Miss America

Miss America

3.6 12
by Howard Stern
     
 

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Shock-jock radio host Howard Stern (Private Parts) shares his own offbeat, outrageous views and offensive observations on life, the world, modern American society—and more—in the massive #1 New York Times bestseller Miss America.See more details below

Overview

Shock-jock radio host Howard Stern (Private Parts) shares his own offbeat, outrageous views and offensive observations on life, the world, modern American society—and more—in the massive #1 New York Times bestseller Miss America.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780061095504
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
11/28/1996
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
592
Product dimensions:
4.18(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.18(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Cybersurfing for Vagina

I'm such a sex machine! could take a piece of wood and turn it into something erotic, something sensual, something perverse. Take puppeteering, for example. When I was seven years old my mother gave me puppets and within weeks I had puppet orgies in my basement for all my friends to see. And not just people puppets. There were horses, caterpillars, and clown puppets fucking and giving head.

I've never changed. No matter what activity I'm engaged in, if there's a way to work sex into it, that's where you'll find me. For example, I've always loved using technology to create opportunities to have orgasms.

Take the phones: I started abusing those in high school. My first experience was with my friend Bill, who was the second biggest loser in my high school next to me -- especially with women.

On the weekends we couldn't get dates, so all we did was play cards, eat pizza, smoke cigars, and talk about how fucked up all girls were because they wouldn't go out with great guys like us.

Our rap was that if girls could only look beyond the fact that we didn't have good looks and see that we had great personalities, they would fall in love with us. The truth of the matter was we had really bad personalities in addition to our ugly faces. Even the losers called us losers. And we were.

I tried everything to get girls. I even tried growing my hair long so girls would think I was a drug dealer so they'd want to have sex with me. Nothing worked.

One Friday night during our pathetic card game we learned that the phone company had a problem with one of their lines. Through some mechanical error it was possible to dial one number where hundreds of people were on a party line.

What a great way to pick up chicks! Now they wouldn't see us -- they would only be tuned into our great personalities. We quickly ditched our other loser friends at the card game and ran over to Bill's house to be alone with all the girls on the party line.

Now that we were about to make contact with females, we weren't sharing them. The other guys at the card game were cow-faced losers who were convinced we were never going to get girls. We showed them.

We got to Bill's house and, sure enough, the phone line worked. There were hundreds of girls and guys -- all talking at once -- gibberish, all yelling at each other. It was the Tower of Babel.

Bill and I started screaming our names out.

"Howard!"

"Bill!"

"Howard!"

"Bill!"

"Howard! Bill! Howard! Bill! Howard! Bill!"

Two nubile female voices responded, screaming out over the hundreds of yapping voices. We could barely hear them saying, "Give us your number, Howard Bill."

It was hard to make out their voices. Were they girls? Were they effeminate boys? Who could tell? Who cared?

We were two desperate men on a mission and they were breathing. Who could tell that they were even talking to us, but we screamed out Bill's number.

Sure enough, miracles never cease, the two girls actually called us. God had answered my prayers.

Now I'd have a chance to prove to some girls that I had a really good personality.

I wasted no time.

"Hey, girls! Want to meet me and Bill?"

"Yeah!" they replied.

See, I was right. It was absolutely true. Without my hideous face in the way, these girls were really getting charmed by my wit -- and joie da viver or whatever. (I hate the French.)

We made a plan to meet at midnight at Southside High School. At the witching hour I'd have a girlfriend. Plus it would be dark so they could hardly see me. In the moonlight my nose looks much smaller. Moonlight is my friend.

On our way over, Bill and I started fighting. I told him we should play it cool. We agreed we shouldn't whip out our rubbers right away, even if they wanted to fuck our brains out.

Gotta be cool about sex. Can't rush. Maybe we'd finger them a little bit. Then let them blow us. That was the plan. Let them hunger for our sperm.

So we get to the high school. It's 11:00 P.M. -- an hour early. It's pitch black. We're waiting. The clock strikes midnight. No girls yet.

"That's okay. They're probably getting ready."

12:30 A.M. No girls.

"They're probably douching, so they won't be smelly for their dates," we decide.

1:00 A.M.

1:30 A.M.

Things aren't going too well. Bill and I are getting a little nervous but we figure it's okay, because the girls are probably busy shaving their hair so as not to interfere with our manly touch when we pull down their panties and explore their precious juicy caverns.

I suggested to Bill that we work out elaborate hand signals so that we could speak a silent language that would say "You take the one on the right -- I get the one on the left!"

1:45 A.M.

God, the high school looks different at night.

2:00 A.M.

No girls.

2:30 A.M.

What were we thinking? You've got to be out of your mind standing around a high school like this. There could be a bunch of guys coming to get us, who'll beat us up and take our money. We're going to get our asses kicked. Now we were scared. Finally it dawned on us what assholes we were: Of course these girls weren't going to show up. We were two ugly guys with bad personalities.

We'd been scammed.

Prerecorded Nymphos

You can understand my...

Miss America. Copyright � by Howard Stern. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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