Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The College Years, Part I: Making Friends
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Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Drunk by Noon, Part I
About four years ago, your beloved Novanator left a girl he had lived with for close to three years. How the legendary Mr. Nova – the Man with the Technique – managed to maintain a (semi-)monogamous relationship is still beyond my earthly comprehension (let’s just say the local adult video store really loved me & my credit card… and that my right forearm grew to Popeye-like proportions). I packed up my things, said goodbye to the cunt, and headed cross-country to get away from the most accursed of all female notions: Commitment.
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
About halfway through my trek I stopped at a hotel to rest my weary Nova-head.
I woke up the next morning… with nowhere to be and nothing to do. Since I momentarily lacked any court-mandated appointments, I was left with an unusual amount of free time. I thought that now would be a good time to binge-drink. Hey, I was in a hotel in some town southwest of Bumfuck. There HAD to be booze and broads on my itinerary!
It was decided. I would stay here southwest of Bumfuck just one more day and drink away all my troubles. There was only one little problem: It was only 8:00 in the morning.
There is an old adage my father once said to me, “Drunk by noon, dead by dusk.” Now, that is one fucked-up thing to tell a seven-year-old kid, whether it’s Boy Nova or not. But it always stuck with me. I would always wait until 12:01 pm to commence with the beverage-related activities. If I was in a restaurant at 11:55 am & had a nice cold beer in front of me – its foam looking as fine as sweet shaven snatch – I’d stare my moist, succulent ale straight in the face, not daring to suck down my supple suds. But right when the bell rings high noon, I would grab the glass and bring it up slowly, savoring the sight and smell of first-rate lager. After the bells would stop, I would take my first sip and down the glass. You see, The Novanator might dance with Mr. Brownstone – but NEVER prior to noon.
The clock struck 8:05 am… and I really, REALLY needed a fucking drink. I had just wasted nearly three years of prime Nova-Time. I needed a drink to forget about what could have been. I fucking HATED that selfish whore. And YOU should really hate that bitch too, my Novanites. She stole a piece of YOUR lives as well. Countless more stories could have been told, had I not been such a goddamn moron and stayed faithful to Miss Satan. Man, I turned down a threesome with an American Idol reject and a coked-up stripper with supersized tits just to stay loyal to that evil fucking cunt! As God is my witness, I hated that whore with a passion – and this passion needed to be fueled with cheap booze.
And fast.
I opened the hotel mini-fridge that stored a 12-pack I bought the night before, when I gassed-up my ride in a neighboring town. (Travel tip from Nova: When driving long distances in the Red States, ALWAYS buy beer WHENEVER you fuel your car or stop to take a piss. You never know when you’ll crash for the night at a motel in some Christ-loving county that’s 100% dry. And few things in life are worse than being stuck in a shitty, small town motel with just basic cable – no Pay-Per-View porn at all – and drinking Diet Orange Shasta from the vending machine ‘cause none of the stores sell alcohol. Heed this wisdom, my Novanites. See, THIS is why you people WORSHIP me! You ain’t gonna hear these sorts of travel hints from AAA, are you? But I digress.)
I closed the mini-fridge fast and hard. I feared death. If I became drunk by noon, well, according to my beloved Pappy, that meant I would be dead by dusk. No more Nova! No more Hummingbird Technique! No more whisky! No more watching porn videos of dwarfs fucking tall black women! If I failed to honor my father’s warning I might NEVER see pussy again!
But beer... sweet, sweet beer. It takes the pain away. It drowns my demons and warms my soul. I reopened the fridge with gusto and grabbed a tall, cold one. The cap came off as easy as a bitch’s bra clasp – and within moments I was guzzling pure Rocky Mountain goodness.
The clock stuck 8:09 am.
By 9:00 am I was feeling damn good. I hit the hotel continental breakfast. Some might say that beer and eggs don’t mix but I think they are a delectable combination. A fter setting up a good base for a long, hard day of drinking, I decided to hit the streets of this small town to see what it had to offer.
As I walked confidently through the hotel doors I came face to face with the Grim Reaper once again.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret: The Reaper is a woman.
To be continued...
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Call Back
You went to the club and expected nothing to come of it. Until – in a drunken haze and a mild case of the horniness – you saw her nursing a cocktail in the shadows. So you talked to her. You forge some sort of half-hearted connection, traded numbers, and went back home to pass out.
The very next day you wake up around noon, pop a few Aspirin, drink your coffee, and take a watery shit. Breakfast is cereal and beer. There’s a football game on TV that you SORELY want to see. Hell, if Chicago covers the point spread, you’ll have rent-money for the next two months.
Settled in with feet kicked up, tortilla chips and more beer in hand, life couldn’t get ANY better.
Phone rings. You check the caller ID. “Who the fuck is this?” you wonder.
“Hello?” you say, chips in mouth and beer in hand.
“Hey, remember me from the club? It’s ME! Blah blah blah blah blah blah! Wow, I had a super-wonderful time last night! It’s so HARD meeting new people! My last boyfriend was SUCH a dick. But you seem SO cool! I already told my friends all about you. By the way, what are you doing later?”
“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” you think, “the fucking GAME is starting!”
What to do? You hardly remember this girl from the night before. Maybe she’s crazy – or even worse: completely fuckin’ normal! You could wake up with a bunny rabbit in the boiling pot. She might drug your ass and Bobbitt your schlong. Yeah, the sex might be tremendous… but it wouldn’t be worth it. It’s almost never worth it.
“Uh, I am kinda busy,” you say (with nacho cheese sauce dripping into your new cell phone), “Can I call you back?”
Silence. Then: “Um, Ok, that sounds—”
Click.
You pick up your cell phone, click on the address book, find her number and erase it. Got a bad feeling from this one.
What was it? Lack of confidence? Yes, but even worse: Desperation. In this fucked-up world, NOTHING scares a single man more than a desperate woman. Someone who says things like: “I’m looking to get married. I want kids. I want a stable man to provide for me.”
The single man screams: “LIKE I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, ALREADY!”
Ladies, please let me tell you something about the single man: He UNDERSTANDS what you want. He has read about it in books, seen it on TV, maybe even been married before and has kids. But DON’T throw yourself out there in a desperate attempt to escape loneliness.
So let’s come back to the initial call back – our single woman’s first mistake. It is best to wait AT LEAST two days before dialing those digits. Give the single dude some time to breathe. Let him wonder and wait. If he doesn’t call you after the first week, THEN give it a try.
Call between 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. on a weekday. People are usually home then and winding down from work. A phone call would be a welcomed distraction at this stage.
Make the phone call brief, five minutes tops. Touch base, try to make the other person laugh. Remind the dude of a topic you discussed over body shots (if you were lucky enough to do those). Be clever. Don’t set up a date unless he does. If he doesn’t suggest a date, THEN call back before the weekend and ask.
It is ok to be a little aggressive; just don’t be psycho, crazy and desperate.
The first call is the most important step next to a first impression. If you want to seal the deal you have to know who you are signing up with. Do you research ladies, and things will be alright.
And if you STILL can’t meet anybody, just hangout near the condom aisle at the supermarket. SOMEONE will talk to you, eventually. I promise you that.
The very next day you wake up around noon, pop a few Aspirin, drink your coffee, and take a watery shit. Breakfast is cereal and beer. There’s a football game on TV that you SORELY want to see. Hell, if Chicago covers the point spread, you’ll have rent-money for the next two months.
Settled in with feet kicked up, tortilla chips and more beer in hand, life couldn’t get ANY better.
Phone rings. You check the caller ID. “Who the fuck is this?” you wonder.
“Hello?” you say, chips in mouth and beer in hand.
“Hey, remember me from the club? It’s ME! Blah blah blah blah blah blah! Wow, I had a super-wonderful time last night! It’s so HARD meeting new people! My last boyfriend was SUCH a dick. But you seem SO cool! I already told my friends all about you. By the way, what are you doing later?”
“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” you think, “the fucking GAME is starting!”
What to do? You hardly remember this girl from the night before. Maybe she’s crazy – or even worse: completely fuckin’ normal! You could wake up with a bunny rabbit in the boiling pot. She might drug your ass and Bobbitt your schlong. Yeah, the sex might be tremendous… but it wouldn’t be worth it. It’s almost never worth it.
“Uh, I am kinda busy,” you say (with nacho cheese sauce dripping into your new cell phone), “Can I call you back?”
Silence. Then: “Um, Ok, that sounds—”
Click.
You pick up your cell phone, click on the address book, find her number and erase it. Got a bad feeling from this one.
What was it? Lack of confidence? Yes, but even worse: Desperation. In this fucked-up world, NOTHING scares a single man more than a desperate woman. Someone who says things like: “I’m looking to get married. I want kids. I want a stable man to provide for me.”
The single man screams: “LIKE I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, ALREADY!”
Ladies, please let me tell you something about the single man: He UNDERSTANDS what you want. He has read about it in books, seen it on TV, maybe even been married before and has kids. But DON’T throw yourself out there in a desperate attempt to escape loneliness.
So let’s come back to the initial call back – our single woman’s first mistake. It is best to wait AT LEAST two days before dialing those digits. Give the single dude some time to breathe. Let him wonder and wait. If he doesn’t call you after the first week, THEN give it a try.
Call between 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. on a weekday. People are usually home then and winding down from work. A phone call would be a welcomed distraction at this stage.
Make the phone call brief, five minutes tops. Touch base, try to make the other person laugh. Remind the dude of a topic you discussed over body shots (if you were lucky enough to do those). Be clever. Don’t set up a date unless he does. If he doesn’t suggest a date, THEN call back before the weekend and ask.
It is ok to be a little aggressive; just don’t be psycho, crazy and desperate.
The first call is the most important step next to a first impression. If you want to seal the deal you have to know who you are signing up with. Do you research ladies, and things will be alright.
And if you STILL can’t meet anybody, just hangout near the condom aisle at the supermarket. SOMEONE will talk to you, eventually. I promise you that.
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