she’s a 20-something, curvy, long-haired chick with nice big tits. My Novanites, that’s Mother Nature at work! Your sexual impulses are guided by evolution! Think about it: a young woman in her 20s is ideal for producing babies; shapely hips means she can rear children; long hair indicates good health; and nice big tits is linked to breastfeeding… as well as keeping Pops happy.

(Interestingly, a minority of guys are actually attracted to small tits. It’s true! If you visit enough porn websites – and I’m talking about the ones that categorize their deviant smut into various lists – you’ll notice that just about all of them have a category for Tiny Tits, Small Tits, or Flat-Chests. So basically, dudes who dig small tits are essentially saying in evolutionary terms: “Gee, I sure would like to find a babe who is young and healthy enough to bear me some children… and then won’t feed ‘em.” I’m guessing that guys who’re attracted to tiny tits are scared of having fat kids. But hey, that’s just a theory of mine. Another theory of mine is that the only men who dig transsexual porn are guys who secretly are gay – but for religious reasons, deny this fact by beating their bishops to dudes who sort of look like chicks.)

Yup. That’s the Christian mindset for you.

True Nova Factoid: I once talked a dopey Christian coed into doing anal by explaining to her that when Jesus said “turn the other cheek,” he was talking about grabbing the ankles and stabbing the puckered starfish. That was one stupid broad. She also made crappy sandwiches. I don’t know why, but ultra-religious Christian women tend to be lousy cooks. A good many of them also have nappy bushes. Just going by personal experience, ultra-religious Christians and leftwing environmentalists have more pubic hair per square inch than any other demographic.

Back to our story: Broden and I left our dorm room to grab some nachos from a nearby 7-11, a task which necessitated walking by the dorm’s lobby. D.S. spied a bright colored flyer on the bulletin board and ripped it down. The flyer said:

BIBLE STUDY GROUP
8:00 p.m. Wednesday Nights
Lounge 3 on the 5th Floor
Come learn about the wonderful teachings of Christ
Free delicious doughnuts
See Brian in Rm. 577 for more details

Upon returning to our dorm room, D.S. said to me, in between mouthfuls of tortilla chips and gobs of 7-11’s mucus-colored quasi-cheese, “Mr. Nova, I think this Bible study stuff might be an untapped resource for us.”

I was busy downing a beer bong and couldn’t reply.

“Think of all the primo pussy attending these meetings! Imagine little Christian sex bunnies trying to do what’s right, but they’re constantly surrounded by the immense pressures of college! They gotta get good grades to justify Daddy paying their way through school, but it’s damn hard to study 24 hours a day without a little sexual release. Besides, this college is on a partying rampage! How the hell are these ladies supposed to unwind after a brutal school week without some recreational sex? I’m tellin’ you, these goodie-goodie Christians just need a slight nudge towards evil – so I can unleash my unbridled Dick Slapper power all over their innocent faces! Bwahaha ha ha!”

D.S. was on to something. After I drained the beer bong dry (64 ounces all at once, baby!), I stumbled back to my chair, emitted a belch that sounded eerily like Lemmy Kilmiser of Motörhead, and softly chuckled.

“Christians are stupid!” I remarked, totally ignoring his “Dick Slapper” comment. I didn’t condone his activities, nor did I chide him for it. I preferred to leave my “Friends with Benefits” happy after I fucked them. I didn’t resort to smacking their faces with my Nova-jang, although I did ask the little cuties to make me a sandwich before they left. And doing stuff to passed-out chicks was NEVER my bag. That’s why I honestly can’t comprehend the sexual appeal of that “date rape” drug, in which guys drop a few pills in a girl’s drink, she passes out cold, and the dude proceeds to strip her and fuck her. What’s THAT all about? I mean, the great thing about sex is making the bitch moan and squeal: “Ooh, Big Daddy Nova! Ride me like I’m Seabiscuit! Oh, OH! OHHH!!! Give me my carrot, Daddy!” Yeah, my Novanites! Now THAT’S hot! In stark contrast, who in the world wants to bang a babe who lies completely still and motionless? There’s enough time for that shit after your married. But I digress.

“Yes, Mr. Nova!” D.S. evilly laughed. “Christian women are the most susceptible, easily manipulated people on the planet! If only I had known this when I was still selling amateur porn, I could’ve done a whole series on Catholic nuns being sodomized by big black dudes dressed as demons! Niggers and Nuns: Hip-Hop in the Habit, I’d call it! Shit, I woulda made a mint!”

He paused. Then it hit him:

“We should join that Bible study group!” Broden exclaimed.

D.S. was way too into the concept of defiling drunken coeds. And I never completely understood why he loved watching porn that showcased well-hung black guys banging out little white chicks. None of this was my Nova-Style. Instead, your Novanator just wanted to drink, fuck a few hotties, and generally be left alone. But I was intrigued by this idea. For some reason, I was up for infiltrating the group and seeing if I could nail some sweet Christian snatch to the Nova-cross. The allure of devouring a few juicy morsels of forbidden fruit cannot be understated.

“Let’s do it!”

D.S. and I celebrated our decision by downing a few more beers and cranking some good old fashion heavy metal and gangsta jams on our massive stereo system. The nerds down the hall were furious, ‘cause our tunes rendered it impossible for them to enjoy their Monty Python film festival. When they banged on the walls to complain, D.S. nonchalantly barged into their dorm room, whipped out his crank, and pissed all over their beanbag. That’s just the kind of guy he was.

The very next Wednesday, D.S. and Lord Nova showed up at Lounge Three on the fifth Floor, ready to unleash Hell… and grab a few delicious doughnuts.

END OF PART ONE

And so it begins...

2009-01-02T14:42:00.000-08:00

Well, now. Life is about to get VERY interesting.

You've been warned.

Nova is coming.

Right between your eyes.

Jeah.