Mr. Wrong Saves America - The Exciting New Dick-Lit Novel by Bookfraud!

As promised, here's my dick-lit novel, the perfect anedote to all the fluffy fluff fluff known as chick lit that's ruining our nation's youth.

It's not finished yet, but it's a start. Hopefully, it will offend everyone in one way or another. And since I'm going out of town, I don't have to worry about it.

Thirteen was Joe's lucky number. He was born on the 13th, he was making $13,000,000 a year as a hedge fund manager, he and he'd scored 13 times with 13 different chicks in the past month. He lived in the 13th story penthouse, which was 13,000 square feet, in a building on W. 13th Street.

But it was also bad luck. He'd failed to get Mets tickets for his clients, his 13th largest, and he was being sued by 13 investors. His Porsche 913 (a special, one-of-a-kind Porsche made specifically for Joe) needed repairs, and 13 times his mother had called him at work that day, asking about when he was going to come visit. Damn! Worse, the 13 hot chicks were all bothering him for something more than just dating, sex, and the privledge of being in Joe's car.

It was the height of the trading day, but Joe had to get some relief. He called his friend/sidekick Bill and they made a beeline to Club Zoomers. Nothing like a T-bar to relax! Joe knew most of the silicone babes there, and he could use some $10 Budweisers and an eight-foot beer bong. Bill was married, had two children, and lived in the suburbs, but Joe could always count on him for a good time. Later, he and Bill would hit Boob World, Breast Wishes, and his favorite, Titty Hut.

But a girl named Sunshine was giving Joe a lap dance when his Blackberry went off in his $1,300 tailored silk pants, and he spilled a little beer on his $1,300 Berluti shoes, which he had flown to Paris to buy. Fortunately, he didn't get his $13,000 Armani suit damp.

"Hello," Joe said, worried that someone from his company was calling.

"Joe, it's Sharon. You haven't called. You haven't e-mailed or texted. You promised after our fourth multiple simultaneous orgasm you would call me! And that was six weeks ago! Where have you been?"

Women! Joe loved them, but he couldn't deal with clingy nutjobs like Sharon, even if she looked like a combination of Gisele and Heidi Klum. "I'm in a meeting," he said as the disc jockey said, "And put your hands together for our newest dancer, Cheetah!"

Joe turned off his Blackberry. His conversation with Sharon really upset him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hit the rest of the day's bars. "Bill, I know! Let's go play some golf!"

"Awesome idea," Bill said. "You're the best!"


The only man who can stop me now

They hopped on Joe's Gulfstream jet to Georgia, where a tee-time had been arranged at Augusta National. Man, this was more like it! Joe was playing the game of his life. He was four under after nine holes, and was threatening to break Tiger Woods' club record. He was using his new Calloway driver and Nike balls, which cost him thousands of dollars. God, he was kicking ass! His caddy, a blonde Victoria's Secret catalog babe wearing lingerie and garters, knew the course inside out. Of course, Joe knew he would do her after the round.

But feeling guilty about his job, Joe turned on his Blackberry. It immediately rang, and when he answered, a female voice yelled, "Joe, Joe, I have to have you, I must have you!" It was DiCarla, the Italian supermodel who Joe had loved and dumped a year earlier. She had been rated the fifth most-beautiful woman in the world by Maxim, but it hadn't been good enough for Joe.

"DiCarla, it's over," said Joe. "You were so hot. And I could have loved you. But there are too many flavors in the world. Joe wants to taste them all."

He hung up and made a 35-foot downhill put for an eagle. He finished the round shooting a club-record 57, and after shagging the caddy, Joe and Bill got on the Gulfstream and flew to the Gulf of Mexico, where a 100-foot yacht awaited them. Joe had been thinking about going on a safari, but killing elephants was just too easy.

After snagging a 50-foot marlin as three bikini babes watched in a lustful trance, Joe ordered the yacht back to dock. But as they were pulling up, the dock exploded into a giant fireball, yachts and people flying all over the place.


Joe in action!

Joe knew that this was no accident. The terrorists were after him. He was living a double life, he knew it, and now somebody had given him up. He looked over at Bill — who pulled a gun and pointed it at Joe's head. "Take us to Mexico — now!" Bill shouted.

"It's you, you slimy terrorist son of a bitch! You lied to me all these years!"

"Yes, Mr. Hot Shot Wall St. trader — or should I call you Mr. CIA Operative 007?" Bill suddenly had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"So everything I know about you is a lie!" Joe said.

"Yes, Mr. Smart American Imperialist Pig! My wife, my children, my job — none of it is real! I have suffered all these years in U.S.A. going to the decadent American strip clubs with you and getting sex from all of your model girlfriends' model friends and drinking for free and flying all the around the world in luxury so I could have this moment!"

"You mean, I gave you everything America could provide so you could kill me?

"Yes," Bill screamed, "I have only lived for this moment!"

Yeah, I know the whole thing changed in the middle. It's my dick lit novel and I'll do as I want to.

Anyway, this is where I stop. Packing for my trip and all that.

You're all creative types. Do they go to Mexico where Joe talks Bill into going to a strip club one last time, gets another call from a needy ex-girlfriend, and, in the process of hanging up on her, kill Bill? Does Joe commandeer the boat, using the hot bikini babes to help, a la Pussy Galore? Do they just all die in the ocean, much to the delight of feminists everywhere?

You tell me.