Speaking of Slap Fights

SAL THE BARBER from Scrappers. If only he were as intelligent as his ink.

Tonight I half-assed watched a reality show called Scrappers. Spike TV shit. Not my choice. As a grandmother, I prefer to watch serious violence, tits and dicks. You know. Game of Thrones.

The concept is three teams of men from Brooklyn who gather scrap metal and sell it. I intend to focus on Sal the Barber, whose comments in the episode called The Slap Fight make Rush Limbaugh seem like a feminist.

To set up the scene below, it’s necessary to state that earlier in the episode Sal ran into a car while driving a truck with a trailer attached. He then proceeded to yell about how nobody in Brooklyn has any respect for anyone else.

Forgive me if I misquote you, Sal. I don’t speak Brooklynese.

* * * * * *

This lady’s drunk. Don’t know where she wants to go. Blinking all over the place. (I suspect he was yelling about the turn blinkers on her car, but he might think women blink with something other than their eyelids. As you’ll see, Sal’s not well-informed about women’s anatomy.) They shouldn’t even drive girls. Give birth or drive. Whataya wanna do? Crazy. Guys don’t give birth. You don’t see nothin’ shooting out of our poo-poos. (Not sure how Sal would spell his version of vagina. Could be puu-puus.) Trying to squeeze a thing the size of a watermelon out of your squishy little hole. That means you stay home, Windex and push out babies. That’s it. Give birth or drive. Equal rights. I mean, here’s a shovel. Build a house if you want equal rights.

* * * * * *

Listen you misogynistic (look it up) dim bulb, I gave birth while parallel parking a tour bus. In the hospital, while waiting for the catheter to come out of my squishy little hole, I dictated (to my gay assistant) an award winning paper on nuclear physics at the same time I breast fed my watermelon-shaped baby. I changed 24 tires and 14 fan belts before you were even born. I strip copper with my teeth. The last wreck I had was caused by a man whose driving skills were very similar to yours.

As for shovels, I’ve metaphorically buried more men than you’ve built houses.

I have to assume that after polishing those windows on the home front with a big fucking bottle of Windex, the artist who did your tight ink was a woman.

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Run for Your Lives…from Zombies and Writers

Zombie Nuptials - Photo by Hans Bauer

I love zombies. This twisted love affair began when I saw Shaun of the Dead. Then I co-wrote Global Swarming with the prolific writer and Captain Morgan rum imbiber, Greg Crites. I found killing humans without spending time on Death Row to be immensely satisfying. (It’s a retail worker thing.) After watching countless zombie movies, along came The Walking Dead and the discovery that no matter how redneck, a man who carries a crossbow and knows how to use it is dead sexy. (Note to producers of the show: Next season; please have Daryl use his Boondock Saints accent.) Perhaps one of these days Norman Reedus will play Joe Ledger in a movie based on Jonathan Maberry’s fantastic zombie novel, Patient Zero. Typecasting shouldn’t be an issue, Norman. Cash those paychecks before more banal teenage vampire/werewolf love triangles capture Americans’ limited imaginations.

As a book store manager, part of my job is to recommend books to customers. Unfortunately, most of my customers are of the geriatric variety and I suspect a great novel like World War Z hits a little too close to home; walking dead and all that jazz.

Yesterday was supposed to be a Zombiepalooza for a writer trying to sell a zombie book. I talked Hans Bauer into taking me to Run for Your Lives, the 5-K zombie obstacle course near Austin.  Hans co-wrote an excellent young readers’ book, Fish Tale and also wrote the screenplay for the movie Anaconda.  He recently released Anaconda, the Writer’s Cut on Amazon, which is a great read.  The multi-talented Mr. Bauer takes photos and turns them into amazing works of art. He usually spends every weekend at the Renaissance Fair, but I somehow convinced him he could get some great shots of zombies. Either that or he felt sorry for me because my piece of shit car can barely make it across the street.

Per his instructions (he’s a bit bossy) our adventure was to begin at 6 am, so I set my alarm for 4 am. No way did I want to keep him waiting for a single second. At 6:20 am, he pulled up and I dashed out the door and hopped in his car.

“Good morning!” I perkily said, as if I didn’t hate the idea of being up that early on the first Saturday I’ve had off in over two years.

He grunted in reply. Okay…not a morning person. I fastened my seat belt and noticed he wasn’t wearing his. Half a mile down the road, I discovered he has the disconcerting habit of never fastening his seat belt until the car is in motion. This involves a certain amount of the car weaving at high speeds and cursing, as evidenced by his first words of the day to me. MOTHER FUCK! Yep, that pesky seat belt is difficult to attach with one hand. I feared for my life after each of our stops for directions. When we stopped for gas and he left the nozzle attached to the car after we took off, I spent a few seconds trying to remember if I’d updated my Last Will and Testament. I guess that incident explained not fastening his seat belt. While he would be blown free during the explosion, I would be trapped in my seat watching in the rear view mirror my flaming eyebrows and melting face.

He had a good reason for his absentmindedness. Brain freeze. Literally. 28 degrees with a wind chill of 12 degrees is as unsettling to a Texan as a luau featuring an entire roasted pig with an apple in its mouth is to an Orthodox Jew.

While the runners and the zombies were game and perhaps even worked up a sweat, Hans lasted about 30 minutes in those conditions. I don’t get cold, so I could have interviewed zombies and runners all day except that the ink in my pen froze. I’m not making that up. We left about eight hours early.

Hans took the photo of Maria and Pete, the zombie bride and groom. They graciously answered my questions instead of ripping my head off and munching on my few remaining cerebral bits.

After the zombie apocalypse occurred they lasted three days before being turned. In that time, Pete took out two zombies with a machete and Maria killed three with an axe. They had no time to change clothes for the honeymoon, so they were the best dressed zombies at the event.

I also briefly interviewed runners Joe and Michael. They both chose swords as their weapons of choice against zombies. Not independent thinkers, they both picked Daryl from The Walking Dead to be in their crew. (We’re all fans here, Norman!) When asked if their crew contained any celebrities, which one they would frag at the first available opportunity, they finally had a difference of opinion. Joe would kill Kim Kardashian in a frenzy of alliteration and Michael would waste Kanye West. Good choices, lads.

As we walked back to the car, I overheard three younger children who participated describing to their mother every step of their race against the zombies. They were so excited and her smile won her Mother of the Year status in my opinion. Seriously, what a great mom.

Our trip home was uneventful except for Hans pushing my menopausal banshee bitch from hell button. Apologies were exchanged and he not only bought me gourmet chocolate and fed me lunch, he gave me a Hanukah teddy bear and a DVD of the Bill Murray movie Meatballs. Both were in his car and he had no idea why. Peculiar.

It’s possible we’ll try it again someday when it’s not so cold. I hope so because I know Hans’ zombie photos will be amazing. But mainly because I want to sell Global Swarming to fellow zombie lovers so I can buy a new car.

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Chupacabra vs Stock Footage of the Alamo

That Erik Estrada is so dreamy if you happen to live in a nursing home

SPOILER ALERT!  For those who have never read my Demented Movie Reviews, I always give away everything.  I suggest this is a humanitarian gesture to discourage movie lovers from watching any of these movies.

Chupacabra vs the Alamo is another SyFy Channel original film.  Seriously, they should have stopped with Sharktopus.  I suggest the people responsible for Mystery Science Theater 3000 tune in to the SyFy Channel if they ever decided to recreate their great premise of mocking every detail of truly bad B movies.

Chupacabra vs. the Alamo is set in San Antonio, Texas.  Supposedly.  At the beginning of the film there’s footage of a skyline which was actually a mock city, the kind developers might use to get funding for projects.  I swear the skyscrapers were made of poster board.  Great sixth grade project, little Hector or Maria.  Ay, Dios! (Hereinafter I will be tossing out random words in Spanish to demonstrate that being a native Texan and living in San Antonio has not been wasted.

Erik Estrada is the muy magnifico star of this film.  As my viewing partner stated, “That guy has never been south of Colorado.”  I assume he’s correct, as Estrada wore a black leather jacket the entire movie.  For those of you who have never been to San Antonio, it’s fucking hot.  All the time.

If you’re younger than 20, you may not know who Erik Estrada is.  He starred in CHiPS, along with Larry Wilcox (who?) which was a show in the 70s about the California Highway Patrol.  They rode motorcycles.  Estrada rode one in this movie, albeit in front of a green screen most of the time.  I pouted a lot during those scenes because I thought any idiot filming him with a digital camera while sitting in the back of a pickup truck could have made it look more realistic.  Then I remembered the point of B movies.  To suck as much as possible.

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Attention NSA – I Do Not Know the Whereabouts of Edward Snowden

Due to recent events regarding the NSA and whistleblower/traitor (depending on your perspective) Edward Snowden, it occurred to me I forgot to specifically add the NSA as an addressee in the following memo which is featured in the book Waiting for Karl Rove.

MEMO

April 1, 2007

To:  Current and all future Presidents of the United States

From:  Kat Nove

Cc:  Pentagon
All secret black op arms of United States government
Nazi Pope and minions
Evil Corporations, i.e. Wal-Mart, G.E., etc.
Rupert Murdoch
High-ranking members of the New World Order
Walt Disney’s frozen head
Dick Cheney

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Anne Rice Behaving Badly

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

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

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

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

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

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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