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…
Showing posts with label Grim Reaper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grim Reaper. Show all posts
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part II: The Dice’s Inn
Some institutions exist for the sole purpose of spreading evil throughout the land, such as schools, churches, and Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings. Others hold that evil inside, cultivating the sickness in secret, tainting only the hapless few that find themselves trapped within in its diabolical clutches. The Dice’s Inn was such a place.
Located off a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere, the Dice’s Inn called out to me like a Siren’s wail, and I don’t mean a police siren, but the gorgeous Sirens of Greek mythology. You’ve heard of the Sirens, haven’t you? The Sirens were gorgeous temptresses whose seductive songs triggered the demise of countless sailors – and the destruction of thousands of uneaten gyros. Hey, you KNOW those Sirens were hot when GREEK GUYS wanted to fuck them. As a general rule, Greek men won’t fuck anything without a scrotum.
The Nova Wagon was kicking along at a monster rate. The women Stinky and I soiled had become annoying, asking the entire way if we were going to dance with them. I had ignored them the best I could, but my country-cutie had her hand down my pants and was stroking the Nova-jang.
“Puulllleeaasseeee can we dance, Nova?” she said, with her pouty lips looking hot as hell. “I want to sooooooo bad!” She then unbuckled my Levi’s and slid down the zipper. She looked up at me with her pretty eyes and started gliding he tongue all over her mouth. “C’mon, Nova! I want to dance!” In a moment of weakness I promised to dance with the inbred whore.
I knew I would regret my promise, as I do with most of my promises. I also knew that this trip was starting to cramp my style, and the people in my inner Nova-circle would soon be jettisoned. Especially Stinky, whom I feared would latch onto me like one of Adam Sandler’s untalented friends – especially if I allowed him to discover more about the true essence of Nova Style. He had done his job by providing the girls, but now his usefulness was over.
Unbeknownst to my carload of half-wits, this was going to be our last night as friends, and thus had to be an epic adventure like none other; at a bare minimum, I owed the smelly bastard that much. So we sped into the parking lot and I skid my beloved vehicle on the gravel lot. The wagon, in an act of rebel defiance, kicked up rocks and broken teeth all over a line of motorcycles.
“Fuck yeah!” I exclaimed as we came to a stop. “It is beer and nacho time, my Novanites!”
Now, this was the first time I ever used the term “Novanite.” Stinky and the ladies had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t care what they thought; I was on a mission and they no longer mattered.
I stepped out from my wagon and took a good look at the Dice’s Inn. Picture a massive barn turned into a bar. There were no other buildings on the entire block and the Dice’s Inn stood all alone, like a fat girl on prom night. Its backdrop was a cornfield extending into the soulless, starless night. The grating sounds of country music polluted out from the cowboy-esque double-doors. All sorts of troublemakers were slamming beers and spitting Skoal. The women inside were either slightly fuckable… or burly enough to kick your ass, then rape you with the pool cue.
This was a place where you could die a horrible death and no one on the outside would ever know what happened. It was a den of lost souls, a resting place for the damned.
Something inside the Nova-skull warned me not to venture forward… but I was hungry and needed nachos. I didn’t even wait for Stinky and the ladies. I stormed the Dice’s Inn with no fear.
Then it hit me:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING NACHO BAR?! BY GOD, I WAS PROMISED A NACHO BAR AND NACHOS I WILL HAVE!!”
I stood there aghast. This dive had everything I needed: beer, babes, a pinball machine (with a NASCAR theme), but no nacho bar! Not even chips and salsa at the tables! Instead, they had fucking peanuts all over the floor! I looked everywhere, and all I saw was dirty rednecks chomping and spitting like pigs at a trough. I was pissed.
Stinky and the girls caught up to me and saw I was dismayed.
“Dude, you like totally ran in here! That ain’t appropriate behavior ‘round these parts.”
“No shit, Stinky! I thought there were nachos in this establishment! I was LIED to! My God, Stinky, no person has ever – in the HISTORY of humanity – faced this level of unabashed duplicity before! I’ve been betrayed! This is even worse than the time Judas stole Jesus’ coat of many colors, or whatever the fuck he did to piss off Mel Gibson. Fucking hell!”
I gave my country-cooch the evil Nova-stare. She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“Where is my nacho bar?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I thought there was one. I guess I was wrong. Tee hee!” she said with a vacant (but hot) grin.
“Dammit! If I had known there were no nachos here I would have never agreed to visit this incestuous barnyard!” When I said this, a couple of the patrons overheard me and gave your Master of the Technique threatening scowls. I was in an agitated state, rare for your normally benevolent Novanator. The natives knew I was restless.
“Aw, don’t be that way, Nova-dude!” she purred. “You’ll like this place! The boy’s bathroom even gots a glory hole! Zeke drilled the hole last weekend! Why don’tcha give it a try?”
(For those of you inexperienced in the deviant sexual arts, a “glory hole” is, well, a hole in the wall – positioned so you can stick your dick into it – and someone on the other side will ostensibly suck you off. Typically, glory holes aren’t installed in the bathrooms of your classier restaurants, such as Red Lobster – but I guess the Dice’s Inn only delivered the very best for its guests.)
“No, thank you,” I retorted. “I’m not gonna let the Novacock get swallowed unless I can SEE who’s doing the sucking. The last thing I need is to shoot my juice, and then hear someone who sounds like Uncle Jesse gargling ‘Yeehaw!’ on the other side. I just want my fucking nachos, Ok?”
Stinky was already on the dance floor, convulsing his gangly body in rhythm to some semi-coherent Waylon Jennings yarn. It was a pathetic display. I never understood why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that wretched hillbilly crap. I guess the “music” is designed to boost the self-esteem of poor white people, telling them that being broke, uneducated, and having a fat wife carries a sense of nobility. Regardless, my ears were rejecting this redneck yodeling out of principle.
I wanted to grab Stinky so we could get the hell out of this shit-pit, but at that exact moment, my girl tried to take me up on the promise I made earlier in haste.
“C’mon, Nova! You promised me! I wanna dance!”
“But sugar-twat, you know that promises are like the female orgasm: exciting to witness, but mostly fake and largely inconsequential,” I reasoned with her. Line-dancing, country music, and no nachos? No way THIS relationship was gonna last, my Novanites.
Sugar-twat wasn’t cooperating. “You bastard, Nova! You promised me! You’ll pay! I’ve got friends in here who’ll beat you like my Daddy beats his girlfriends!”
I laughed a little, but realized I was in alien territory. The Dice’s Inn was her home turf – and if I didn’t dance with her, there could be hell to pay. Half of these hicks looked like Sloth from the Goonies – and would love nothing more than an opportunity to impress my slut by kicking the shit out of me.
“Alright,” I conceded, “but just for one song. And you BETTER suck my stain-stick on the car ride back to the apartment – or I’ll tell EVERYONE about your inability to properly wipe your own fuckin’ ass.”
“Yay!” she delightfully exclaimed, as she dragged me onto the dance floor.
Now, when it comes to dancing, I prefer to play the voyeur. A woman shaking her ass is meant to be appreciated visually; that’s the entire premise of strip clubs. Jumping up and down on the dance floor – away from my beer, nachos, and sandwiches – is NOT my Nova-style. I’ll let the other poor slobs get sweaty and dick-teased by the bump-and-grind – and when the song ends, your always-fresh Novanator will scoop up the skank and force-feed her my special sauce.
I planted my feet on the floor like a wooden Indian, while my little hooker frantically gyrated to some horrible song the band was playing. This was pure torture, my Novanites; even worse than the time I ate at Hardee’s. She then put her arms up on my shoulders and wanted to get all romantic and shit. Ugghhh!!! I looked down at her and she was already batting those devilish little eyes. Didn’t she understand that she had already gotten the Nova-jang – not to mention the Hummingbird Technique – and all Nova wanted to do was drink and eat?!
Mercifully, the song ended when the lead singer dropped his harmonica into his spit-cup, and I headed straight for the bar. I noticed a group of rednecks giving me the evil eye and muttering incoherently to one another. My Nova-sense was tingling. I came to the decision that after a healthy drink, I would find Stinky and depart this Land of Dueling Banjos.
I perched on a barstool and ordered a beer and a shot of 151. After I chugged the sweet alcohol, I threw down some cash and turned to leave.
That was when I found myself face to face with the Grim Reaper.
Again.“Hello, Nova,” snarled that heartless, death-dealing bitch. “What makes you think that YOU are going anywhere?”
Located off a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere, the Dice’s Inn called out to me like a Siren’s wail, and I don’t mean a police siren, but the gorgeous Sirens of Greek mythology. You’ve heard of the Sirens, haven’t you? The Sirens were gorgeous temptresses whose seductive songs triggered the demise of countless sailors – and the destruction of thousands of uneaten gyros. Hey, you KNOW those Sirens were hot when GREEK GUYS wanted to fuck them. As a general rule, Greek men won’t fuck anything without a scrotum.
The Nova Wagon was kicking along at a monster rate. The women Stinky and I soiled had become annoying, asking the entire way if we were going to dance with them. I had ignored them the best I could, but my country-cutie had her hand down my pants and was stroking the Nova-jang.
“Puulllleeaasseeee can we dance, Nova?” she said, with her pouty lips looking hot as hell. “I want to sooooooo bad!” She then unbuckled my Levi’s and slid down the zipper. She looked up at me with her pretty eyes and started gliding he tongue all over her mouth. “C’mon, Nova! I want to dance!” In a moment of weakness I promised to dance with the inbred whore.
I knew I would regret my promise, as I do with most of my promises. I also knew that this trip was starting to cramp my style, and the people in my inner Nova-circle would soon be jettisoned. Especially Stinky, whom I feared would latch onto me like one of Adam Sandler’s untalented friends – especially if I allowed him to discover more about the true essence of Nova Style. He had done his job by providing the girls, but now his usefulness was over.
Unbeknownst to my carload of half-wits, this was going to be our last night as friends, and thus had to be an epic adventure like none other; at a bare minimum, I owed the smelly bastard that much. So we sped into the parking lot and I skid my beloved vehicle on the gravel lot. The wagon, in an act of rebel defiance, kicked up rocks and broken teeth all over a line of motorcycles.
“Fuck yeah!” I exclaimed as we came to a stop. “It is beer and nacho time, my Novanites!”
Now, this was the first time I ever used the term “Novanite.” Stinky and the ladies had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t care what they thought; I was on a mission and they no longer mattered.
I stepped out from my wagon and took a good look at the Dice’s Inn. Picture a massive barn turned into a bar. There were no other buildings on the entire block and the Dice’s Inn stood all alone, like a fat girl on prom night. Its backdrop was a cornfield extending into the soulless, starless night. The grating sounds of country music polluted out from the cowboy-esque double-doors. All sorts of troublemakers were slamming beers and spitting Skoal. The women inside were either slightly fuckable… or burly enough to kick your ass, then rape you with the pool cue.
This was a place where you could die a horrible death and no one on the outside would ever know what happened. It was a den of lost souls, a resting place for the damned.
Something inside the Nova-skull warned me not to venture forward… but I was hungry and needed nachos. I didn’t even wait for Stinky and the ladies. I stormed the Dice’s Inn with no fear.
Then it hit me:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING NACHO BAR?! BY GOD, I WAS PROMISED A NACHO BAR AND NACHOS I WILL HAVE!!”
I stood there aghast. This dive had everything I needed: beer, babes, a pinball machine (with a NASCAR theme), but no nacho bar! Not even chips and salsa at the tables! Instead, they had fucking peanuts all over the floor! I looked everywhere, and all I saw was dirty rednecks chomping and spitting like pigs at a trough. I was pissed.
Stinky and the girls caught up to me and saw I was dismayed.
“Dude, you like totally ran in here! That ain’t appropriate behavior ‘round these parts.”
“No shit, Stinky! I thought there were nachos in this establishment! I was LIED to! My God, Stinky, no person has ever – in the HISTORY of humanity – faced this level of unabashed duplicity before! I’ve been betrayed! This is even worse than the time Judas stole Jesus’ coat of many colors, or whatever the fuck he did to piss off Mel Gibson. Fucking hell!”
I gave my country-cooch the evil Nova-stare. She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“Where is my nacho bar?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I thought there was one. I guess I was wrong. Tee hee!” she said with a vacant (but hot) grin.
“Dammit! If I had known there were no nachos here I would have never agreed to visit this incestuous barnyard!” When I said this, a couple of the patrons overheard me and gave your Master of the Technique threatening scowls. I was in an agitated state, rare for your normally benevolent Novanator. The natives knew I was restless.
“Aw, don’t be that way, Nova-dude!” she purred. “You’ll like this place! The boy’s bathroom even gots a glory hole! Zeke drilled the hole last weekend! Why don’tcha give it a try?”
(For those of you inexperienced in the deviant sexual arts, a “glory hole” is, well, a hole in the wall – positioned so you can stick your dick into it – and someone on the other side will ostensibly suck you off. Typically, glory holes aren’t installed in the bathrooms of your classier restaurants, such as Red Lobster – but I guess the Dice’s Inn only delivered the very best for its guests.)
“No, thank you,” I retorted. “I’m not gonna let the Novacock get swallowed unless I can SEE who’s doing the sucking. The last thing I need is to shoot my juice, and then hear someone who sounds like Uncle Jesse gargling ‘Yeehaw!’ on the other side. I just want my fucking nachos, Ok?”
Stinky was already on the dance floor, convulsing his gangly body in rhythm to some semi-coherent Waylon Jennings yarn. It was a pathetic display. I never understood why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that wretched hillbilly crap. I guess the “music” is designed to boost the self-esteem of poor white people, telling them that being broke, uneducated, and having a fat wife carries a sense of nobility. Regardless, my ears were rejecting this redneck yodeling out of principle.
I wanted to grab Stinky so we could get the hell out of this shit-pit, but at that exact moment, my girl tried to take me up on the promise I made earlier in haste.
“C’mon, Nova! You promised me! I wanna dance!”
“But sugar-twat, you know that promises are like the female orgasm: exciting to witness, but mostly fake and largely inconsequential,” I reasoned with her. Line-dancing, country music, and no nachos? No way THIS relationship was gonna last, my Novanites.
Sugar-twat wasn’t cooperating. “You bastard, Nova! You promised me! You’ll pay! I’ve got friends in here who’ll beat you like my Daddy beats his girlfriends!”
I laughed a little, but realized I was in alien territory. The Dice’s Inn was her home turf – and if I didn’t dance with her, there could be hell to pay. Half of these hicks looked like Sloth from the Goonies – and would love nothing more than an opportunity to impress my slut by kicking the shit out of me.
“Alright,” I conceded, “but just for one song. And you BETTER suck my stain-stick on the car ride back to the apartment – or I’ll tell EVERYONE about your inability to properly wipe your own fuckin’ ass.”
“Yay!” she delightfully exclaimed, as she dragged me onto the dance floor.
Now, when it comes to dancing, I prefer to play the voyeur. A woman shaking her ass is meant to be appreciated visually; that’s the entire premise of strip clubs. Jumping up and down on the dance floor – away from my beer, nachos, and sandwiches – is NOT my Nova-style. I’ll let the other poor slobs get sweaty and dick-teased by the bump-and-grind – and when the song ends, your always-fresh Novanator will scoop up the skank and force-feed her my special sauce.
I planted my feet on the floor like a wooden Indian, while my little hooker frantically gyrated to some horrible song the band was playing. This was pure torture, my Novanites; even worse than the time I ate at Hardee’s. She then put her arms up on my shoulders and wanted to get all romantic and shit. Ugghhh!!! I looked down at her and she was already batting those devilish little eyes. Didn’t she understand that she had already gotten the Nova-jang – not to mention the Hummingbird Technique – and all Nova wanted to do was drink and eat?!
Mercifully, the song ended when the lead singer dropped his harmonica into his spit-cup, and I headed straight for the bar. I noticed a group of rednecks giving me the evil eye and muttering incoherently to one another. My Nova-sense was tingling. I came to the decision that after a healthy drink, I would find Stinky and depart this Land of Dueling Banjos.
I perched on a barstool and ordered a beer and a shot of 151. After I chugged the sweet alcohol, I threw down some cash and turned to leave.
That was when I found myself face to face with the Grim Reaper.
Again.“Hello, Nova,” snarled that heartless, death-dealing bitch. “What makes you think that YOU are going anywhere?”
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Night I Almost Died, Part I: Say Hello to Stinky
Sometimes Mr. Nova chooses his friends not for their humanistic values – such as intellect, integrity, or being in possession of bail money – but more for the way they can fuck shit up.
I love freaks. A normal life is boring.
I’ve always been attracted to those fringe outcasts rotting away in civilized society’s garbage dumps. The restless soul with a baseball bat and a score to settle – the poor bastard with seven fingers who drinks until he shits his pants – and the downtrodden dirtbag who wanders the streets at night with a boner and a map to the Mayor’s house. Losers, hot-heads, drinkers, sinners, perverts, and fuck-ups: these are my peeps.
In other words, I occasionally choose friends for no other reason than their entertainment value.
Unfortunately, these types of friends never remain in your inner circle for very long. They enter your life and quickly burn out – like a dying star in the distant cosmos… or like a hard-on that suddenly realizes that the beautiful, slowly undressing babe on your computer is actually a shemale. For a brief moment in the history of time – a mere millisecond on the astral clock – these types of friends click with the Novantor and aid him in his quest for ultimate pleasure. But these rabble-rousers are usually the most vile, despicable, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good humans on the planet.
You always need to be on your toes.
For example, let me introduce you to a fellow known as Stinky. Stinky was a co-worker of mine, back when I was slinging drinks in this backwoods college town. He was a crazy fuck. He’d smoke up a storm outside and stagger back into the bar with his cheeks redder than his filthy red hair, wiry red beard, and blood-red devil-eyes. He had many disturbing qualities – none worse than his orangutan-like body odor. Stinky reeked like a combination of dead dog, rotting fish, and sweaty testicles. Seriously, he smelled like an onion’s cunt. Clearly, he needed a nickname befitting his demeanor, so instead of calling him something cool like “Red,” I called the freak “Stinky.” And Stinky never objected to the name. Instead of being offended by it, he wore the moniker like a badge of honor.
If the guy had a real name, I have long since forgotten it. Real names don’t really matter when you’re in your early 20s, wasting your life away with intellectual invalids. All that counts is how much shit you’ve stirred before wising up and moving along.
But even though his legal name has long since faded from the Nova-mind, the night I almost died is etched into my psyche like a tribal tattoo. It’s a rollicking tale of danger, intrigue, and the supernatural.
Come gather ‘round the campfire, kiddies; Grandpa Nova has a story to tell:
It all began many, many moons ago, when Stinky asked if I’d accompany him to a place where two girls lived. They were going to cook us dinner, suckle our snakes, and give us lots of free beer.
“Do they make good sandwiches?” I asked Stinky, as we sat and drank brews in his shitty basement apartment.
“Fuck if I know, man!” he said – with a maniacal grin stretched all across his hideous face. Stinky was one of those unfortunate people with really big gums and really little teeth. “All I know is these bitches are golden, man. They be gifts from God, dude. Really, you’s should see them.”
“They have beer? Sandwiches? And you swear on your Mother’s tits that they’re hot?”
“I hate my Mom. I’ve never forgiven her for fucking that Negro repairman. Not funny! That stupid slut! Race-mixing is a sin against nature. Next time she passes out, I’m gonna shave her twat with a rusty huntin’ knife! Serve the bitch right! But back to the girls: I gots me some stuff to GUARANTEE we’ll get into their panties…”
He opened up his coat and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a plastic baggie filled with the Sticky Icky and waved it furiously, like a matador goading a rampaging bull.
“Know what I mean, man? Ha! Ha!” Stinky constantly kept that ridiculously exaggerated grin on his face. Even if his dick got torn from his body in a drunken farming accident, I think that smile would stay there – like the fucking Joker or something. This guy was a certified nutcase. No way anyone in his right mind would have anything to do with the freak.
Then again, I am Mr. Fuckin’ Nova.
“Yeah, Stinky, I know exactly what you mean. Let’s go meet these bitches.”
We took the Nova Wagon and headed south towards a little redneck town a dozen-or-so miles from campus. The girls lived in a low-rent complex adjacent to the highway. Bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, crumpled cigarette boxes, and empty condom wrappers littered the landscape. We walked up the stairs and suavely knocked on the girls’ second floor apartment door. A cute little country bumpkin opened the door, wearing a tank top, ass-hugging jeans, and a Wal-Mart-quality bellybutton ring.
“C’mon inside, boys,” she said with a drawl. No need to ask the Novanator twice; at that stage of my life, few things were more important than finding a reasonably attractive skank with a low IQ and even lower standards. Plus, I could smell fresh sandwiches being prepared in the kitchen. Sure enough, as Stinky and I walked in, we could see the other girl putting the finishing touches on a layered culinary masterpiece.
“Aw, the food smells Novalicious, my country-fried Fräuleins!” I shouted from the doorway. (I liked to reward future fuck-buddies with poetic language if they could make a good sandwich. Positive reinforcement and all that.)
“You must be Mr. Nova,” she cooed as she strolled out from the kitchen. She sautéed her perfect ass over to me and dug her hands into my back pockets. The sultry little thing gazed up at me with a devilish smile, jiggling her braless tits and whetting her well-traveled mouth. “I heard a few things about you.” She then looked down at my package. The Nova-jang stirred back and forth like the nasal hairs of an old man snoring. “I heard you fuck real good.”
I looked over at my foul-smelling friend. The other girl was handing him a beer and nibbling on his ear. So far, Stinky’s slut-safari had VASTLY exceeded my expectations; the girls were walking upright and everything. I whispered to Stinky, “Well done, dude!”
Stinky whispered back, “My bitch gots a tattoo of Princess Di right over her dick-tunnel. She’s real classy. This is gonna be just like porkin’ royalty, don’tcha think?”
Whatever.
The girls fetched us a few dozen beers and multiple sandwiches. We all took turns with the Sticky Icky, and soon the mood was set. Stinky’s woman led him into one of the bedrooms. I remained on the couch with my country-fried cutie and commenced with the time-honored art of seduction. With both hands, I expertly stripped her of those jeans, slid her thong to the side, and pushed her ankles behind her head. The whore’s asshole was actually a little dirty (lazy wiping), but I decided to proceed anyway. Eh, I had nothing better to do. She experienced the teeth-rattling joys of the Hummingbird Technique, and climaxed several times. It earned me the freshly-shaved pussy, which I commenced to fuck with animalistic intensity near a window overlooking an empty field of asphalt. But no doggystyle; I didn’t want her filthy asshole rubbing against my body. Nova ain’t into that scat-stuff.
After I shot my load and wiped my dick off on the curtains, my dirty-assed cum-magnet suggested that we all head out to the Dice’s Inn – a little dive not too far from the highway.
“They have beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, plus a nacho bar,” she answered. Man, this girl was saying and doing ALL the right things. If she keeps this up, I just might give her a pass on the dirty-asshole faux pa.
“Stinky, you done in there?” I called out into the other room. I was suddenly starving for chow. The beer, booty, and Sticky Icky combination made my stomach feel famished, and the girls were all out of sandwiches. Venturing into a nacho bar sounded absolutely perfect.
“Yeah, Nova-dude!” he shouted back.
“You want to go to some place called the Dice’s Inn? They have nachos! They have beer!”
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed.
So we all got ready and hopped in the Nova-wagon – with the windows rolled down so Stinky could air out. I kid you not, my Novanites: Stinky smelled like he washed his ass with an even dirtier ass. I even contemplated crashing my car into a manure plant, just to rid the vehicle of Stinky’s eye-watering stench. (Fortunately for him, his fuck-buddy had a compulsive coke-habit and long ago lost her ability to use her nose for anything other than a powder-vacuum. She had NO IDEA how lucky she was.) Stinky had the kind of body odor that could end a prison rape.
But beer and nachos were a-calling.
With our bitches by our side, we headed out for a night on the town… or the village… or whatever that hillbilly shithole was considered. We headed towards The Dice’s Inn. The night was darker than usual, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The land rested peacefully beneath a starless sky. I was happy.
Little did I know that my friend the Grim Reaper would be showing her face again.
I love freaks. A normal life is boring.
I’ve always been attracted to those fringe outcasts rotting away in civilized society’s garbage dumps. The restless soul with a baseball bat and a score to settle – the poor bastard with seven fingers who drinks until he shits his pants – and the downtrodden dirtbag who wanders the streets at night with a boner and a map to the Mayor’s house. Losers, hot-heads, drinkers, sinners, perverts, and fuck-ups: these are my peeps.
In other words, I occasionally choose friends for no other reason than their entertainment value.
Unfortunately, these types of friends never remain in your inner circle for very long. They enter your life and quickly burn out – like a dying star in the distant cosmos… or like a hard-on that suddenly realizes that the beautiful, slowly undressing babe on your computer is actually a shemale. For a brief moment in the history of time – a mere millisecond on the astral clock – these types of friends click with the Novantor and aid him in his quest for ultimate pleasure. But these rabble-rousers are usually the most vile, despicable, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good humans on the planet.
You always need to be on your toes.
For example, let me introduce you to a fellow known as Stinky. Stinky was a co-worker of mine, back when I was slinging drinks in this backwoods college town. He was a crazy fuck. He’d smoke up a storm outside and stagger back into the bar with his cheeks redder than his filthy red hair, wiry red beard, and blood-red devil-eyes. He had many disturbing qualities – none worse than his orangutan-like body odor. Stinky reeked like a combination of dead dog, rotting fish, and sweaty testicles. Seriously, he smelled like an onion’s cunt. Clearly, he needed a nickname befitting his demeanor, so instead of calling him something cool like “Red,” I called the freak “Stinky.” And Stinky never objected to the name. Instead of being offended by it, he wore the moniker like a badge of honor.
If the guy had a real name, I have long since forgotten it. Real names don’t really matter when you’re in your early 20s, wasting your life away with intellectual invalids. All that counts is how much shit you’ve stirred before wising up and moving along.
But even though his legal name has long since faded from the Nova-mind, the night I almost died is etched into my psyche like a tribal tattoo. It’s a rollicking tale of danger, intrigue, and the supernatural.
Come gather ‘round the campfire, kiddies; Grandpa Nova has a story to tell:
It all began many, many moons ago, when Stinky asked if I’d accompany him to a place where two girls lived. They were going to cook us dinner, suckle our snakes, and give us lots of free beer.
“Do they make good sandwiches?” I asked Stinky, as we sat and drank brews in his shitty basement apartment.
“Fuck if I know, man!” he said – with a maniacal grin stretched all across his hideous face. Stinky was one of those unfortunate people with really big gums and really little teeth. “All I know is these bitches are golden, man. They be gifts from God, dude. Really, you’s should see them.”
“They have beer? Sandwiches? And you swear on your Mother’s tits that they’re hot?”
“I hate my Mom. I’ve never forgiven her for fucking that Negro repairman. Not funny! That stupid slut! Race-mixing is a sin against nature. Next time she passes out, I’m gonna shave her twat with a rusty huntin’ knife! Serve the bitch right! But back to the girls: I gots me some stuff to GUARANTEE we’ll get into their panties…”
He opened up his coat and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a plastic baggie filled with the Sticky Icky and waved it furiously, like a matador goading a rampaging bull.
“Know what I mean, man? Ha! Ha!” Stinky constantly kept that ridiculously exaggerated grin on his face. Even if his dick got torn from his body in a drunken farming accident, I think that smile would stay there – like the fucking Joker or something. This guy was a certified nutcase. No way anyone in his right mind would have anything to do with the freak.
Then again, I am Mr. Fuckin’ Nova.
“Yeah, Stinky, I know exactly what you mean. Let’s go meet these bitches.”
We took the Nova Wagon and headed south towards a little redneck town a dozen-or-so miles from campus. The girls lived in a low-rent complex adjacent to the highway. Bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, crumpled cigarette boxes, and empty condom wrappers littered the landscape. We walked up the stairs and suavely knocked on the girls’ second floor apartment door. A cute little country bumpkin opened the door, wearing a tank top, ass-hugging jeans, and a Wal-Mart-quality bellybutton ring.
“C’mon inside, boys,” she said with a drawl. No need to ask the Novanator twice; at that stage of my life, few things were more important than finding a reasonably attractive skank with a low IQ and even lower standards. Plus, I could smell fresh sandwiches being prepared in the kitchen. Sure enough, as Stinky and I walked in, we could see the other girl putting the finishing touches on a layered culinary masterpiece.
“Aw, the food smells Novalicious, my country-fried Fräuleins!” I shouted from the doorway. (I liked to reward future fuck-buddies with poetic language if they could make a good sandwich. Positive reinforcement and all that.)
“You must be Mr. Nova,” she cooed as she strolled out from the kitchen. She sautéed her perfect ass over to me and dug her hands into my back pockets. The sultry little thing gazed up at me with a devilish smile, jiggling her braless tits and whetting her well-traveled mouth. “I heard a few things about you.” She then looked down at my package. The Nova-jang stirred back and forth like the nasal hairs of an old man snoring. “I heard you fuck real good.”
I looked over at my foul-smelling friend. The other girl was handing him a beer and nibbling on his ear. So far, Stinky’s slut-safari had VASTLY exceeded my expectations; the girls were walking upright and everything. I whispered to Stinky, “Well done, dude!”
Stinky whispered back, “My bitch gots a tattoo of Princess Di right over her dick-tunnel. She’s real classy. This is gonna be just like porkin’ royalty, don’tcha think?”
Whatever.
The girls fetched us a few dozen beers and multiple sandwiches. We all took turns with the Sticky Icky, and soon the mood was set. Stinky’s woman led him into one of the bedrooms. I remained on the couch with my country-fried cutie and commenced with the time-honored art of seduction. With both hands, I expertly stripped her of those jeans, slid her thong to the side, and pushed her ankles behind her head. The whore’s asshole was actually a little dirty (lazy wiping), but I decided to proceed anyway. Eh, I had nothing better to do. She experienced the teeth-rattling joys of the Hummingbird Technique, and climaxed several times. It earned me the freshly-shaved pussy, which I commenced to fuck with animalistic intensity near a window overlooking an empty field of asphalt. But no doggystyle; I didn’t want her filthy asshole rubbing against my body. Nova ain’t into that scat-stuff.
After I shot my load and wiped my dick off on the curtains, my dirty-assed cum-magnet suggested that we all head out to the Dice’s Inn – a little dive not too far from the highway.
“They have beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, plus a nacho bar,” she answered. Man, this girl was saying and doing ALL the right things. If she keeps this up, I just might give her a pass on the dirty-asshole faux pa.
“Stinky, you done in there?” I called out into the other room. I was suddenly starving for chow. The beer, booty, and Sticky Icky combination made my stomach feel famished, and the girls were all out of sandwiches. Venturing into a nacho bar sounded absolutely perfect.
“Yeah, Nova-dude!” he shouted back.
“You want to go to some place called the Dice’s Inn? They have nachos! They have beer!”
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed.
So we all got ready and hopped in the Nova-wagon – with the windows rolled down so Stinky could air out. I kid you not, my Novanites: Stinky smelled like he washed his ass with an even dirtier ass. I even contemplated crashing my car into a manure plant, just to rid the vehicle of Stinky’s eye-watering stench. (Fortunately for him, his fuck-buddy had a compulsive coke-habit and long ago lost her ability to use her nose for anything other than a powder-vacuum. She had NO IDEA how lucky she was.) Stinky had the kind of body odor that could end a prison rape.
But beer and nachos were a-calling.
With our bitches by our side, we headed out for a night on the town… or the village… or whatever that hillbilly shithole was considered. We headed towards The Dice’s Inn. The night was darker than usual, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The land rested peacefully beneath a starless sky. I was happy.
Little did I know that my friend the Grim Reaper would be showing her face again.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part II
My Novanites, I was scared. And I know that seems utterly impossible – the legendary Novalicious getting weak knees ‘cause some She-Death skirt stood in front of him. Fuck, I have stared down cops, disgruntled feminists, and countless husbands who’ve wanted to kill me because I banged out their wives’ sweet snatch (They always learn that their wives have been Novatized when they ask their ladies, “Why is your pubic hair shaved? You never did THAT before! And your pussy seems so much looser now. Hey, did you know that you’re bleeding from the asshole? And where did all my beer go? What the FUCK is going on?!!!” HA! Nova rules! But I digress.).
Thoughts of the Grim Reaper ALWAYS made me want to hide out in some dark, safe place, with only my 12-pack of beer to comfort me. True, I had previously envisioned the Grim Reaper as a fictional creature of mythology, ala Vampires, Medusa and Jack LaLanne. But to my abject horror, the Grim Reaper stood before me, smiling a toothy grin.
It didn’t help the Grim Reaper was so fucking hot! You may think the Grim Reaper is all bones with a black-hooded cloak and silver scythe. Not true, my beloved Novanites! The Reaper is hot, with pasty white skin and blazing red hair. She must have had a boob job, too. Those puppies are distracting! But really, is it surprising to ANYONE that the Reaper is a woman? Hey, how many guys have gone to an early grave because some ditzy dame drove them over the edge?
I had a beer in hand. I looked down at the bottle: My passport to death.
She smiled and said, “I have waited a long time for this, Nova. You should have paid attention to you Father’s warning: ‘Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.’ Looks like I will be taking you to Hell shortly.”
I wanted to run, but like a real (stupid) man I stayed my ground. I was NOT going to let this bitch beat me (unless by “beat” you mean “beat my meat” – heh, heh). I had to stand up to her. Too many times before she had threatened me. Like when I was so drunk I slept in the middle of a gravel road. Or that weeklong peyote trip. Or the time I was almost blown up by a bomb.
“I will not die today, Reaper!” I stated with confidence. “And I will not follow you to Hell! You know I do not believe in the existence of Hell and that makes me exempt from your accursed Christian fear campaign!”
“Well said, Nova.” She paced in front of me. DAMN she looked good. I would’ve LOVED to bend her over the motel’s continental breakfast buffet table, lube her ass with those runny eggs, and make her scream for mercy. “You may have cracked the Christian Fear Doctrine, but that doesn’t make you a god. You still fear death. So I have manifested myself as that which you think you understand, yet know nothing about. And that, young Nova, is a woman!”
“Fuck that shit! I understand all I need to know about women! All you want is money and power! So I take a little back each time I pound some snatch. I am looking out for every man who has what it takes to punish the pussy, but can’t get a piece because some small-cocked asshole Yuppie bastard snags it first!” I guess the others in the hotel lobby couldn’t see the Grim Reaper ‘cause they started staring at me, whisking away their young children. But fuck them! I know what I saw. And I knew what I had to do.
But did the Reaper know what SHE had to do? Lady Death became very silent. She stopped her pacing and stared me down. She finally asked after a long pause: “You do this for them? You sacrifice a normal life for one so fucked up – just to avenge your fellow man?”
“If my sick, twisted plight somehow provides hope to those men who’ve had their nuts torn to shreds by vindictive bitches, well, then it was a plight worth living,” I told Lady Death. “I’ve recorded all my exploits and shared them with others in this blog, so they might learn of the feminine horrors that ensnarl us all. So, to answer your question, ‘HELL YES YOU STUPID WHORE!!!’ Instead of targeting crazy, evil bitches all the time, I coulda married a demure Asian sex slave who’d treat my pale white shlong like it was a GOD! Now, are you gonna end this here or do I gotta drink myself to death?!”
I was pissed. But she was calm. She showed resolve.
“You DO care for them. That is your weakness. But it also shows strength.” She stopped. She had a decision to make. “Ok Mr. Nova, I will let you live this once. But there is something you must do for me...”
Thoughts of the Grim Reaper ALWAYS made me want to hide out in some dark, safe place, with only my 12-pack of beer to comfort me. True, I had previously envisioned the Grim Reaper as a fictional creature of mythology, ala Vampires, Medusa and Jack LaLanne. But to my abject horror, the Grim Reaper stood before me, smiling a toothy grin.
It didn’t help the Grim Reaper was so fucking hot! You may think the Grim Reaper is all bones with a black-hooded cloak and silver scythe. Not true, my beloved Novanites! The Reaper is hot, with pasty white skin and blazing red hair. She must have had a boob job, too. Those puppies are distracting! But really, is it surprising to ANYONE that the Reaper is a woman? Hey, how many guys have gone to an early grave because some ditzy dame drove them over the edge?
I had a beer in hand. I looked down at the bottle: My passport to death.
She smiled and said, “I have waited a long time for this, Nova. You should have paid attention to you Father’s warning: ‘Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.’ Looks like I will be taking you to Hell shortly.”
I wanted to run, but like a real (stupid) man I stayed my ground. I was NOT going to let this bitch beat me (unless by “beat” you mean “beat my meat” – heh, heh). I had to stand up to her. Too many times before she had threatened me. Like when I was so drunk I slept in the middle of a gravel road. Or that weeklong peyote trip. Or the time I was almost blown up by a bomb.
“I will not die today, Reaper!” I stated with confidence. “And I will not follow you to Hell! You know I do not believe in the existence of Hell and that makes me exempt from your accursed Christian fear campaign!”
“Well said, Nova.” She paced in front of me. DAMN she looked good. I would’ve LOVED to bend her over the motel’s continental breakfast buffet table, lube her ass with those runny eggs, and make her scream for mercy. “You may have cracked the Christian Fear Doctrine, but that doesn’t make you a god. You still fear death. So I have manifested myself as that which you think you understand, yet know nothing about. And that, young Nova, is a woman!”
“Fuck that shit! I understand all I need to know about women! All you want is money and power! So I take a little back each time I pound some snatch. I am looking out for every man who has what it takes to punish the pussy, but can’t get a piece because some small-cocked asshole Yuppie bastard snags it first!” I guess the others in the hotel lobby couldn’t see the Grim Reaper ‘cause they started staring at me, whisking away their young children. But fuck them! I know what I saw. And I knew what I had to do.
But did the Reaper know what SHE had to do? Lady Death became very silent. She stopped her pacing and stared me down. She finally asked after a long pause: “You do this for them? You sacrifice a normal life for one so fucked up – just to avenge your fellow man?”
“If my sick, twisted plight somehow provides hope to those men who’ve had their nuts torn to shreds by vindictive bitches, well, then it was a plight worth living,” I told Lady Death. “I’ve recorded all my exploits and shared them with others in this blog, so they might learn of the feminine horrors that ensnarl us all. So, to answer your question, ‘HELL YES YOU STUPID WHORE!!!’ Instead of targeting crazy, evil bitches all the time, I coulda married a demure Asian sex slave who’d treat my pale white shlong like it was a GOD! Now, are you gonna end this here or do I gotta drink myself to death?!”
I was pissed. But she was calm. She showed resolve.
“You DO care for them. That is your weakness. But it also shows strength.” She stopped. She had a decision to make. “Ok Mr. Nova, I will let you live this once. But there is something you must do for me...”
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part I
About four years ago, your beloved Novanator left a girl he had lived with for close to three years. How the legendary Mr. Nova – the Man with the Technique – managed to maintain a (semi-)monogamous relationship is still beyond my earthly comprehension (let’s just say the local adult video store really loved me & my credit card… and that my right forearm grew to Popeye-like proportions). I packed up my things, said goodbye to the cunt, and headed cross-country to get away from the most accursed of all female notions: Commitment.
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
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