The story below was copied from a
Facebook.com account. A link to this story in the comments to an older post awhile ago.
Tucker Max's face, meet Megan ******'s hand
Megan was discussing ball shaving with a nice man at a tailgate. Good start to this story;) NE ways, Tucker Max was also at the tailgate and started talking shit to Megan (he obviously thought she was a hot girl who would sleep w/ him if acted like an asshole, and he was showing off in front of his buddies). Megan hit him on the arm, and he said that meant Megan wanted to fuck him because if she hit him in the face, then he'd know she was mad. She then dissed his elastic waistband (yes, he was wearing elastic waistband shorts, what is he, 12?), and he said "its so stupid bitch whores like you can suck my dick without any confusion." So she slapped him in the face!!!
Tucker threw his drink at her, Candice threw her drink at Tucker with lightning fast reflexes, then he proceeded to grab Megan by her hair and hit her in the face with his pathetically small hands. With a bruised face, and a bruised ego, he took his shriveled penis back to his buddies.
In Tucker Max's own words, "My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole." Oh, and he hits girls.
15,917 comments:
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Bunny,
Tugger treated you like a filthy cum rag. Get some self respect and stop defending that piece of shit. He is a loser and failure. And his side kick is a huge fat ass.
The Planet.
Pretty wasted right now but I just saw some dumbass wearing an IHTSBIH shirt at a party.
Erin,
We'll stop hating when Tucker stops breathing. Deal?
No, actually, I'll stop hatering when Tucker stops being haterable. As in, starts acting like an adult, admitting error, avoiding pointless boasting, that sort of thing.
Okay guys, stay focused. We need a beefsmoker as the first post of the next page.
Where's Biff?
I HATERZ TEH TUKCER 2 OK?????
- BIFF!!!
"Okay guys, stay focused. We need a beefsmoker as the first post of the next page."
Okay, I'm on it!
Counting back from 8...
...7...
...6...
...5...
...4...
...3...
...2...
...oh, crap! I miscounted! I fucked up!
You are such a fucking moron, lol. You weren't even close.
Look on the brightside.
Tucker... still a shithead.
Nils... still fat.
wow, you really suck at life.
its ok, though, tucker can't count either. 5,371 copies sold = hundreds of thousands.
You really fucked up big, countdown-to-mcbeefsmoker-guy. You're a fucking moron.
Marketing Wunderkind Charlie Hoehn still refuses to explain why the marketing for the movie was a complete and utter failure.
FACT: Tucker Max stands on cushions in order to pretend to be six feet tall.
Want to see a picture?
I AM WILLING TO TESTIFY...
Tucker is 6' tall... standing on a cushion.
Tucker makes 6 figures... give or take some zeroes.
Tucker had someone tape his attempt at anal sex and then everyone threw up on eachother... in his book.
Tucker's book will be considered part of the western cannon in 50 years... the way things are going.
Tucker will make another movie... of some kids birthday party.
Tucker is going to build a media empire that will change the way people do business... out of Lego.
Nils is quite slim... compared to some people on TLC
More on this later. Do not email me about this people.
I'm not sure what's better for my gf, a tampon or a maxie-pad. Perhaps the tour bitch can advise her. Oh, Griffin...
tucker's sold miliones of books in mexico.
^^^^
mmmm I see your point.
http://isohunt.com/torrents/?ihq=beer+in+hell
scoresman, got a tattoo.
IHTSBiH has been seen by millions of people... in sweden
^^^ Any of those torrents real?
can't believe that nobody posted this yet:
http://www.somethingawful.com/d/current-movie-reviews/amelia.php?page=2
somethingawful rules your base
someone did post it, 8 or so times
It hadn't occurred to me who exactly Tucker Max was when I was handed this DVD. I knew I'd heard the name before, but only in passing. I'd heard of snotty, adolescent males being referred to as Tuckers, but I really had no idea why. After watching I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, based on Tucker Max's memoirs, I recalled my history lessons and it all became clear. I understand, now, why the world had to end.
"someone did post it, 8 or so times"
win
When asked how he picks up girls:
"C'mon man, it's a different game for me now. At 24, I had to go out and work for ass. Now, I go out and select. Oh dude, I haven't had to go out and find a girl for the longest time.
"I'll, like, post on Twitter that I'll be in Toronto the next two days, 30 girls e-mail me or Twitter me back. I'm going someplace tonight, I post it, and who knows how many will be there -- 30? 50? 100?"
Why not 200 or 300 girls with their pussies ready? If I were Tucker I would check the club's capacity with the fire marshall so I would at least have an estimate of the number of willing pussies waiting.
The only women that Tugger gets now are total sluts. At some point that fuck is going to want to settle down and he is not going to be able to find a decent girl who will want to marry him. A slut is not marriage material and would not settle down with him anyway.
According to the alexa Internet rankings, tuckermax.com was ranked 39,000 yesterday and rapidly falling in popularily, whereas this blog was ranked 312,000 and steadily increasing in popularity. The comments section of this blog is more interesting than anything on his website. I will have a nice laugh if this blog ever has a better alexa ranking than tuckermax.com.
A: The Reichstag as eternal flame.
Q: What is global warming?
http://www.nowtoronto.com/movies/story.cfm?content=172314
Posted by Chris Griffin
I worked on this movie. I let Tucker do me in the butt. I tossed Nils' salad. I licked Jeff's nuts like the lap doggie that I am. I watched this movie. Out of all these actions, by far, watching this movie was the most painful and humiliating.
Tucker, and everyone around him, is a talentless hack.
imdb
doodwithbooks:
"pshoward, do hot girls really come up to this guy? not in droves obviously, but some here and there, when you hung out with him?"
pshoward101:
"The answer is DEFINITIVELY no, they never did. Not once.
On his press/movie tour, and when he publicizes his appearances, sure. But those are dumb stars-in-their-eyes sorostitutes. Mostly they just stare anyway. The ones that approach him for sex are the super drunk ones who want to prove (to themselves) they are good looking enough to get laid by a "legend."
Look, Tucker is a serial exaggerator. That's just a fact. He does this in every aspect of his life, and I would bet that he's done this since he was a child. So for those that think the stories in his book are 100% real-- and not the nearly- 10-years-later-writing of a now-sober braggert, you are more delusional than he is.
That said, I didn't find Tucker super revolting when we hung out. But that's because I know his bravado is cover for hyper insecurity. When you're with him in a normal situation, it's so obvious even girls nearby notice this."
^^^
Link??
"I'll, like, post on Twitter that I'll be in Toronto the next two days, 30 girls e-mail me or Twitter me back. I'm going someplace tonight, I post it, and who knows how many will be there -- 30? 50? 100?"
That's interesting, considering you can see his Twitter acount. @ Tucker Max only gets about 10-20 hits total each day. And not all are girls.
Unless Max is now admitting to hooking up with guys.
10:15: "Tucker finally speaks" thread, fifth page.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704576204574529703577274572.html
Mr. Hillcoat told him, "You relieved a huge burden from my shoulders when you said, 'Look, a novel's a novel and a film's a film, and they're very different.'"
Just goes to show: Cormac McCarthy's not as smart or accomplished as Tucker Max! That's right, Mr. Author, one day ... ONE DAY! - you, too, will be able to aspire to greatness within the American literary canon, as represented by that one and only icon of creative artistry, TUCKER MAX.
After all, Tucker Max got HIS book made into a movie FIRST. And it was a huge success. Bigger than The Hangover. Well, better, anyway. This one redneck soldier dude told me so. Trust me. Do NOT email me about this. More later.
Hey quotabletuckermax.com guy, you're famous!!!
In what can only be described as hysterically funny, a recent article detailing an interview of Tucker actually cites to quotabletuckermax.com:
"The I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell film hit the US theaters last month, with a Canadian release on November 14. Unfortunately for Max, it looks like there’s only so much attention one douchebag can get. The movie was an embarrassing, straight-to-DVD flop. Max’s fans felt that it was missing something. Others felt that it was disturbing, pointless and utterly unfunny.
Max, however, has a different opinion. “I think it’s very good. I think it’s fantastic—I think we did a great job.”
But really, what else do you expect him to say? On quotabletuckermax.com you can find him saying more BS like “the movie will do amazing numbers and change the way comedy is made.”
http://ubyssey.ca/culture/?p=10987
Tucker actually gave this girl an interview, so you know he followed up to read what she said. I would have paid to see the look on his face as he read it - particularily when he saw a link to a hater site.
Its just a crying shame that he stopped posting frequently. I also would pay to see what he wrote about her after reading her article (although I can probably fill in the blanks - she's a fat bitch, no life, lying about what occurred, etc.)
He has been so roundly trounced by the media lately I'm surprised he's even giving interviews anymore. They just keep getting funnier and funnier.
You can pre-order AFF on Amazon, slated for a January 31, 2011 release.
http://www.amazon.com/Assholes-Finish-First-Tucker-Max/dp/1416938745
It's late because Nils ate the first manuscript and Tug has run out of comedies to plagiarize. Do NOT e-mail me about this, people.
which number is higher: the amount of books tucker's sold in canada, or the amount of double whoppers nils has consumed?
in other news, bunny thought about killing herself again yesterday.
What a great movie review. It was so good, in fact, I emailed it to Tucker as I'm sure he'd appreciate it in a proactive kind of way.
My name is Tucker Max and I'm an asshole who finishes first - except for when it comes to making movies.
How is he going to retain his audience for over a year without even a website?
Thimple. He'th Tucker Makth.
Snurf?
SNURF SNURF.
snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf snurf
Does anyone know how to remove a Gerbil from the rectum? Do NOT email me about this people. More to come.
hhahaha. boxofficemojo has 'beer in hell' listed as 'closed November 12'. The final domestic take? 1,429,299.
Revolutionary!
The final day, November 12, IHTSBiH made $521.
Final consensus.
That movie was a exactly like Tucker...
A piece of shit.
"The final domestic take? 1,429,299."
Biscuits is a fucking prophet.
^^^^
I agree with Japanese guy - Nils is rather portly.
Your translation is a bit off. What Japanese-guy said was, “I saw Godzilla tits with Faye Ray swatting away planes atop my sky-scraper in 1955.” This is the phrase that explains it best – “ゴジラ.” Also, to quote Tucker, I guess the “pubrick no rike my movie.”
^^^^^ahahahahahahaha. Is any single person linked to Tucker not a pathetic, broken no-talent? Talk about losers feeding off of other losers...these hollow fucking pantywaste's are sad on every level.
Biscuits is a fucking prophet.
What was his prediction? Between $1.3 and $1.5 million?
If so, incredible. Well done biscuits.
^^^ $700k-1.5m
wow, ihtsbih made less in two months in the theaters than boondock saints 2 made in just two weeks (so far) with a similar number of theaters.
And wah was Tucker's prediction? $20m to $200m. LOL
Ok, ok, my turn.
10!
9!
8!
7!
6!
5!
4!!!
THREE!!!
TWO ...
... ONE ...
this is a repeat story and totally made up. nice try, Mcbeefsmoker.
... Wait, that didn't work. What in the world did I do wrong?
*ponder*
I am going to be kinda sad when he finally takes his ball and goes home. Its been a joy to witness this epic crash and burn via a public forum like the internet.
One thing the he will leave behind is the term "tuckermaxfail". What an outstanding legacy.
By "take his ball and goes home" you mean commits suicide; correct?
Tucker going An Hero would win the internet.
HI I AM BIFF, I WON AN INTERNET ONCE, I DONT KNOW WHAT I DID WTIH IT THOUGH
- BIFF!!!
Challenge: Post a positive piece of Tugger media written in the last month. Go ahead. I Dare You.
^^
"I was wrong."
^^^ Naw, that doesn't count. He DID say 'I was wrong', but he included not-so-subtle suggestions that it was really other peoples' fault for the movie failing.
"I was wrong (Darko blew it *cough* *cough*)."
Fair enough, how's about:
"I'm just like every other fucking person on earth: Flawed."
No, no, no. Don't want him to off himself as that would be too easy. I can't wait till his next "book" is published and its just a collection of content from the message boards.
You know the only reason the "book" has been pushed back to 2011 is to give people time to forget.
Tucker's book was pushed back to 2011 because:
a) It hasn't been written. His first AFF was rejected by Simon. If he tries to polish that turd, they'll reject it yet again. Thus he just started penning the "new" AFF.
b) Simon will probably want to get its legal team involved, as the new AFF is a finger pointer. Since Tucker doesn't have much of a fan base, Simon will be reluctant to publish anything prone to legal trouble. That means a greater cycle time from submission to publication.
I think there's an excellent chance that AFF will never reach publication. I'll bet a dozen absinthe donuts that you'll see addtional publication delays by late summer on Amazon, and then it'll simply disappear.
Anyone know a source of Canadian Box Office?
still waiting for any positive press on Tucker in the last month...
Is here a VERY positive review from exclaim.ca
"Despite all of the political incorrectness and bared boobies, I Hope You Serve Beer in Hell's biggest offence is that it's incredibly boring. One would be better off staying home and watching that girl fart on the cake and meat loaf online."
but who was phone
broken?
a
Bixnoffer.
tucker max still sucks, and so does blogspot.
fail?
Nils is fat
in star wars the old republic the mmo, , i wanna be a droid. and ill call myself: hk-100billion
and ill be the coolest droid ever
and ill flip out and kill people all over the place
cuz i do watever i want when im a cool droid
nils is fat
nils is fat
fail
BEEFSMOKER STRIKES AGAIN :
THE RETURN OF THE BEEFSMOKER
Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,
To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need,
He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat,
That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set.
The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew --
Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe.
And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil,
And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil.
And the young King said: -- "I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek:
The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak;
With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line,
Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood -- sign!"
The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby,
And a wail went up from the peoples: -- "Ay, sign -- give rest, for we die!"
A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl,
When -- the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall.
And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain --
Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.
And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke;
And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke: --
"There's a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone;
We're going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own,
With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top;
And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop."
And an English delegate thundered: -- "The weak an' the lame be blowed!
I've a berth in the Sou'-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road;
And till the 'sociation has footed my buryin' bill,
I work for the kids an' the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!"
And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran: --
"Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man.
If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit;
But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt."
They passed one resolution: -- "Your sub-committee believe
You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lightened the curse of Eve.
But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen,
We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen."
Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held --
The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled,
The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands,
The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands.
Rudyard Kipling
(From Baron Eugen von Krutz, Minister of Police, to His Excellency the Count von Berchtenwald, Chancellor to His Majesty Friedrich Wilhelm III of Prussia.)
25 November, 1809
Your Excellency:
A circumstance has come to the notice of this Ministry, the significance of which I am at a loss to define, but, since it appears to involve matters of State, both here and abroad, I am convinced that it is of sufficient importance to be brought to your personal attention. Frankly, I am unwilling to take any further action in the matter without your advice.
Briefly, the situation is this: We are holding, here at the Ministry of Police, a person giving his name as Benjamin Bathurst, who claims to be a British diplomat. This person was taken into custody by the police at Perleburg yesterday, as a result of a disturbance at an inn there; he is being detained on technical charges of causing disorder in a public place, and of being a suspicious person. When arrested, he had in his possession a dispatch case, containing a number of papers; these are of such an extraordinary nature that the local authorities declined to assume any responsibility beyond having the man sent here to Berlin.
After interviewing this person and examining his papers, I am, I must confess, in much the same position. This is not, I am convinced, any ordinary police matter; there is something very strange and disturbing here. The man's statements, taken alone, are so incredible as to justify the assumption that he is mad. I cannot, however, adopt this theory, in view of his demeanor, which is that of a man of perfect rationality, and because of the existence of these papers. The whole thing is mad; incomprehensible!
The papers in question accompany, along with copies of the various statements taken at Perleburg, a personal letter to me from my nephew, Lieutenant Rudolf von Tarlburg. This last is deserving of your particular attention; Lieutenant von Tarlburg is a very level-headed young officer, not at all inclined to be fanciful or imaginative. It would take a good deal to affect him as he describes.
The man calling himself Benjamin Bathurst is now lodged in an apartment here at the Ministry; he is being treated with every consideration, and, except for freedom of movement, accorded every privilege.
I am, most anxiously awaiting your advice, et cetera, et cetera,
Krutz
(Report of Traugott Zeller, Oberwachtmeister, Staatspolizei, made at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)
At about ten minutes past two of the afternoon of Saturday, 25 November, while I was at the police station, there entered a man known to me as Franz Bauer, an inn servant employed by Christian Hauck, at the sign of the Sword & Scepter, here in Perleburg. This man Franz Bauer made complaint to Staatspolizeikapitan Ernst Hartenstein, saying that there was a madman making trouble at the inn where he, Franz Bauer, worked. I was, therefore, directed, by Staatspolizeikapitan Hartenstein, to go to the Sword & Scepter Inn, there to act at discretion to maintain the peace.
Arriving at the inn in company with the said Franz Bauer, I found a considerable crowd of people in the common room, and, in the midst of them, the innkeeper, Christian Hauck, in altercation with a stranger. This stranger was a gentlemanly-appearing person, dressed in traveling clothes, who had under his arm a small leather dispatch case. As I entered, I could hear him, speaking in German with a strong English accent, abusing the innkeeper, the said Christian Hauck, and accusing him of having drugged his, the stranger's, wine, and of having stolen his, the stranger's, coach-and-four, and of having abducted his, the stranger's, secretary and servants. This the said Christian Hauck was loudly denying, and the other people in the inn were taking the innkeeper's part, and mocking the stranger for a madman.
On entering, I commanded everyone to be silent, in the king's name, and then, as he appeared to be the complaining party of the dispute, I required the foreign gentleman to state to me what was the trouble. He then repeated his accusations against the innkeeper, Hauck, saying that Hauck, or, rather, another man who resembled Hauck and who had claimed to be the innkeeper, had drugged his wine and stolen his coach and made off with his secretary and his servants. At this point, the innkeeper and the bystanders all began shouting denials and contradictions, so that I had to pound on a table with my truncheon to command silence.
I then required the innkeeper, Christian Hauck, to answer the charges which the stranger had made; this he did with a complete denial of all of them, saying that the stranger had had no wine in his inn, and that he had not been inside the inn until a few minutes before, when he had burst in shouting accusations, and that there had been no secretary, and no valet, and no coachman, and no coach-and-four, at the inn, and that the gentleman was raving mad. To all this, he called the people who were in the common room to witness.
I then required the stranger to account for himself. He said that his name was Benjamin Bathurst, and that he was a British diplomat, returning to England from Vienna. To prove this, he produced from his dispatch case sundry papers. One of these was a letter of safe-conduct, issued by the Prussian Chancellery, in which he was named and described as Benjamin Bathurst. The other papers were English, all bearing seals, and appearing to be official documents.
Accordingly, I requested him to accompany me to the police station, and also the innkeeper, and three men whom the innkeeper wanted to bring as witnesses.
Traugott Zeller
Oberwachtmeister
Report approved,
Ernst Hartenstein
Staatspolizeikapitan
hmm
(Statement of the self-so-called Benjamin Bathurst, taken at the police station at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)
My name is Benjamin Bathurst, and I am Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the government of His Britannic Majesty to the court of His Majesty Franz I, Emperor of Austria, or, at least, I was until the events following the Austrian surrender made necessary my return to London. I left Vienna on the morning of Monday, the 20th, to go to Hamburg to take ship home; I was traveling in my own coach-and-four, with my secretary, Mr. Bertram Jardine, and my valet, William Small, both British subjects, and a coachman, Josef Bidek, an Austrian subject, whom I had hired for the trip. Because of the presence of French troops, whom I was anxious to avoid, I was forced to make a detour west as far as Salzburg before turning north toward Magdeburg, where I crossed the Elbe. I was unable to get a change of horses for my coach after leaving Gera, until I reached Perleburg, where I stopped at the Sword & Scepter Inn.
Arriving there, I left my coach in the inn yard, and I and my secretary, Mr. Jardine, went into the inn. A man, not this fellow here, but another rogue, with more beard and less paunch, and more shabbily dressed, but as like him as though he were his brother, represented himself as the innkeeper, and I dealt with him for a change of horses, and ordered a bottle of wine for myself and my secretary, and also a pot of beer apiece for my valet and the coachman, to be taken outside to them. Then Jardine and I sat down to our wine, at a table in the common room, until the man who claimed to be the innkeeper came back and told us that the fresh horses were harnessed to the coach and ready to go. Then we went outside again.
I looked at the two horses on the off side, and then walked around in front of the team to look at the two nigh-side horses, and as I did I felt giddy, as though I were about to fall, and everything went black before my eyes. I thought I was having a fainting spell, something I am not at all subject to, and I put out my hand to grasp the hitching bar, but could not find it. I am sure, now, that I was unconscious for some time, because when my head cleared, the coach and horses were gone, and in their place was a big farm wagon, jacked up in front, with the right front wheel off, and two peasants were greasing the detached wheel.
I looked at them for a moment, unable to credit my eyes, and then I spoke to them in German, saying, "Where the devil's my coach-and-four?"
They both straightened, startled: the one who was holding the wheel almost dropped it.
"Pardon, excellency," he said, "there's been no coach-and-four here, all the time we've been here."
"Yes," said his mate, "and we've been here since just after noon."
I did not attempt to argue with them. It occurred to me—and it is still my opinion—that I was the victim of some plot; that my wine had been drugged, that I had been unconscious for some time, during which my coach had been removed and this wagon substituted for it, and that these peasants had been put to work on it and instructed what to say if questioned. If my arrival at the inn had been anticipated, and everything put in readiness, the whole business would not have taken ten minutes.
I therefore entered the inn, determined to have it out with this rascally innkeeper, but when I returned to the common room, he was nowhere to be seen, and this other fellow, who has given his name as Christian Hauck, claimed to be the innkeeper and denied knowledge of any of the things I have just stated. Furthermore, there were four cavalrymen, Uhlans, drinking beer and playing cards at the table where Jardine and I had had our wine, and they claimed to have been there for several hours.
I have no idea why such an elaborate prank, involving the participation of many people, should be played on me, except at the instigation of the French. In that case, I cannot understand why Prussian soldiers should lend themselves to it.
Benjamin Bathurst
(Statement of Christian Hauck, innkeeper, taken at the police station at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)
May it please your honor, my name is Christian Hauck, and I keep an inn at the sign of the Sword & Scepter, and have these past fifteen years, and my father, and his father, before me, for the past fifty years, and never has there been a complaint like this against my inn. Your honor, it is a hard thing for a man who keeps a decent house, and pays his taxes, and obeys the laws, to be accused of crimes of this sort.
I know nothing of this gentleman, nor of his coach, nor his secretary, nor his servants; I never set eyes on him before he came bursting into the inn from the yard, shouting and raving like a madman, and crying out, "Where the devil's that rogue of an innkeeper?"
I said to him, "I am the innkeeper; what cause have you to call me a rogue, sir?"
The stranger replied:
"You're not the innkeeper I did business with a few minutes ago, and he's the rascal I want to see. I want to know what the devil's been done with my coach, and what's happened to my secretary and my servants."
I tried to tell him that I knew nothing of what he was talking about, but he would not listen, and gave me the lie, saying that he had been drugged and robbed, and his people kidnaped. He even had the impudence to claim that he and his secretary had been sitting at a table in that room, drinking wine, not fifteen minutes before, when there had been four noncommissioned officers of the Third Uhlans at that table since noon. Everybody in the room spoke up for me, but he would not listen, and was shouting that we were all robbers, and kidnapers, and French spies, and I don't know what all, when the police came.
Your honor, the man is mad. What I have told you about this is the truth, and all that I know about this business, so help me God.
Christian Hauck
(Statement of Franz Bauer, inn servant, taken at the police station at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)
May it please your honor, my name is Franz Bauer, and I am a servant at the Sword & Scepter Inn, kept by Christian Hauck.
This afternoon, when I went into the inn yard to empty a bucket of slops on the dung heap by the stables, I heard voices and turned around, to see this gentleman speaking to Wilhelm Beick and Fritz Herzer, who were greasing their wagon in the yard. He had not been in the yard when I had turned away to empty the bucket, and I thought that he must have come in from the street. This gentleman was asking Beick and Herzer where was his coach, and when they told him they didn't know, he turned and ran into the inn.
Of my own knowledge, the man had not been inside the inn before then, nor had there been any coach, or any of the people he spoke of, at the inn, and none of the things he spoke of happened there, for otherwise I would know, since I was at the inn all day.
When I went back inside, I found him in the common room shouting at my master, and claiming that he had been drugged and robbed. I saw that he was mad and was afraid that he would do some mischief, so I went for the police.
Franz Bauer
his (x) mark
(Statements of Wilhelm Beick and Fritz Herzer, peasants, taken at the police station at Perleburg, 25 November, 1809.)
May it please your honor, my name is Wilhelm Beick, and I am a tenant on the estate of the Baron von Hentig. On this day, I and Fritz Herzer were sent into Perleburg with a load of potatoes and cabbages which the innkeeper at the Sword & Scepter had bought from the estate superintendent. After we had unloaded them, we decided to grease our wagon, which was very dry, before going back, so we unhitched and began working on it. We took about two hours, starting just after we had eaten lunch, and in all that time, there was no coach-and-four in the inn yard. We were just finishing when this gentleman spoke to us, demanding to know where his coach was. We told him that there had been no coach in the yard all the time we had been there, so he turned around and ran into the inn. At the time, I thought that he had come out of the inn before speaking to us, for I know that he could not have come in from the street. Now I do not know where he came from, but I know that I never saw him before that moment.
Wilhelm Beick
his (x) mark
I have heard the above testimony, and it is true to my own knowledge, and I have nothing to add to it.
Fritz Herzer
his (x) mark
(From Staatspolizeikapitan Ernst Hartenstein, to His Excellency, the Baron von Krutz, Minister of Police.)
25 November, 1809
Your Excellency:
The accompanying copies of statements taken this day will explain how the prisoner, the self-so-called Benjamin Bathurst, came into my custody. I have charged him with causing disorder and being a suspicious person, to hold him until more can be learned about him. However, as he represents himself to be a British diplomat, I am unwilling to assume any further responsibility, and am having him sent to your excellency, in Berlin.
In the first place, your excellency, I have the strongest doubts of the man's story. The statement which he made before me, and signed, is bad enough, with a coach-and-four turning into a farm wagon, like Cinderella's coach into a pumpkin, and three people vanishing as though swallowed by the earth. But all this is perfectly reasonable and credible, beside the things he said to me, of which no record was made.
Your excellency will have noticed, in his statement, certain allusions to the Austrian surrender, and to French troops in Austria. After his statement had been taken down, I noticed these allusions, and I inquired, what surrender, and what were French troops doing in Austria. The man looked at me in a pitying manner, and said:
"News seems to travel slowly, hereabouts; peace was concluded at Vienna on the 14th of last month. And as for what French troops are doing in Austria, they're doing the same things Bonaparte's brigands are doing everywhere in Europe."
"And who is Bonaparte?" I asked.
He stared at me as though I had asked him, "Who is the Lord Jehovah?" Then, after a moment, a look of comprehension came into his face.
"So, you Prussians concede him the title of Emperor, and refer to him as Napoleon," he said. "Well, I can assure you that His Britannic Majesty's government haven't done so, and never will; not so long as one Englishman has a finger left to pull a trigger. General Bonaparte is a usurper; His Britannic Majesty's government do not recognize any sovereignty in France except the House of Bourbon." This he said very sternly, as though rebuking me.
It took me a moment or so to digest that, and to appreciate all its implications. Why, this fellow evidently believed, as a matter of fact, that the French Monarchy had been overthrown by some military adventurer named Bonaparte, who was calling himself the Emperor Napoleon, and who had made war on Austria and forced a surrender. I made no attempt to argue with him—one wastes time arguing with madmen—but if this man could believe that, the transformation of a coach-and-four into a cabbage wagon was a small matter indeed. So, to humor him, I asked him if he thought General Bonaparte's agents were responsible for his trouble at the inn.
"Certainly," he replied. "The chances are they didn't know me to see me, and took Jardine for the minister, and me for the secretary, so they made off with poor Jardine. I wonder, though, that they left me my dispatch case. And that reminds me; I'll want that back. Diplomatic papers, you know."
I told him, very seriously, that we would have to check his credentials. I promised him I would make every effort to locate his secretary and his servants and his coach, took a complete description of all of them, and persuaded him to go into an upstairs room, where I kept him under guard. I did start inquiries, calling in all my informers and spies, but, as I expected, I could learn nothing. I could not find anybody, even, who had seen him anywhere in Perleburg before he appeared at the Sword & Scepter, and that rather surprised me, as somebody should have seen him enter the town, or walk along the street.
In this connection, let me remind your excellency of the discrepancy in the statements of the servant, Franz Bauer, and of the two peasants. The former is certain the man entered the inn yard from the street; the latter are just as positive that he did not. Your excellency, I do not like such puzzles, for I am sure that all three were telling the truth to the best of their knowledge. They are ignorant common folk, I admit, but they should know what they did or did not see.
After I got the prisoner into safekeeping, I fell to examining his papers, and I can assure your excellency that they gave me a shock. I had paid little heed to his ravings about the King of France being dethroned, or about this General Bonaparte who called himself the Emperor Napoleon, but I found all these things mentioned in his papers and dispatches, which had every appearance of being official documents. There was repeated mention of the taking, by the French, of Vienna, last May, and of the capitulation of the Austrian Emperor to this General Bonaparte, and of battles being fought all over Europe, and I don't know what other fantastic things. Your excellency, I have heard of all sorts of madmen—one believing himself to be the Archangel Gabriel, or Mohammed, or a werewolf, and another convinced that his bones are made of glass, or that he is pursued and tormented by devils—but so help me God, this is the first time I have heard of a madman who had documentary proof for his delusions! Does your excellency wonder, then, that I want no part of this business?
But the matter of his credentials was even worse. He had papers, sealed with the seal of the British Foreign Office, and to every appearance genuine—but they were signed, as Foreign Minister, by one George Canning, and all the world knows that Lord Castlereagh has been Foreign Minister these last five years. And to cap it all, he had a safe-conduct, sealed with the seal of the Prussian Chancellery—the very seal, for I compared it, under a strong magnifying glass, with one that I knew to be genuine, and they were identical!—and yet, this letter was signed, as Chancellor, not by Count von Berchtenwald, but by Baron Stein, the Minister of Agriculture, and the signature, as far as I could see, appeared to be genuine! This is too much for me, your excellency; I must ask to be excused from dealing with this matter, before I become as mad as my prisoner!
I made arrangements, accordingly, with Colonel Keitel, of the Third Uhlans, to furnish an officer to escort this man into Berlin. The coach in which they come belongs to this police station, and the driver is one of my men. He should be furnished expense money to get back to Perleburg. The guard is a corporal of Uhlans, the orderly of the officer. He will stay with the Herr Oberleutnant, and both of them will return here at their own convenience and expense.
I have the honor, your excellency, to be, et cetera, et cetera.
Ernst Hartenstein
Staatspolizeikapitan
(From Oberleutnant Rudolf von Tarlburg, to Baron Eugen von Krutz.)
26 November, 1809
Dear Uncle Eugen;
This is in no sense a formal report; I made that at the Ministry, when I turned the Englishman and his papers over to one of your officers—a fellow with red hair and a face like a bulldog. But there are a few things which you should be told, which wouldn't look well in an official report, to let you know just what sort of a rare fish has got into your net.
I had just come in from drilling my platoon, yesterday, when Colonel Keitel's orderly told me that the colonel wanted to see me in his quarters. I found the old fellow in undress in his sitting room, smoking his big pipe.
"Come in, lieutenant; come in and sit down, my boy!" he greeted me, in that bluff, hearty manner which he always adopts with his junior officers when he has some particularly nasty job to be done. "How would you like to take a little trip in to Berlin? I have an errand, which won't take half an hour, and you can stay as long as you like, just so you're back by Thursday, when your turn comes up for road patrol."
Well, I thought, this is the bait. I waited to see what the hook would look like, saying that it was entirely agreeable with me, and asking what his errand was.
"Well, it isn't for myself, Tarlburg," he said. "It's for this fellow Hartenstein, the Staatspolizeikapitan here. He has something he wants done at the Ministry of Police, and I thought of you because I've heard you're related to the Baron von Krutz. You are, aren't you?" he asked, just as though he didn't know all about who all his officers are related to.
"That's right, colonel; the baron is my uncle," I said. "What does Hartenstein want done?"
"Why, he has a prisoner whom he wants taken to Berlin and turned over at the Ministry. All you have to do is to take him in, in a coach, and see he doesn't escape on the way, and get a receipt for him, and for some papers. This is a very important prisoner; I don't think Hartenstein has anybody he can trust to handle him. The prisoner claims to be some sort of a British diplomat, and for all Hartenstein knows, maybe he is. Also, he is a madman."
"A madman?" I echoed.
"Yes, just so. At least, that's what Hartenstein told me. I wanted to know what sort of a madman—there are various kinds of madmen, all of whom must be handled differently—but all Hartenstein would tell me was that he had unrealistic beliefs about the state of affairs in Europe."
"Ha! What diplomat hasn't?" I asked.
Old Keitel gave a laugh, somewhere between the bark of a dog and the croaking of a raven.
"Yes, exactly! The unrealistic beliefs of diplomats are what soldiers die of," he said. "I said as much to Hartenstein, but he wouldn't tell me anything more. He seemed to regret having said even that much. He looked like a man who's seen a particularly terrifying ghost." The old man puffed hard at his famous pipe for a while, blowing smoke through his mustache. "Rudi, Hartenstein has pulled a hot potato out of the ashes, this time, and he wants to toss it to your uncle, before he burns his fingers. I think that's one reason why he got me to furnish an escort for his Englishman. Now, look; you must take this unrealistic diplomat, or this undiplomatic madman, or whatever in blazes he is, in to Berlin. And understand this." He pointed his pipe at me as though it were a pistol. "Your orders are to take him there and turn him over at the Ministry of Police. Nothing has been said about whether you turn him over alive, or dead, or half one and half the other. I know nothing about this business, and want to know nothing; if Hartenstein wants us to play goal warders for him, then he must be satisfied with our way of doing it!"
Well, to cut short the story, I looked at the coach Hartenstein had placed at my disposal, and I decided to chain the left door shut on the outside, so that it couldn't be opened from within. Then, I would put my prisoner on my left, so that the only way out would be past me. I decided not to carry any weapons which he might be able to snatch from me, so I took off my saber and locked it in the seat box, along with the dispatch case containing the Englishman's papers. It was cold enough to wear a greatcoat in comfort, so I wore mine, and in the right side pocket, where my prisoner couldn't reach, I put a little leaded bludgeon, and also a brace of pocket pistols. Hartenstein was going to furnish me a guard as well as a driver, but I said that I would take a servant, who could act as guard. The servant, of course, was my orderly, old Johann; I gave him my double hunting gun to carry, with a big charge of boar shot in one barrel and an ounce ball in the other.
In addition, I armed myself with a big bottle of cognac. I thought that if I could shoot my prisoner often enough with that, he would give me no trouble.
As it happened, he didn't, and none of my precautions—except the cognac—were needed. The man didn't look like a lunatic to me. He was a rather stout gentleman, of past middle age, with a ruddy complexion and an intelligent face. The only unusual thing about him was his hat, which was a peculiar contraption, looking like a pot. I put him in the carriage, and then offered him a drink out of my bottle, taking one about half as big myself. He smacked his lips over it and said, "Well, that's real brandy; whatever we think of their detestable politics, we can't criticize the French for their liquor." Then, he said, "I'm glad they're sending me in the custody of a military gentleman, instead of a confounded gendarme. Tell me the truth, lieutenant; am I under arrest for anything?"
"Why," I said, "Captain Hartenstein should have told you about that. All I know is that I have orders to take you to the Ministry of Police, in Berlin, and not to let you escape on the way. These orders I will carry out; I hope you don't hold that against me."
He assured me that he did not, and we had another drink on it—I made sure, again, that he got twice as much as I did—and then the coachman cracked his whip and we were off for Berlin.
Now, I thought, I am going to see just what sort of a madman this is, and why Hartenstein is making a State affair out of a squabble at an inn. So I decided to explore his unrealistic beliefs about the state of affairs in Europe.
After guiding the conversation to where I wanted it, I asked him:
"What, Herr Bathurst, in your belief, is the real, underlying cause of the present tragic situation in Europe?"
That, I thought, was safe enough. Name me one year, since the days of Julius Caesar, when the situation in Europe hasn't been tragic! And it worked, to perfection.
"In my belief," says this Englishman, "the whole mess is the result of the victory of the rebellious colonists in North America, and their blasted republic."
Well, you can imagine, that gave me a start. All the world knows that the American Patriots lost their war for independence from England; that their army was shattered, that their leaders were either killed or driven into exile. How many times, when I was a little boy, did I not sit up long past my bedtime, when old Baron von Steuben was a guest at Tarlburg-Schloss, listening open-mouthed and wide-eyed to his stories of that gallant lost struggle! How I used to shiver at his tales of the terrible winter camp, or thrill at the battles, or weep as he told how he held the dying Washington in his arms, and listened to his noble last words, at the Battle of Doylestown! And here, this man was telling me that the Patriots had really won, and set up the republic for which they had fought! I had been prepared for some of what Hartenstein had called unrealistic beliefs, but nothing as fantastic as this.
"I can cut it even finer than that," Bathurst continued. "It was the defeat of Burgoyne at Saratoga. We made a good bargain when we got Benedict Arnold to turn his coat, but we didn't do it soon enough. If he hadn't been on the field that day, Burgoyne would have gone through Gates' army like a hot knife through butter."
But Arnold hadn't been at Saratoga. I know; I have read much of the American War. Arnold was shot dead on New Year's Day of 1776, during the storming of Quebec. And Burgoyne had done just as Bathurst had said; he had gone through Gates like a knife, and down the Hudson to join Howe.
"But, Herr Bathurst," I asked, "how could that affect the situation in Europe? America is thousands of miles away, across the ocean."
"Ideas can cross oceans quicker than armies. When Louis XVI decided to come to the aid of the Americans, he doomed himself and his regime. A successful resistance to royal authority in America was all the French Republicans needed to inspire them. Of course, we have Louis's own weakness to blame, too. If he'd given those rascals a whiff of grapeshot, when the mob tried to storm Versailles in 1790, there'd have been no French Revolution."
But he had. When Louis XVI ordered the howitzers turned on the mob at Versailles, and then sent the dragoons to ride down the survivors, the Republican movement had been broken. That had been when Cardinal Talleyrand, who was then merely Bishop of Autun, had came to the fore and become the power that he is today in France; the greatest King's Minister since Richelieu.
"And, after that, Louis's death followed as surely as night after day," Bathurst was saying. "And because the French had no experience in self-government, their republic was foredoomed. If Bonaparte hadn't seized power, somebody else would have; when the French murdered their king, they delivered themselves to dictatorship. And a dictator, unsupported by the prestige of royalty, has no choice but to lead his people into foreign war, to keep them from turning upon him."
It was like that all the way to Berlin. All these things seem foolish, by daylight, but as I sat in the darkness of that swaying coach, I was almost convinced of the reality of what he told me. I tell you, Uncle Eugen, it was frightening, as though he were giving me a view of Hell. Gott im Himmel, the things that man talked of! Armies swarming over Europe; sack and massacre, and cities burning; blockades, and starvation; kings deposed, and thrones tumbling like tenpins; battles in which the soldiers of every nation fought, and in which tens of thousands were mowed down like ripe grain; and, over all, the Satanic figure of a little man in a gray coat, who dictated peace to the Austrian Emperor in Schoenbrunn, and carried the Pope away a prisoner to Savona.
Madman, eh? Unrealistic beliefs, says Hartenstein? Well, give me madmen who drool spittle, and foam at the mouth, and shriek obscene blasphemies. But not this pleasant-seeming gentleman who sat beside me and talked of horrors in a quiet, cultured voice, while he drank my cognac.
But not all my cognac! If your man at the Ministry—the one with red hair and the bulldog face—tells you that I was drunk when I brought in that Englishman, you had better believe him!
Rudi.
(From Count von Berchtenwald, to the British Minister.)
28 November, 1809
Honored Sir:
The accompanying dossier will acquaint you with the problem confronting this Chancellery, without needless repetition on my part. Please to understand that it is not, and never was, any part of the intentions of the government of His Majesty Friedrich Wilhelm III to offer any injury or indignity to the government of His Britannic Majesty George III. We would never contemplate holding in arrest the person, or tampering with the papers, of an accredited envoy of your government. However, we have the gravest doubt, to make a considerable understatement, that this person who calls himself Benjamin Bathurst is any such envoy, and we do not think that it would be any service to the government of His Britannic Majesty to allow an impostor to travel about Europe in the guise of a British diplomatic representative. We certainly should not thank the government of His Britannic Majesty for failing to take steps to deal with some person who, in England, might falsely represent himself to be a Prussian diplomat.
This affair touches us as closely as it does your own government; this man had in his possession a letter of safe-conduct, which you will find in the accompanying dispatch case. It is of the regular form, as issued by this Chancellery, and is sealed with the Chancellery seal, or with a very exact counterfeit of it. However, it has been signed, as Chancellor of Prussia, with a signature indistinguishable from that of the Baron Stein, who is the present Prussian Minister of Agriculture. Baron Stein was shown the signature, with the rest of the letter covered, and without hesitation acknowledged it for his own writing. However, when the letter was uncovered and shown to him, his surprise and horror were such as would require the pen of a Goethe or a Schiller to describe, and he denied categorically ever having seen the document before.
I have no choice but to believe him. It is impossible to think that a man of Baron Stein's honorable and serious character would be party to the fabrication of a paper of this sort. Even aside from this, I am in the thing as deeply as he; if it is signed with his signature, it is also sealed with my seal, which has not been out of my personal keeping in the ten years that I have been Chancellor here. In fact, the word "impossible" can be used to describe the entire business. It was impossible for the man Benjamin Bathurst to have entered the inn yard—yet he did. It was impossible that he should carry papers of the sort found in his dispatch case, or that such papers should exist—yet I am sending them to you with this letter. It is impossible that Baron von Stein should sign a paper of the sort he did, or that it should be sealed by the Chancellery—yet it bears both Stein's signature and my seal.
You will also find in the dispatch case other credentials, ostensibly originating with the British Foreign Office, of the same character, being signed by persons having no connection with the Foreign Office, or even with the government, but being sealed with apparently authentic seals. If you send these papers to London, I fancy you will find that they will there create the same situation as that caused here by this letter of safe-conduct.
I am also sending you a charcoal sketch of the person who calls himself Benjamin Bathurst. This portrait was taken without its subject's knowledge. Baron von Krutz's nephew, Lieutenant von Tarlburg, who is the son of our mutual friend Count von Tarlburg, has a little friend, a very clever young lady who is, as you will see, an expert at this sort of work: she was introduced into a room at the Ministry of Police and placed behind a screen, where she could sketch our prisoner's face. If you should send this picture to London, I think that there is a good chance that it might be recognized. I can vouch that it is an excellent likeness.
To tell the truth, we are at our wits' end about this affair. I cannot understand how such excellent imitations of these various seals could be made, and the signature of the Baron von Stein is the most expert forgery that I have ever seen, in thirty years' experience as a statesman. This would indicate careful and painstaking work on the part of somebody; how, then, do we reconcile this with such clumsy mistakes, recognizable as such by any schoolboy, as signing the name of Baron Stein as Prussian Chancellor, or Mr. George Canning, who is a member of the opposition party and not connected with your government, as British Foreign secretary.
These are mistakes which only a madman would make. There are those who think our prisoner is mad, because of his apparent delusions about the great conqueror, General Bonaparte, alias the Emperor Napoleon. Madmen have been known to fabricate evidence to support their delusions, it is true, but I shudder to think of a madman having at his disposal the resources to manufacture the papers you will find in this dispatch case. Moreover, some of our foremost medical men, who have specialized in the disorders of the mind, have interviewed this man Bathurst and say that, save for his fixed belief in a nonexistent situation, he is perfectly sane.
Personally, I believe that the whole thing is a gigantic hoax, perpetrated for some hidden and sinister purpose, possibly to create confusion, and to undermine the confidence existing between your government and mine, and to set against one another various persons connected with both governments, or else as a mask for some other conspiratorial activity. Only a few months ago, you will recall, there was a Jacobin plot unmasked at Köln.
But, whatever this business may portend, I do not like it. I want to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible, and I will thank you, my dear sir, and your government, for any assistance you may find possible.
I have the honor, sir, to be, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
Berchtenwald
FROM BARON VON KRUTZ, TO THE COUNT VON BERCHTENWALD. MOST URGENT; MOST IMPORTANT.
TO BE DELIVERED IMMEDIATELY AND IN PERSON REGARDLESS OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
28 November, 1809
Count von Berchtenwald:
Within the past half hour, that is, at about eleven o'clock tonight, the man calling himself Benjamin Bathurst was shot and killed by a sentry at the Ministry of Police, while attempting to escape from custody.
A sentry on duty in the rear courtyard of the Ministry observed a man attempting to leave the building in a suspicious and furtive manner. This sentry, who was under the strictest orders to allow no one to enter or leave without written authorization, challenged him; when he attempted to run, the sentry fired his musket at him, bringing him down. At the shot, the Sergeant of the Guard rushed into the courtyard with his detail, and the man whom the sentry had shot was found to be the Englishman, Benjamin Bathurst. He had been hit in the chest with an ounce ball, and died before the doctor could arrive, and without recovering consciousness.
An investigation revealed that the prisoner, who was confined on the third floor of the building, had fashioned a rope from his bedding, his bed cord, and the leather strap of his bell pull. This rope was only long enough to reach to the window of the office on the second floor, directly below, but he managed to enter this by kicking the glass out of the window. I am trying to find out how he could do this without being heard. I can assure you that somebody is going to smart for this night's work. As for the sentry, he acted within his orders; I have commended him for doing his duty, and for good shooting, and I assume full responsibility for the death of the prisoner at his hands.
I have no idea why the self-so-called Benjamin Bathurst, who, until now, was well-behaved and seemed to take his confinement philosophically, should suddenly make this rash and fatal attempt, unless it was because of those infernal dunderheads of madhouse doctors who have been bothering him. Only this afternoon they deliberately handed him a bundle of newspapers—Prussian, Austrian, French, and English—all dated within the last month. They wanted they said, to see how he would react. Well, God pardon them, they've found out!
What do you think should be done about giving the body burial?
Krutz
(From the British Minister, to the Count von Berchtenwald.)
December 20th, 1809
My dear Count von Berchtenwald:
Reply from London to my letter of the 28th, which accompanied the dispatch case and the other papers, has finally come to hand. The papers which you wanted returned—the copies of the statements taken at Perleburg, the letter to the Baron von Krutz from the police captain, Hartenstein, and the personal letter of Krutz's nephew, Lieutenant von Tarlburg, and the letter of safe-conduct found in the dispatch case—accompany herewith. I don't know what the people at Whitehall did with the other papers; tossed them into the nearest fire, for my guess. Were I in your place, that's where the papers I am returning would go.
I have heard nothing, yet, from my dispatch of the 29th concerning the death of the man who called himself Benjamin Bathurst, but I doubt very much if any official notice will ever be taken of it. Your government had a perfect right to detain the fellow, and, that being the case, he attempted to escape at his own risk. After all, sentries are not required to carry loaded muskets in order to discourage them from putting their hands in their pockets.
To hazard a purely unofficial opinion, I should not imagine that London is very much dissatisfied with this dénouement. His Majesty's government are a hard-headed and matter-of-fact set of gentry who do not relish mysteries, least of all mysteries whose solution may be more disturbing than the original problem.
This is entirely confidential, but those papers which were in that dispatch case kicked up the devil's own row in London, with half the government bigwigs protesting their innocence to high Heaven, and the rest accusing one another of complicity in the hoax. If that was somebody's intention, it was literally a howling success. For a while, it was even feared that there would be questions in Parliament, but eventually, the whole vexatious business was hushed.
You may tell Count Tarlburg's son that his little friend is a most talented young lady; her sketch was highly commended by no less an authority than Sir Thomas Lawrence, and here comes the most bedeviling part of a thoroughly bedeviled business. The picture was instantly recognized. It is a very fair likeness of Benjamin Bathurst, or, I should say, Sir Benjamin Bathurst, who is King's lieutenant governor for the Crown Colony of Georgia. As Sir Thomas Lawrence did his portrait a few years back, he is in an excellent position to criticize the work of Lieutenant von Tarlburg's young lady. However, Sir Benjamin Bathurst was known to have been in Savannah, attending to the duties of his office, and in the public eye, all the while that his double was in Prussia. Sir Benjamin does not have a twin brother. It has been suggested that this fellow might be a half-brother, but, as far as I know, there is no justification for this theory.
The General Bonaparte, alias the Emperor Napoleon, who is given so much mention in the dispatches, seems also to have a counterpart in actual life; there is, in the French army, a Colonel of Artillery by that name, a Corsican who Gallicized his original name of Napolione Buonaparte. He is a most brilliant military theoretician; I am sure some of your own officers, like General Scharnhorst, could tell you about him. His loyalty to the French monarchy has never been questioned.
This same correspondence to fact seems to crop up everywhere in that amazing collection of pseudo-dispatches and pseudo-State papers. The United States of America, you will recall, was the style by which the rebellious colonies referred to themselves, in the Declaration of Philadelphia. The James Madison who is mentioned as the current President of the United States is now living, in exile, in Switzerland. His alleged predecessor in office, Thomas Jefferson, was the author of the rebel Declaration; after the defeat of the rebels, he escaped to Havana, and died, several years ago, in the Principality of Lichtenstein.
I was quite amused to find our old friend Cardinal Talleyrand—without the ecclesiastical title—cast in the role of chief adviser to the usurper, Bonaparte. His Eminence, I have always thought, is the sort of fellow who would land on his feet on top of any heap, and who would as little scruple to be Prime Minister to His Satanic Majesty as to His Most Christian Majesty.
I was baffled, however, by one name, frequently mentioned in those fantastic papers. This was the English general, Wellington. I haven't the least idea who this person might be.
I have the honor, your excellency, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
Sir Arthur Wellesley
fail?
Ukrainian girls are pretty hot. Sexy accent too.
Tucker is gay.
Why is this not working?
Griffinwrites is down for the count. Funny, he got more traffic from this site then from anywhere else.
Griffin, if you're a writer, then why shy away from criticism? Don't pull a Tucker Max, be a man Goddammit.
bh
Bixtibici.
Tucker told his little lap-puppy Griffin to take the site down and he did. When the head loser speaks, his little mindless bitches follow. Failed law school drop-outs, failed writers, looney chicks in rehab trying to kill themselves, internet loser that like to work for free...all of them drink the Kool Aid and freely give up their dignity to follow the King of Fail - Tibor-6'-Green Beret-Fucking-Max!
In Britain, 92% of gang rapists are nonwhite, and 50% of their victims are white.
In the USA in 2005, according to the Department of Justice, over 30,000 black men raped or sexually assaulted white women. In the USA in 2005, according to the DOJ, "less than 10" white men raped or sexually assaulted black women.
Global warming is an antifnord.
hello
Moo-moo
MOON
It JUMPED.
let's talk about mr mcbeefyjerks
Word on the street is Tucker made Griffin take his site down. He sent Griffin a cease and desist demand over email.
adawd
Nah, I think Griffin is just having a heavy flow with bad cramps this time of the month. She's have her site back up soon...talking about Tucker is all the little faggot has.
NOW why IN THE FUCK is this GODDAMN SHIT not working AGAIN!!!!!!!!!
Bixtibici.
If Emperor Palpatine and Darth Traya were both trying to take over the galaxy, which would win?
What is going on here?
ol
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Alo, Salut, sunt eu, un haiduc
Si te rog, iubirea mea, primeste fericirea
Alo, alo, sunt eu Picasso
Ti-am dat beep, si sunt voinic,
Dar sa stii nu-ti cer nimic
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
Te sun, sa-ti spun, ce simt acum,
Alo, iubirea mea, sunt eu, fericirea.
Alo, alo, sunt iarasi eu, Picasso
Ti-am dat beep, si sunt voinic,
Dar sa stii nu-ti cer nimic
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu, ma-ia-haa, ma-ia-haha
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei,
Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei
Chipul tau si dragostea din tei
Mi-amintesc de ochii tai.
what the fyuck
This sucks.
i dont understand why tucker made this movie when he had the option of not making it
Hey blogspot
FIXIFY ALREAZDY
Fix the comments!!!
FIX FUCKING BLOGSPOT MOTHERFUCKERS I WANT TO READ ABOUT HOW TUCKER MAX IS A DOUCHEBAG AND CONTINUE TO KICK THE ASSHOLE WHILE HE IS DOWN SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM YOU FUCKING FUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Scoresman got a hickey?
So then. Scoresman is a filthy cunt whore?
This blog is a broken as Tucker's soul. We can; however, fix the blog...
tucker max is a monster douche
Bixtibicci.
Ahahahahaha...everybody now knows what a total poser and liar Tucker is. Awesome.
Max still struts around like he's the shit. Doesn't he know everyone is laughing at him? What a fucking tool!
Fail? F'ing eh. This place was great too!
Think about Tucker.
x
;
BING is my new search engine after this site (RIP comment board) was #3 on a search of "Tucker Max." Someone please FIX the comments board....#1 is right around the corner if the posts continue!
^^^^Hi Tucker! Thanks for the laughs...at you. Kepp on drinking mean mommy and daddy out of your head.
Funny stuff
Call Tucker Max and tell him how you feel. This is seriously his actual number and he is a piece of shit.
(323)-351-7640
GriffinWritesShit
Tucker doesn't know right from left. He also doesn't know 1.5 million from 200 million.
So after my super-sekrit trip to Ukrainian hotness land I flew back to JFK. The westward transatlantic flight is the long one, and the airline had various comedies lined up as movie entertainment. However, none - not one - of them were I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell.
What's up with that, airline?
Tucker Max is being sued by Freestyle for libel due to a number of statements he made regarding the company and how they "screwed over his movie".
"Tucker Max is being sued by Freestyle for libel due to a number of statements he made regarding the company and how they "screwed over his movie"."
Hi, got a source for that? If it was a joke never mind.
Yay!! It's back...
Is that true about Freestyle? Because I think that might be the cherry on the Tucker Max Fail cake of shit.
Cool... we haterz are back in business!
I guess it is possible that Freestyle could go after Tucker, not to make money but rather to make him shut up. Obviously Tucker doesn't have any assets, but the Freestyle team may not be too happy with Tucker screaming about alleged incompetence in his next book. Though Tucker doesn't exactly have any credibility in Hollywood, no one wants to be smeared within that tight community.
Grant
hey Tucker, ya bitch-ass nancy-boy motherfucker.
yeah i'm talkin to you holmes.
WE'RE BAACK!!! Time to bring on the hate, ya rug-munching bastards!!!!!
Did anyone mention that Nils is fat yet?
Troy Duffy's film will finish out December 2009 with $12,000,000 in domestic tickets sales. That's pre-foreign, cable, PPV, and DVD.
Troy did an excellent job in both writing and marketing his film. Kudos.
MUCK FACKER TUX! MUCK FACKER TUX! MUCK FACKER TUX!
Also, Ukrainian girls are hot.
Page 77 is full of some pretty freaking odd crap.
The DVD would have been such a great gag gift to give this Christmas. Too bad it won't be out until mid January. Another brilliant move in Tucker's game changing marketing plan.
Once the DVD is released and takes a thrashing on Amazon and on other comment sections around the interwebs, what will we have to look forward to then? That will pretty much be it and I suspect I for one will find it to be a bittersweet moment. As I reflect on this whole fiasco I find that one thing remains certain now as it has when it began; Nils is fat.
oh Doucheblog, lets never fight again!
So how are Tuck's Canadian numbers looking?
"I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell: Canadian Sales: 5817 (Canadian)"
Wow. 12 legitimate posts on the first day of the doucebag blog's return... amazing. This truly is the 'warhorse' and 'final outpost' of Tucker hatred on the internet.
I wonder if Cockly knew what an amazing legacy he was starting when he created this place. Probably not; the gods often work through us, and in spite of our own limited vision.
Vive la doucebag blog!
Anonymous (11:36), I never thought that this blog would ever become so popular. If I had, I would have fixed the spelling in the URL and written my password somewhere where I could find it later.
revenge of the douceblog
night of the living douceblog
the douceblog strikes back
the incredible douceblog rides again
douceblog pt78: this time it's personal
I'm an independent film maker and I was really counting on Tucker's Rudius Air to get me and my crew around this holiday. I mean this service was critical for the whole industry. Now we have to ride around on a bus, and my portly companion keeps dropping dueces in the crapper and stopping up the works. Its just gross. And I'm not even the coolest one of my friends so you can imagine how we like to roll.
Unlike Tucker, I don't have that Kentucky connection to arrange a special deal for private jets. What's an unapologetically masculine guy supposed to do when he's riding a bus? It's so Troy Duffy.
Please don't email me about this people.
Cockly: Have you tried ex-girlfriend's names and the like? For some reason guys use the names of wives and ex-girlfriends.
Someday we'll find it ...
The Kentucky connection ...
The bimbo ... the fatso ... and me!
Laa di dee daa di dee daaah daaah
Mmm mm mmm mmm mm mm mmm mmmm ....
Time to flex our anti-douche muscle: Gawker is currently running a Douchebag of the Decade contest/poll, and sadly Tuckernuts is only second, behind legendary rapist/douchebag Joe Francis.
Lets see if we can't get Tucker back on top of Douchebag Hill where he rightfully belongs?
Don't email me about this people.
IFTB
Can someone repost the Apacolypse Lisp Now Tucker episode?
From Gawker - long but worth it
http://gawker.com/5428091/douche-of-the-decade-round-two-real-douches-only?skyline=true&s=x
Consider the Douche: A Study p1
Tucker Max, douchebag, is famous exclusively for claiming to be an asshole. Yet all who know of him know that the term "douchebag" is the correct one. Why is this? What makes a douchebag a douchebag, as opposed to an asshole? The following thoughts have been set down by way of rumination on the ways and methods of the douche and how shall ye know him.
For the purposes of this essay, the douchebag is assumed to be male. While it is true that females can exhibit douchebag behavior, they are usually too busy fighting off male douchebags to do so. Those most often mistaken for female douchebags, Julia Allison among them, tend to be divas, another creature entirely.
It is also for this reason that I would argue against "douchebag" as being a sexist term. The Jezebels have pointed out that the insult is based on something a woman uses. I say that a smart woman uses a douchebag when she has to—and then she throws it away. Sounds like the perfect metaphor to me.
Douchebagging is a young man’s game. After the age of 40, the classic douchebag becomes a scumbag—which is to say, a douchebag left out to become all cruddy and murky with the bitterness of middle age. Scumbags, like hyenas, are still essentially bottom-feeding losers, but years of failure and sexual rejection have turned them mean and honed their low, animal cunning. A scumbag can be violent in a cowardly way if you let your guard down. A douchebag is always a coward, period.
Another thing to note: douchebaggery is primarily concerned with establishing channels of social power based on the pack mentality. There is never a lone douchebag—they are social animals.
p2
The term "douchebag" does not apply to such as Rush Limbaugh or Lou Dobbs. Aside from the issue of age (both Dobbs and Limbaugh being heaps of decaying, rot-bloated, cholesterol-laden, pre-cancerous flesh), neither is interested in social interaction per se, or in sex, the other great idée fixe of the douchebag. They, like most politicians and media figures, are festering shit-swollen boils on the ballsack of Beelzebub, but they are not douchebags.
The simplest way of conceiving it is this: a douchebag is a failed asshole. The asshole is the true alpha-personality: the douchebag is the cowed, quivering copycat. The asshole rarely thinks of his own assholishness—the douchebag plots and plans his assholery, only to have it collapse into a wet splashy puddle of douche. The asshole can, on occasion, be charming, attentive, generous or cultured—this is what makes him attractive, and therefore dangerous. The douchebag is never anything but a schmuck. The douchebag worships and loves and hates and envies the asshole. The asshole never notices the douchebag, except on those rare occasions when he is inspired to crush the douchebag to a pulp. The douchebag dreams of being an asshole. The asshole does not dream—he’s too worn out by fucking the douchebag’s girlfriend.
Assholes can be talented, even geniuses—thus the frequency one hears the term; "Gee, X is absolutely amazing at BLANK, but he’s kind of an asshole." In this case, some of the perceived assholishness of the asshole comes from his willingness to put his talent before other human interaction. Assholes win Nobel prizes, Olympic swimming competitions, Academy Awards. The douchebag has no talent other than an ability, under certain circumstances, to appropriate the asshole’s talent as his own.
p3
Sex for the asshole is really about pleasure—his pleasure. That of the woman (or of the other man), comes a distant second or not at all. Sex for the douchebag is about power—first over the woman (in addition to being primarily male, douchebags are exclusively heterosexual), and then over the team of fellow douchebags he plans on bragging to of his conquest. Pleasure never enters the equation for either person because the douchebag always has one hand on his blog. Assholes can be discrete, basically because they don’t want people to realize whatever sort of kink they’re into. Douchebags are nothing if not vanilla in the sack, but are compelled to invent all sorts of grotesque practices, encounters and partners to cement their asshole status. Thus, Tucker lying about filming butthex in Opie & Anthony is the true epitome of douchebag.
Now, I’m not going to fly a big banner for assholes. Given the choice between asshole and douchebag, it is better to be neither. The life of an asshole is essentially a tragic one, leading to wasted talent, estranged families, friendless existences, financial ruin and something very, very, very wrong with your liver. No one possessed of a moiety of their marbles could ever point to a raging asshole and say: "Go thou, and do likewise."
However—and here’s where Tucker Max comes in—true assholes never make a fetish out of their own assholishness. An asshole, like a tornado or a killer whale or some other initially impressive but ultimately destructive thing, simply is. James Bond, perhaps the ultimate asshole—a cold-blooded murderer, a spy, a sociopath—never once called himself an asshole. It was just: "Bond. James Bond." (Conversely, Pussy Galore, also an asshole, never had to say: "Gosh, I’m good at fucking!’)
It is the burden of the douchebag to continually trumpet his own fake asshole status. If someone tells you "I’m an asshole" you are almost certain to be dealing with a douchebag. An asshole may tell you a horrific story of his past that leaves you thinking "wow, what an asshole;" the douchebag tells you the same story (which he heard first from the asshole), gingerbreads it to the point of obvious absurdity and concludes: "Yup, I’m really an asshole!"
Tucker Max has attempted to parlay his own weasely life into the Elysian Fields of Asshole, but belies his quest with every act. A remora fantasizing about being a shark, he describes himself as an asshole, blabs and boasts of his assholery, lies—obviously—about his stories, and is forced, douchebag that he is, to hire thugs to serve as his asshole-muscles (no asshole ever relied on some other dude to do his brawling). Panting desperately for the sacred status of mythological assholes such as Jack Nicholson, Marlon Brando, Miles Davis, Prince Harry, Robert Maplethorpe or Mick Jagger, he has succeeded only in making himself look ever more the quivering, bullying, squealing, lisping, jelly-bellied, flipper-waving, khaki-pants-wearing, Mommy’s apron-clinging, frat-boy pee-stained sloppy-boppy poopy-pants pile of douche.
And this, friends and neighbors, is why Tucker Max is my vote for Douche of the Decade.
They forgot to mention that Nils is fat.
But boy can that fat fuck eat!
talk all the shit you want. at least Tucker can go laid tonight.
Is Tugger your boyfriend? Are you fucking him? Is that why you're sucking his cock on here?
Google Douchebag.
This blog is result number 3!
Even the internet knows that cunt is a douche AND a total failure.
Oh yeah... Nils is a fat fuck.
^^^^
Douchbag deconstruction guy - love your work!
I must agree with Gvex's analysis of Tucker as top douchebag. Although Joe Francis, the leading candidate is clearly an asshole of the highest order, Tucker aspired to be like Joe Francis and failed. Francis does have access to a private jet. He did actually make millions. Furthermore, while Tucker poses next to a pretend mug shot board, with a little height assist, Francis did go to jail. It is my understanding that Tucker's posing notwithstanding, he has never actually been incarcerated. I'm not even sure that he can show a disorderly persons offense citation to back up his ridiculous claims.
Iow, everything Francis has actually done, Tucker has tried but failed to do. While Playboy, Hustler, and Penthouse silently died, Francis made millions selling cheap video of mostly pros pretending to be college girls and showing their tits; it became so fashionable that actual college girls started showing their tits as well as almost a prescient herald to the new reality tv age where notorious fame was equivalent to real fame. Would we have Paris Hilton, Britney crotch shots. or Kim Kardashian, had not Joe Francis paved the way.
On the other hand, Tucker is not even on Kade's level now. Kade's website currently gets more traffic than Tucker's now defunct media empire. And Tucker always has lied about his book sales and web revenue.
In a contest of douches, there is really no equal. Even Joe Francis wouldn't let Tucker hang on his private jet.
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