Mister Right: A Bawdy Novel of Internet Adventure

By Cooper

Known as the terrific trio and inseparable college roommates, Freddy Forest, Jack Scratch and Ermine Tuft ducked graduation ceremonies at the University of Midland so they could set off without delay to romance the universe. After all, what's an education for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462830916

Cooper

Sonni Cooper is an artist and author of the Star Trek tie-in novel, Black Fire.

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Cooper.

Cover Photo © Dmarina/Dreamstime.com

Chapter 10 appeared in Dana Literary Society Journal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

1

www.worldsteradventures.com

2

terrific trio

3

www.sextraumatherapy.com

4

www.shakazulu.gov

5

www.royalromance.com

6

www.faustus.edu

7

www.inferno.gov

8

www.find-ur-mate.com

9

www.whodovoodoo.com

10

www.willietheshake.edu

11

www.dangerouslessons.edu

12

www.God.gov

13

www.harem.gov

14

www.madfeminists.org

15

www.shawomanbeeth.com

16

www.southseaslovelies.com

17

www.donjuan.edu

18

www.romanempire.gov

19

epilogue

Appendix A

WORDS YOU MAY OR MAY NOT KNOW

Appendix B

WORDS YOU DEFINITELY DO NOT KNOW

Appendix C

WILLIE’S QUOTES

In

Chapter 10 (www.willietheshake.edu)

Appendix D

QUINN’S TROPES

In

Chapter 18 (www.romanempire.gov)

1

www.worldsteradventures.com

Known as the terrific trio and inseparable college roommates, Freddy Forest, Jack Scratch and Ermine Tuft ducked graduation ceremonies at the University of Midland so they could set off without delay to romance the universe. After all, what’s an education for?

Proceeding directly into www.worldsteradventures.com they found themselves in a vast dun wasteland, a plains or steppe country barren save for a few long-horned sheep, a small herd of ponies, and three breasty yellow yurts.

What’s a yurt? asked Jack.

Mongolian tent.

Never heard of it.

It’s a fact, Jack.

B-brrrr, said Ermine, scanning the distant snowy mountains. That wind is cold. I don’t like this p-place. Let’s go somewhere warmer.

Freddy said, Can’t, Ermy, we forgot the palmport.

Then how do we EXIT? asked Jack.

Good question, said Freddy, who for once had no answer.

At that moment a figure appeared among the yurts: a bronze giant who, ogling Ermine, swiftly mounted a pony and galloped toward them so fast and so furiously that they froze in place like a trio of popsicles. Within seconds the giant was upon them, leaning far over as though preparing to demonstrate his horsemanship in the manner of the Mongols by snatching a goatskull from the desert floor, and before they could say boo he had seized Ermine around the waist, flopped her over the pony’s back, wheeled, and raced fullspeed in a flail of arms and legs toward the three yellow yurts. From behind, the only visible evidence of Ermine was bobbing blond hair.

He’ll ravish her! ejaculated Jack.

Delete, Jack—and fast forward!

"Do giants have giant tools?

*     *     *

This comment by Jack, unseemly in a crisis, clue us to his character, for cacoethetic Jack has believed since the arrival of the first crinkly scraggles of pubic hair and the initial goo oozing from his adolescent piccolo that life’s meaning resides in one thing and one thing only: the Darwinian spurting of seed. All else, he believes, is vanity and a striving after flatulence. Like the Marquis de Sade, like Freud, like Henry Miller, like Jiveass, Jack is obsessed with sex and has dedicated his life to the quest for the Golden Piece, the Perfect Pussy, the Ultimate Creamy Thigh—"It’s my Holy Grail, Freddy. She has to be out there somewhere, she has to be. Pleading: Doesn’t everybody have to be somewhere?"

*     *     *

Freddy and Jack pursued the Mongol as fast as their Nikes could wing them, but unfortunately the pony disappeared among the three yellow yurts, only to re-emerge riderless, ambling off aimlessly into the tawny wasteland.

Which yurt? cried Jack.

No clue! cried Freddy.

Huffing and puffing to yurt one our heroes pushed through the flap—oops, wrong yurt, inhabited not by a spreadeagled Ermine but by an array of cardtables displaying an impressive assemblage of souveniers: tails of snow leopard, jowls of brown bear, noses of grey wolf, ears of wild donkey, humps of camel; on one table bleached human skulls formed a Genghis Khan pyramid, while another bore shapely mini-mounds of ebony eyeballs; still another, the cynosure, was heaped with a stunning collection of prize maidens in a rowboat.

Wrong yurt, said Freddy. "And by the way, it’s maidens in a canoe."

Attempting to retreat, the boys were surrounded by a gross of gesticulating salesgirls, wizened but not wisened, all shouting at the top of their voices, Let’s make a deal! Come on, cowboys! Let’s make a deal! And sure enough, half-hidden behind the tentflap Freddy spied a crazily spinning wheel of fortune but Jack, true to form, ignored this fortuitous find in favor of the one female in the yurt who flashed even a single fang: leaping like stale moonlight from the cracked and burnished face, the lone lower incisor almost instigated in Jack a coronary ischemia as he tried to imagine what fabulous bliss might lie artfully concealed beneath her bespotted leather whatchamacallit.

The bliss will have to remain fabulous, declared Freddy with some urgency—We have to find Ermy before…

Right, relucted Jack, eying the moony incisor.

Just then the wheel of fortune clicked to a stop, its pointer aiming at the icon for Maiden in a canoe. Whereupon each of the wizened salesgirls snatched a snatch from the table and thrust it into the faces of our heroes, variously crying, Cherry! Strawberry! Onion! Fish! Au naturel!

Ain’t the last two redundant? asked Jack.

Breakout! cried Freddy, and ramming the closest crone, dominoed a path to the door.

Not door, corrected Jack, "flap."

Doesn’t alliterate, said Freddy.

Outside, blinking at the flashbulb sun, Jack barked, Der freiheit!

"Die," corrected Freddy.

"I ain’t ready to die."

Dashing into yurt two the boys were overjoyed to encounter the object of their search: the giant Mongol whose peaked leopardskin cap, the only item of clothing on his bronze body, tickled the top of the tent while his massive member, hent in both hands, waved snakelike over poor Ermine who, blue eyes the size of saucers, even plates, maybe even platters, sprawled in her altogether on a pile of plush pelts.

That’s the biggest throckmorton I ever saw! exclaimed Freddy, shocked to statuehood.

No way! contradicted Jack. "Don’t you remember King Dong on superwhang.com? Or that whopper on guessthesize.com? This Mongol ain’t even close. Couldn’t be a millimeter over fifteen inches."

Sixteen, said the giant, advancing on Ermine, who unwittingly—and strikingly—revealed to one and all how aptly she was named.

Intimidated by their adversary’s size, Freddy hesitated but Jack, ever impetuous, leapt forward and seized the massive member, crying There’s more than one way to spin a cat!—and commenced to whirl the yowling Mongol by his hefty hose, gaining centrifugal speed until both men lost definition and constituted little more than a cartoonish highspeed blur—at which point Jack released the stretched nachwurst and, sweating and panting from the strain, watched the giant sail straight through the side of the yurt—leaving naught but a sunny silhouette.

"Now it’s sixteen inches, chuckled Jack, looking about for loot while Freddy, eager to be off before the giant returned, shouldered Ermine and headed for the tentflap, yelling, DELETE and EXIT!"

If we could EXIT we wouldn’t be here—but Jack trailed his pals into the rawcold and grainy wind of the plains. Could be Kansas! he griped.

Kansas is prairie, not plains.

Don’t be whiffling me!

It’s a fact, Jack. Quick—in here!

In here meant yurt number three. There, amazingly, our trio found a brawny Land Rover, all gassed up and ready to go and bearing a designer license plate with embossed blue letters: TRY ME.

It’s in English, said Ermine, rubbing her goosebumps. Why English?

Business language of the world, answered Freddy.

Globespeak, said Jack.

After wrapping herself in the yak skins strewn about the yurt Ermine climbed into the back of the vehicle while Jack took the wheel and Freddy the suicide seat.

Crying, Away we go! Jack cranked her up and sans further ado blasted through the side of the tent, barely missing the bearing-down Mongol, still bare and mad as a bear and bearing in both hands his now-tender tool and in both flanks thatches of thorny thistle.

Speaking of guns—gun it! cried Freddy, and Jack did, and the redoubtable Rover veritably flew over the gulches and the gullies, the humps and the hillocks, the mesas and the merkats, and as they bounded along to his great surprise and joy Freddy discovered in the glove box a palmport and quickly accessing the Internet yelled, We’re out of here!

READER FEEDBACK

This is way unbelievable! It’s soooo unlikely that the trio would have found a landrover in the third yurt. God!

—Note from Liz. R., Lit Student at U. of Michigan

I strenuously object to you characterizing Mongolians as womanizers with long dicks. You are perpetuating a stereotype that has dogged my people since the days of Genghis Khan.

Class action suit to follow.

—E-mail from Gerald M., Law Student at Georgetown U.

According to a brochure published by the Desert Rowing Association, the correct phrase is maiden in a rowboat.

—Excerpt of letter from Della T., Anthro Student at SMU

When I get my hands on those two they won’t be able to sit down for six months.

—E-mail from Genghis Z., Outer Mongolia

(translated by Freddy Forest)

Home

Back at their Midland apartment Ermine pulled on proper t-shirt jeans and tennies and muttering Cripes! plopped into a pit of depression.

Why a pit? inquisited Freddy.

Because Ermine, who looks exactly like Jenny McCarthy sans the store-bought boobs and sometimes acts like her too, zany as a zoot, in the deepest depths of her heart suffers from a romanticism so wretched it would make her ageless grandmother proud as a peacock. For Ermine deeply dreams of suppers softly candlelit and musicked, and of the sweet and seductive not to mention sibilant whisperings of Maximum Mister Right—the sterling fellow who in due course will fulfill his destiny by siring her 2.3 offspring and supporting his precious little homebodies handsomely and statusly without even leaving for the office so as to be perpetually available for romantic love and of course household maintenance.

But Jack was impatient for more adventure. Maximum Mister Right, huh? That ain’t no excuse for depression. As the Tsonga say, ‘To marry is to put a snake in your handbag.’

Casting down her eyes in the manner of a chaste medieval maiden, Ermine said softly, That’s not why I’m depressed. It’s the Mongol.

What about the Mongol? asked Jack. We saved your ass, didn’t we? We donked his diddler, didn’t we? What more could you ask for? Or should I say ax for?

But Ermine merely shook her head and softly wept, each tear a crystalline drop such as paintings of madonnas sometimes shed when their chapels are crusading for contributions.

It’s not so simple, is it Ermy? compassioned Freddy, trying to conceal his zeal for travel.

"It . . . is . . . not . . . simple . . . at . . . all."

How not simple? asked Jack. Seems simple to me.

"You . . . took . . . too . . . long."

How too long?

"When you . . . b-broke in . . . the Mongol . . . was . . . was . . ."

Was? Was? How was?

". . . was . . . returning . . . for . . ."

For? For? How for?

"seconds."

2

terrific trio

Now a few words about the terrific trio.

Freddy Forest has dedicated his life to discovering the SECRET. What secret? Why—what else?—the secret of existence—the MEANING OF LIFE. He is an infohound of the first kidney, blessed with a photographic memory for stats and facts. By contrast, Jack Scratch could care less about info and as for meaning he keeps repeating, "I’ll tell you the meaning, Freddy—the meaning is that there ain’t no meaning. Ever hear of the Contingent Universe? Ever hear of the meteor that took out the dinosaurs just like that? The same thing could happen to you, bro. Seize the day, is my philosophy—carpe diem as the Greeks used to say."

Romans, corrected Freddy.

Whatever!—Archie Bunkering his arms.

Jack says bro because he’s African-American and it’s a well-known sociological fact that all African-American brothers say bro.

Freddy is tall—six feet one—and skinny, with pale blue eyes, nondescript brown hair, pasty skin, hairless chest, and a liberal sprinkling of post-adolescent zits. Raised by a pair of Harvard professors, a gay and a lesbian with a weird arrangement, and though not only accepted but recruited by Harvard (and Yale and Princeton and Stanford), Freddy fled to Midland to see how the other ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent live. Nevertheless, raised in a highly intellectual household, his IQ is off the chart and his brain might excusably be mistaken for a supercomputer from Caltech or MIT, although for some strange reason at Midland Freddy majored not in astrophysics or microbiology or even computer science but in world history, a discipline so soft it might be mistaken for mush, and when challenged on his choice of majors he always says impatiently, It’s the matrix, man, the matrix.

Whatever that means.

Ironically, Mother Nature has seen fit to endow not Jack the Black but Freddy the Brain with a ten inch member, but of course he rarely makes use of it, a sad fact that causes Jack to ejaculate, That ain’t right! That just ain’t right! Nature screwed up and gave you an instrument that rightfully belongs to one of the brothers—and then you don’t even do chicks with it, you’re like some tightass honky that wins the lottery and won’t spend a dime of the money. It ain’t natural, it ain’t right. By the way, bro, can I borrow it for the weekend?

For Jack is lightly hung, which annoys him no end because he likes to quiff every jillie he can, especially white ones, even though Freddy in his wisdom points out that by so doing Jack merely acts out the fantasies of the white man and thereby proclaims and perpetuates his own slavish mentality, but Jack answers, If that’s true, bro, you white dudes got some real fine fantasies.

In appearance Jack is not altogether prepossessing. If I was an equivalent pale dude, he’s fond of saying, the white chicks wouldn’t pay me no nevermind. He is short, about five-eight, and muscular from working out; his face, round as a basketball and topped by a slick Shaq pate, features a flat nose, black irises swimming in yolky whites, and a bright minstrel smile. You look, says Freddy, like a sawed-off Idi Amin.

Balls, says Jack. I’m purebred Ashanti.

Jack has no clue about his true heritage but he loves to jacitate. Sometimes he says he was raised on an old plantation in Mississippi; that he saw his grandfather lynched for whistling at a white woman; that he is related to Medgar Evers and Malcolm X; that he is descended from an Ashanti king. He loves to parade out Black folklore he learned from a white professor of American Studies at Midland (Black folklore, incidentally, which included Hamlet and Macbeth, for the professor had proved through close textual analysis that the Bard—and Plato and Aristotle and Copernicus, for that matter—were actually Afro-European) where he took great pains to avoid any courses requiring even a hint of intellectual rigor; since taking a survey in African history he’s been fond of spewing Yoruba and Hausa and Ibo proverbs, claiming he learned them at his mother’s knee, but in truth his mother’s knee had always been located in a San Francisco head shop, where throughout her son’s parasitic prattling preage she peddled paraphenalia.

When the terrific trio hooked up at Midland Jack couldn’t wait to penetrate Ermine’s knickers. He used every trick in the deck including but not limited to WHITE LIBERAL GUILT and ONCE YOU TRY BLACK, YOU’LL NEVER GO BACK but Ermine’s thick midwestern hide protected her precious penetralia while she focused on her primary project—preying for proper prospects. At one point, however, Jack’s fullcourt press riled Ermine into threatening an early exeunt, and Freddy was forced to mediate a tense truce between the immiscibles that gradually, over the months, settled into the baiting banter of same-age siblings.

Wow!

To Ermine Tuft sex is incidental for she is out to reform the world through love—the only answer, she believes, to the human condition. But in her heart she is thinking of nothing so august as agape aka Jesusly love but of the humdrum and harlequin species—romance as represented by MISTER RIGHT. For Ermine grew up in a small Indiana town that in spite of TV lagged far behind the tempestuous times—a red state town in which the daughters were clones of their mothers and their mothers of the grannies before them, a chromosomal core of conviction that withstood all challenges, including but not limited to Ermine’s childhood act as class clown, her rowdy tomboyhood, her late-blooming womanhood, and finally her Theater Arts major at Midland where she learned to ululate with the uranists and to scorn those who ignored Gaia not to mention animal rights, and also in the privacy of her room learned to experience certain eldritch events including ghostly visitations by Sarah Bernhardt, Tallulah Bankhead and the inimitable sisters Gish. After one particularly histrionic hype from YONDER Ermine applied to the Actor’s Studio in New York, but even with ectoplasmic instigation and presumably extraterrestrial intercession her chances of acceptance seem desperately slim. Diplomat Jack delivers his usual sage advice: Buy yourself some big boobs and ball your way in.

Thus, the terrific trio.

Whose triumphs, trials and tribulations this tale tells.

DEAR READER

E-mails revile me for shamelessly stereotyping the terrific trio. A Brain, a Lecher and an Ingénue, they say. A Nerd, a Cocksman and a Naif. They complain about the Brain being white and the Cocksman black. This promotes, they say, the stereotypes of bad black street dude and uncool (not to mention low-jumping) white nerd. How, dear reader, should I respond to these cavils? Do you demand a baldface lie? Should I convert Freddy into a young Barack Obama and Jack into a twentysomething Matt Damon? That would chafe the reality of my opus. (Chafe? Chafe?) And how would I explain this ethnic violation to Jack and Freddy? Pardon me, Jack, but I’m changing you into an Irish punk. What would he say to that? He’d let me have it with both barrels. And Freddy would rake me over the coals too, probably with arguments beyond my comprehension. And what about the Mongol? You think he should be a Frenchman? A German? A Tibetan monk? Things are what they are, dear reader. C’est la vie. Qué sera, sera. Leave it the hell alone.

Then there’s the latino question, pointed out by many irate readers. Since the hispanic population of the U.S. has now edged past the black population in size, many insist that Jack should be not black but hispanic. Or maybe black hispanic. Even Microsoft seems to endorse this view, since MSWord highlights hispanic when I type the h in lower case. Some e-mails demand that I make Ermine a latina. Unfortunately, I don’t know enough microbiology to pull this off. Can I splice latina genes into Ermy’s DNA? I could use some help on this. And to maintain credibility I’d probably have to change Ermine’s provenance also, from Indiana to a southwestern state, and call her mother Consuela or Conchita, and make her (much larger) family, including the illegals, feast on corn and beans not potatoes and red meat high in saturated fats. And would Juanita-Ermine retain Ermine-Ermine’s dream of meeting Mister Right and whelping 2.3 perfect children? I trust that you are beginning to grasp the complexities involved in this transformation. Or maybe not, since if you’re reading this book you obviously prefer storebought images to the homegrown variety. That, possibly owing to a longsitting TV addiction, or maybe you justify it on labor-saving grounds, hooray (hurrah?) for capitalist efficiency.

Sorry, dear reader, I ran off the rails.

I will close this apologia or explication (whichever you prefer—the publisher prides itself on interactive media) simply by saying, re fictive universes, both real made-up ones and made-up made-up ones, that they simply are what they are—period. And are not what they are not. Or, in deference to any red staters among you, I’ll ratchet up my authority by quoting Number One Greek Daddy. While strolling in the agora one day, Plato put it to Aristotle quite pithily (sp?): Take it or leave it, dweeb.

Home

Back in the Midland apartment Ermine wailed, You don’t understand, I was p-pistoled, I was p-peckered, I was p-pogoed and p-pronged and p-petered, I was tally-whacked, I was tooled, I was whanged and weenied and wootered.

What about rogered? asked Freddy.

And roscoed? said Jack.

Face in hands, white knees pouting beneath her pleated pink skirt, Ermine slumped on the ecru sofa. The boys flanked her: though they were eager to be off on another adventure they consoled her with gentle little palps on the back and sweet little peeks down her blouse.

It’s okay, Ermy, crooned Freddy. Remember that this too shall pass.

Which of course raised the wail an octave and squirted tears through a fence of fingers.

Jack said, Don’t be a dump-chump, Ermy. That Mongol’s a flaf. Don’t amount to nothing—less than nothing. Except of course a worldclass whang.

The inconsolable Ermy wailed on.

Freddy looked at Jack and Jack looked at Freddy, and both rolled their eyes to the ceiling . . . Postponement. Adventure on hold. Inertia. Stasis. Whose idea was it to cut Ermy in on this deal anyway? Skirts! If it ain’t one thing it’s another. Etc. etc. etc.

All right, said Freddy, Let’s solve the problem. Ermy, we’re taking you to a therapist!

Sobbing, Ermy peeked through her fingers. A what?

A therapist, Ermy. We’ve got to get you detraumatized.

That’s right, said Jack. Detraumatized. And I know just the detraumatist.

3

www.sextraumatherapy.com

The detraumatist turned out to be Dr. Bush Rutter, practicing just around the corner on www.sextraumatherapy.com. Dr. Rutter is the father of Sex Trauma Therapy, a fresh approach