Anne Rice Behaving Badly

Posted on June 1, 2013 by kat

Please don't hit me with Jesus, Anne!

I’m always out of the loop, but it has come to my attention that if you’re a blogger who gives an Anne Rice book a bad review, Ms. Rice will comment on it.  Apparently this turns her legion of fans into vengeful defenders of her work, flooding said blogger with hateful comments.  I read a few and some were not hateful, but others were fairly outrageous.

Now that I’m aware that a bestselling author takes the time to read reviews of her books, I’d like to mention that I never cared for her style of writing.  A bit too wordy for me.  It reminds me of reading The Hunt for Red October and thereafter being able to pilot a nuclear submarine.  It’s really not necessary for the story.   And even with all the details which enabled me to pilot said submarine, I still prefer Clancy to Rice.   It’s possible Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot ruined all other vampire books for me.  Thanks a lot, Stephen!  No, really.  I mean that.

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Defeatist Letter to America

Posted on April 22, 2013 by kat

Loving bacon too much might get your dick bitten off.

Okay, America. You win. I’ve tried to talk sense into you regarding your penchant for buying crap. You don’t seem to care about all the lost jobs or the slave factories in China where there are suicide nets to keep the workers alive when they jump due to the horrendous working conditions. America, you love your cheap crap more than you love doing the right thing.

America, I was still willing to fight for you until I saw the following product, which no doubt you’ve all rushed out to buy.

Bacon flavored condoms and bacon flavored lube. Really, America? I love bacon, but your poor choices are almost enough to make me become a vegetarian and definitely enough to make me swear off blow jobs. You would actually buy a condom with the slogan – MAKE YOUR MEAT LOOK LIKE MEAT.

The only thing more depressing than that slogan is J&D Foods not using the slogan – FOR WHEN YOU REALLY WANNA PORKER.

Carry on, America. If you need me, I’ll be over here in the corner weeping as I try to enjoy a slice of actual bacon.

8 (OPTIMISTIC) INCHES OF GROSS ME OUT

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Letter to the Remote Control Terrorist’s Asshole Cat

Posted on April 7, 2013 by kat

The Novinator takes on the Remote Control Terrorist's Asshole Cat

Dear Scerbadoo,

You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met; which is saying a lot since I’ve been married, have frequented C&W bars, have stood in line at the DMV, have been a legal secretary and currently work retail.

It occurred to me that you’re so fucking fat I could hold a pillow firmly over your face until you’re just another dead asshole and the Remote Control Terrorist will think you expired from a heart attack. (I blame television for these murderous thoughts, since almost the same thing happened on The Following; the difference being that the victim from the show was a grown man and a serial killer and you’re a cat, a bigger asshole and you still weigh more than he does.)

A co-worker younger than my daughter suggested writing you this letter might be a better alternative than becoming a cat murderer. I suppose he’s right. I wouldn’t want PETA (speaking of assholes) going apeshit on me. Am I allowed to say “apeshit” PETA? Am I?

I love cats and honestly don’t think I have it in me to hurt one. But you tempt me, Scerbadoo, you really do.

What is the purpose of all those nipples? Are you planning on breast feeding yourself, Oh, Glutton of the World? Are they the reason for your bad attitude? Or is it your long orange and white fur which causes your grumpiness? It’s your own fault if it gets matted and itchy because you’re too fat to clean yourself. For fuck’s sake, the Remote Control Terrorist takes it upon himself to clean your butt with a wet cloth. This is the same guy who would never scratch my back because it grossed him out.

What did my cats ever do to you? They were here first. You were abandoned by an asshole who obviously didn’t need the competition of another asshole in his or her home. You showed up at our door and stole my cats’ food. I never had a problem with that.

I did have a problem with you pouncing on them from behind and literally trying to kill them. If most of my cats were human, they’d be hippies. They are not into that alpha male shit. You turned poor Vegas from mildly neurotic into full-blown psychotic. She hates me now.

You chased Super Snatch into the closet and the two of you defied gravity as you whirled in the air. Sort of a cartoon Tasmanian Devil effect, with the addition of liquid shit spraying out of her asshole, you asshole! Was that called for?

You constantly terrorize Little Kitten who is the sweetest cat in the world. The Remote Control Terrorist named him, so it’s no wonder he’s cowed by your bullying. LK is black and if I could have named him Fat Asshole Killer of Doom your bullying ways would have ended badly for you.

Somehow this letter is not diminishing my murderous thoughts towards you, Scerbadoo. Could that be because you just walked by me with a mouthful of black fur? You asshole!

Very truly yours,

Kat Nove

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Kat Nove Enters the Witless Protection Program

Posted on March 25, 2013 by kat

I’m a harebrained idiot.  Everyone who knows me can attest to that.  Why else would I approach a mobster and ask if I can not only blog about him, but mock him at the same time?

I first met Joe Dogs Iannuzzi about seven years ago when he did a book signing for Cooking on the Lam.

His Mafia Cookbook is a bestseller.  Note to self:  Learn to cook and become friends with Betty Crocker.

A few months ago I asked Joe Dogs if he would consider being interviewed for a blog entry.  I told him I write satire and would definitely be making fun of him.  Although he seemed puzzled as to who I could possibly be, he agreed.

In the meantime, my stupid life got in the way of hanging out with a made man, but last week I called him to confirm a time and date to meet.  I thought breakfast in a crowded restaurant would be appropriate.  Once again he was agreeable, but seemed to think my name is Pat.

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50 Shades of Prejudice

Posted on March 15, 2013 by kat

The other day I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store to purchase a pack of smokes.  Rolling in ahead of me was a middle-aged man on a bike.  Not a spankex-wearing man, pumped full of Tour de France-winning steroids. This bike-riding man rode a bike because he’d been caught one too many times drinking and driving.  Probably.  He entered the store about 20 seconds before me and as I walked up behind him, he said to the white male clerk, “I worked at a convenience store for eight years and was robbed twice.”  Then he turned to me and said, “Lady, I don’t mean to sound prejudiced, but once was by a nigger with a gun and the other was by a Mescan with a knife.”

After hearing that, I once again made a mental note to be thankful there have never in our long history been any white criminals in America.  (Cue the theme music to COPs: Domestic Disturbance Edition and turn on C-Span.)

prejudice – an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason.

racist – a person who believes in racism, the doctrine that a certain human race is superior to any or all others.

The man in the convenience store who didn’t mean to sound prejudiced proved beyond any doubt he is a racist.  Apologizing ahead of time by calling me lady does not get him off the hook; in fact, his sick world view means he’s probably skewered by it for his lifetime.

I truly don’t get racism, but I’ll make no apologies for my prejudices.  To quote Rizzo from the musical Grease, … “that’s a thing I’d never do.”

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Ruling the World by Playing Drunken Beach Volleyball

Posted on March 5, 2013 by kat

Beach Volleyball - The Sport Requiring Lotion Even at Home

I just got home from a long day of being abused by corporate America to find that Hugo Chavez died of cancer.  I’ve written quite a bit of political satire, but only one thing that included Chavez.  This was written at some point during the George W. Bush presidency.

The other day, my British friend Dill suggested we play drunken beach volleyball for domination of the world’s oil rights. I thought the idea incredibly funny and immediately began imagining such a game.

The rules to my fantasy drunken beach volleyball game are rigid. I get to pick both teams. No professional volleyball players or professional drinkers will be allowed. Obviously, Dill is a teammate. Tim Duncan, the seven foot power forward of the World Champion San Antonio Spurs basketball team, will play the net. Next to him is George Clooney, not because he has a fine ass, but because he’s a political activist and seems athletic. Truly, I have no interest in his exceptionally fine ass. On the other side of Clooney is the only other girl on my team, my über gay friend Moses. He probably sucks at volleyball, but he’s a vicious bitch and would be the designated hurler of invectives at the other team. My final teammate and ball server throughout the entire game is Jesus Christ. The official cheerleader for our team is Lewis Black, who refuses to wear shorts, sweats a lot, and rants more than usual. My teammates all look very attractive in their Hawaiian print shorts. I’m wearing a bikini and temporarily using Angelina Jolie’s body out of respect for my teammates’ delicate sensibilities.

The front line of the other team consists of a pasty white Dick Cheney, clad in a red, white and blue Speedo and nothing else. Next to him is Hugo Chavez, who even in my fantasy, refuses to give up his red shirt. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia is the final player on the front line. He is wearing a flowing white kandura and a keffiyeh on his head. The remaining three players are Abdullah’a bodyguards, all dressed in westernized business suits and carrying automatic weapons manufactured in the United States. George W. Bush is the cheerleader for the other team. He’s wearing nothing but a short pleated red cheerleading skirt and cowboy boots. He enthusiastically shakes pom-poms made of hundred dollar bills.

The referee and line judges are scantily clad male models who aren’t there to call the game so much as to keep my team supplied with beer.

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Brain in a Jar – The Verbatim Monologue

Posted on February 27, 2013 by kat

SOON-TO-BE FUTURE OF REMOTE CONTROL TERRORIST IF HE DOESN'T QUIT STARTING EVERY SENTENCE WITH "YOU LIBERALS"

“I’ve decided the problem with humanity is we surround ourselves with crap,” the Remote Control Terrorist said.  “Everything is crap. That’s why I want to be a brain in a jar. But then I’d decide the jar is crap so I’d have to get rid of the jar.  I’d just be a brain on a shelf. But the shelf is crap as well so I’d get rid of the shelf and become a brain on the floor. But why would I need the floor when I could be tossed outside in the dirt? That’s probably best. I want to be a brain in the dirt.”

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Oldies with Woodies

Posted on February 25, 2013 by kat

Oh, Rhett. Promise me we'll still be together 50 years from now.

I guess this story would be considered fan fiction.  It’s included in my new book, If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess I Must Be a Loser.

I’m not going to embarrass myself by mentioning how many times I’ve read Gone with the Wind. (20.) If that seems insane, get this – I’ve read the sequel Scarlett at least ten times. There has to be other Gone with the Wind junkies out there so I’m probably not the only one who wonders what happened to Scarlett and Rhett as they grew old together.

Rhett opened the door for Scarlett and they stood in the foyer looking at the familiar sight of their former home.

“Well, here we are, Scarlett. I first met you fifty years ago and now we’re back in Atlanta on Peachtree Street in this monstrosity of a house.”

“Hush, Rhett. You know I always loved this house. I’m so happy you were able to buy it back.”

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I Can’t Believe Miley Cyrus Did THAT!

Posted on February 18, 2013 by kat

Cover shot of Poster Girl for Kat Nove Relief Fund

The Remote Control Terrorist  is sitting next to me suggesting I give this blog entry the title MILEY CYRUS NIPPLE SLIP as click bait.  He says that Fox News does that sort of thing by putting up a teaser that says Is Miley showing too much? That’s creepy.  Not that Fox News does it, but that the RCT knows about it.

Frankly, after that Vanity Fair photo of her sitting in her dad’s lap, I try to never think about what Miley Cyrus is doing. Now that Hanna Montana is grown up, smoking weed and has boobs, the Disney Channel Harlot Factory will just churn out another one.

The only reason I decided to go with the RCT’s suggestion is that Hanna Montana is featured in my new book, If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess, I Must Be a Loser, which is now available on Kindle.

Thanks to Jeni Decker for formatting the book.  I hate that shit.

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Are you finally done with me, 2012?

Posted on January 1, 2013 by kat

I’m not going to specifically bitch too much about what a shitty year 2012 was for me.  I’m writing a blog entry, not a novel.  One good thing did happen.  I finally met the incomparable Jeni Decker in Las Vegas.  So, I got four good days out of this miserable year.

While I just said I wouldn’t specifically bitch about 2012, try to remember that I’m a writer and I lie.  I have to mention the last two days.

Yesterday, in an effort to have a better year in 2013, I applied a face mask.  My mind tells I’m still 19 and my new driver’s license photo tells me I could be the new poster girl for AARP.  I rinsed my face for a really long time because the lamps in the bathroom are barely flickering and I couldn’t see if all the mask had been removed.  Then I proceeded to go to a convenience store, a department store and a grocery store.  I ended up at the bookstore to buy a meditation cd to keep my head from exploding in the new year.  A co-worker and really good friend asked what the hell was on my face.  Apparently that shit was everywhere!  My cheek.  My ear.  My neck.  So now I’ll probably be known as the crazy old lady who is proud of her money shots.

Tonight is New Year’s Eve.  Luckily I’m not at work so I’m able to watch The Walking Dead marathon.  Zombies always cheer me up.

But a few hours ago 2012 got me again.   I had just come in from outside where it’s been drizzling all day.  Typical last day in a sucky year.  I was really putting some muscle into cramming the overflowing garbage into a trash bag. The soles of my sneakers were slick and my feet slipped.  The plastic kitchen garbage can fell, my knee landed on it and 2012 slammed the top of my head into the corner of the wall.  Hard.

It’s now 12:01 am on January 1, 2013.  I made it!  Now I can say what I’ve wanted to for 365 days.  Bite me 2012.

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