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:
«Oldest ‹Older 4201 – 4400 of 15917 Newer› Newest»I'm not a Hollywood elite. I work in Hollywood for an agency, and it's fairly common knowledge about Tucker's falling out with Jamie Tarses, which led to him getting the boot by his agent and manager.
No agency would take his script. Repeat: No agency would take his script. This is fact. Not ICM, not Endeavor, none of them. The only reason why he even got Matt Czucry is because his management company is partially run by one of the heads of Darko. He had money attached to his film and no agency would take his script.
Now, you can call me a liar, and you can call me whatever, but really who has lied to his fans at every single turn in order to "protect his brand?"
I stand by my statement, unless the film is utterly fantastic, then no major distributor will pick up this film.
"it's fairly common knowledge about Tucker's falling out with Jamie Tarses, which led to him getting the boot by his agent and manager."
What actually happened and who was his agent/manager?
I'm new to this world of Tucker Max.
^ Run while you still can.
Now, you can call me a liar, and you can call me whatever, but really who has lied to his fans at every single turn in order to "protect his brand?"
10/15/2008 5:09 PM
Maybe not a liar. What do I know? This is just the internets after all. But even if you work for an agency in Hollywood, I would be skeptical at your ability to reasonably and accurately gauge the atmosphere of such a diverse and prodigious crowd as no doubt exists in all of Hollywood. As a side note, I find it interesting that Tucker is even as much of a topic of conversation as you seem to imply that he is. I thought he was pretty much a nobody. You make it seem like his falling out with Tarses (whoever that is) is on the tip of everyones tongue, a veritable talk of the town.
Well, we know that Tucker got laughed out of every studio in Hollywood. Like, really laughed out. He came in to meet with the executives, and they started laughing, and they didn't stop until he left. True story.
Jamie Tarses was the head of CBS Entertainment. She has since become a TV producer, the same one who signed Tucker to a contract to do a TV show for Comedy Central.
She's a heavyweight in Hollywood.
The entertainment industry is all about gossip.
I hate doing things that other people in Hollywood do, except when they happen for some strange reason to be the best way to do things (like using a steadycam)
First off, let's be clear: The goal of Rudius Media is to help artists make art by not only making the distribution process easier, but fair to the artist. How well we actually achieve that, well...we are still new and small and we still mostly have to work within the system. Even when we do something new--like what we've done with my book and the movie--it still mostly operates within the current entertainment economic system. Baby steps. Please don't make it sound like we can do things we can't, at least not yet. Also, Rudius is not in the physical distribution business though, not at all, and we never will be.
That being said, FUCK YES. I have been saying this for at least six or seven years, and now that I am deep into the system I see it more clearly than I ever have: The system is ripe to be disrupted and replaced, and will be. Who does it and when, that's to be seen, but it absolutely will happen, and I think the system that replaces the current one will be better for everyone involved--artist and comsumer. It will only be bad for the massive entertainment conglomerates. But fuck them. They are evil anyway.
my eyes are bleeding
DVD (which is where most of the money is made on movies now
Well, that's not exactly correct. If a movie fails at the box office, it is still possible to turn a profit off of DVD sales and the like, especially if the movie has a smaller budget. What Tucker is really doing here is trying to lay the groundwork for why, when his movie goes straight-to-DVD this is the "best" way to do things.
Tucker's movie will probably get distribution (have you seen the movies that get distribution?), and it'll probably do well enough (have you seen what makes money these days?). You all need to accept that probability.
The key to your derision of Tucker ought not be the failure of his movie, but the realization that he isn't a good artist, that he doesn't contribute to the world, and that ultimately, he's just another cog in the machine of the demise of western culture.
^he might get distribution, but it won't be a wide release. he will not make his money back.
Christ! Could we hate any more?! We don't want him to make his money back because we feel like he is a douchebag and not an artist and overall...what? The key...The key is that he is doing something, maybe even gaining Something...because douchebags who sit home alone girlless and friendless and with no money wouldn't bother you or me at all...its the fact that he's getting it. Then again if we were gaining something would it produce as much ire, or is it our lack that makes this all possible.
The possibilities of my life as a hater, and examining my own motivations for it, have the potential for endless horrific hours of painfully honest introspection...the sheer anticipation of it...You'll forgive me if I have to go and soil another on of my socks now...
fuck off tatguy. you are jojo asshole.
^^^Wait... like, TATGuy IS Jojo? The guy from Tucker's past?
So one time I hear Tucker Max went up to some BIG HOLLYWOOD STUDIO EXECS and had his script in his arms and he was hugging it like a baby and he lisped:
"Can you guyth pweath read my thript?"
And all the big studio execs laughed their asses off and then they pulled out their cocks and slapped Tucker in the face with them and he bent over crying and they all anally raped him.
True story.
Holy Fucking Shit!!!!
Tucker is fucking awesome! He isn't going to beat Hollywood, Hollywood is going to morph into him. His totally awesome film (based on a script that I fell asleep to) is going to redraw the map of Hollywood. Sure the only way Tucker can even get his foot in the door is through the foot of another person who has been an abject failure in making a profit in film, but so fucking what you fag, this is Tucker Fucking Max we're talking about.
Max Whocry is the next Tom Cruise, only a little more gay. God I can't wait to see him play Tucker that I want to go out and punch the first person I see in the face and then donkey punch them while I eat a McGriddle sandwich. Fuck you, I'm not a plagerist and Tucker is totally original.
God, my dick is so hard now from watching Tucker become so big that the Hollywood sign is going to be replaced by "Did you shit on my dick?" I wish Tucker shit on my dick or vice versa or...
Fuck, I need to do a shot of Tucker Max's magic mix for dudes while I masturbate to Tucker's script (that I swear I won't read until I see his film on IMAX).
My favorite part is how Tucker's really awesome. I mean, for a guy who wrote one whole book that kind of made the NYT bestseller list, and who has a website - I mean, who has a WEBSITE, you know? - to be such a visionary that he's going to, like, have exhibitions in select cities and give away t-shirts - with THAT CITY'S name on them!!! Holy dolphin spit! -, and all of Hollywood is going to crap its collective pants in awe at the genius and vision of this great man, is just awesome.
I can't WAIT for Tuckerwood to become a reality!
Ha, ha, ha... 'Tuckerwood'.
See Nils run. Run, Nils, run! See Tucker fail. Fail, Tucker, fail!
I actually completely DISAGREE with a lot of what you wrote above. The current system will be replaced with a new system. In the transitionary phase, there may be situations where specific groundbreaking artists have a lot more work to do (people like me), but what you are doing is imagining a world without the current system, yet nothing replacing it. That's silly--artists are artists because they don't want to do business shit. As it stands now, the entertainment conglomerates do that, and they fuck the artist. I want to build a system that does the same basic work for the artists, but doesn't fuck them. Quite franky, the technology exists now for artist to make significantly MORE money on the SAME work. Its just going to take a DNA shift in the entertainment business to get there.
Every post which states that Rudius is in the game to help save the artists should be followed with a link to the Dunce Upon a Time article.
*GASP* Otto responds to criticism on his own blog!!!!
Originally Posted by Rayven View Post
You wrote the script (with Nils), you helped pick the actors, you helped with the movie itself. From what I gather your input on the actual money making process is very small and even if it wasn't your knowledge is so limited it could hurt you rather then help you?
Are you OK with trusting others to handle this 100%? Are you going to want to get some say in it or just back off and trust the experts?
Is it possible it won't sale big enough and won't hit the big screen, go straight to DVD? Or if that looks like the best deal you would go independent?
What you are gathering is wrong. I never said I had no input, or very little input. What I said was that I don't know exactly how the process works--it doesn't mean I don't know how the world works. Thats why Nils and I (and Darko) hired experts (The Collective) to represent the movie and walk us through the process. For example, I knew what I wanted the movie to look like, but we had to hire a professional cinematographer to actually make it look that way, because I didn't know HOW to do it.
And anything is possible, but the likelihood that this movie doesn't get wide distribution is extremely small. I don't know why you people can't understand what I am saying--The hardest part in this whole deal was getting the financing with the terms Nils and I wanted. We got that. Getting distribution, while not automatic, is not going to be hard. The hard part of that equation will be getting exactly the deal we want. But just getting a deal will be easy. We have done nothing but turn deals down every since the movie was announced. Its a matter of getting the right one--EXACTLY the same reason Nils and I took so long to get financing.
__________________
Otto's current rant:
I'm an artist. I started Rudius to help artists, of which I am one. The way technology is going won't matter to artists like me because it's art, like the stuff I produce, that matters. As long as an artist exists (and have I mentioned I'm an artist?) Hollywood will try to screw them out of their art. By the way, my movie is art and I'm an artist.
My goodness! Tucker Max == Don Quixote
http://www.zenofeller.com/tmaqhg.php
And an interview from when he mattered to just remind us how far he has evolved:
http://latimer.newsvine.com/_news/2006/02/24/108261-tucker-max-writes-a-nyt-best-seller-hilarity-ensues
What books should be adapted into movies? - October 17, 2008 07:45 AM
The bad news is that I go in for ACL surgery in about eight hours. The good news is that I only have a torn ACL, and won't require a microfracture procedure, which is nice. I will probably be out of writing commission for over a week, so I am going to leave you guys with this for next week:
What novel/short story/interesting non-fiction book/article that hasn't been adapted into a movie, should be?
My six are below. In each case, the rights are already owned by some studio or production company that is sitting on them or fucking them up in some way or other:
Hatchet: This is the first book I ever read by myself--I think I was like 4 or 5--and it has held a special place in my heart since. I re-read it a few years ago, and thought, "This would be a really cool movie."
Confederacy of Dunces: My favorite book ever. I have no idea if it would work as a movie, but I would love to see it done well.
My Losing Season: One of my favorite books ever. Conroy's relationship with his father and his coach are heart-breaking, and I think explore a side of masculinity that movies rarely examine. Plus, it's basketball, which is my favorite sport.
Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World: I know the movie "Mongol" just came out, but it not only SUCKED, it was wildly inaccurate in ways that didn't even make the story better. The true story of Genghis Khan is incredibly compelling and I recommend this book to everyone who is either a fan of history or thinks Genghis Khan was some bloodthirsty cretin. The truth is far from that, and will change your entire view of history.
Gates of Fire: Yeah, yeah, I know 300 was just done, but it butchered the true story of the Spartan stand at Thermopylae, and aside from the really cool cinematography, the movie sucked. No character development, confused and inaccurate history and fucked up story. This book tells the same story in a very realistic and compelling manner, one that I think would be perfect for a long form film adaptation, though probably a mini-series instead of a single movie.
The Virtues of War: Also by Steven Pressfield, this is an awesome recount of the rise and eventual fall of Alexander the Great, from his perspective. It would be a bitch to pull this story off, but if you could, it would be epic in the truest sense (i.e., don't do anything that Oliver Stone did in "Alexander").
There are two others I would have picked, but are already in production, The Alchemist and Blood Meridian. Both are amazing books, and I hope the movie lives up to them.
Here are some other lists that have some crossover with mine and thus are pretty good.
Put your suggestions here (registration required), and if its not widely known, link the novel/short story/interesting non-fiction book/article.
See you guys in about a week.
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By pointing out the flaws in other books that have become movies (or will be) I will trump any criticism of my own work.
Some people have been here for a long time so I have this little quiz to see how good your memory is...
There was once a guy we called Marine Corp guy...what terrible thing did he accuse Tucker of doing that was making him so mad?
Before Taint Guy, there was another disgusting commenter, what was his primary fetish?
Where did TATguy attend college?
Viacom Guy, while mostly focused on Tucker, frequently mentions another person who seems to equally share his anger. Who was it?
There was a site called horse face beth, for a while. Who was it dedicated to?
The "Thizzle Guy" was a reaction to what?
Name Taint Guys university and one of his science professors for huge extra points.
1.) He accused Tucker of eating HoneyComb cereal.
2.) His primary fetish was inland marsupials.
3.) It's a trick question. TATGuy was declared mentally unfit for college by the 5th circuit court of appeals in 1978.
4.) Viacom guy frequently mentions Danny Ainge.
5.) Horse Face Beth was dedicated to all the latest news and gossip on the one and only Teri Garr.
6.) Thizzle Guy was a response to the frequent discussion of sewing peripherals on this site, wherein 'thimbles' were often mistakenly referred to as 'thimbizzles.'
Bonus: Taintguy graduated fifth in his class at the ITT Tech online extension campus. His professor of biocheemistry (they teach a lot of biochemistry at ITT Tech all the time) was Mr. Nichols, who actually went to school for sports medicine, but who read the biochem textbook - twice! -, which automatically qualified him for senior professor status, with tenure privileges at the ITT Tech online extension campus.
How'd I do?
How many sycophants will name Assholes Finish First as a book that should be a movie?
I'm picking 6.
1) Sleeping with Marines wifes
2) don't remember him
3) Baylor HAHA
4) Sumner Redstone?
5) ??
6) The think about tucker guy
bonus: his physiology prof was Dr. Wiseman at Michigan State!
Bonus question #2:
Is it the small hands or man tits which makes Tucker so attractive to the opposite sex?
haha, tucker read "hatchet" when he was fucking 4? if tucker's dipshit fans weren't so naive they might view that claim as insulting to their intelligence. of course they'll all chime in with their own even more ridiculous story: "i wrote a dissertation on 'war and peace' when i was an 6 months old." what a bunch of sad, delusional fucks.
Taintguy is flattered. But, Taintguy earned his degree via correspondence while in prison.
It's really impressive that Tucker was able to read Hatchet at age 4 or 5 given that it wasn't published until 1987 at which point Tucker was at least 11 years old! So, not only is Tucker an advanced reader at a young age, he also has the ability to bend space-time!
^I am impressed by your catch, but also disturbed that you would actually take the time to fact-check Otto.
^^^I agree. Fact-checking Otto is like making sure the rugs in your house are still there - all they do is lie, so why bother?
hahahahahahaha
I don't care what you people think - that was funny.
OR the pic of Otto's drivers license is a forgery. You can buy a pretty good quality fake drivers license for less than $100.
Tucker is older than he claims.
^^^I agree. Fact-checking Otto is like making sure the rugs in your house are still there - all they do is lie, so why bother?
THAT IS FUNNY!
Oh, and I have 4 year old son. He can hardly read "Splat The Cat" and he's pretty sharp.
From wiki:
Hatchet (1987) (Has an alternate ending which makes a continuity with Brian's Winter)
So Tucker was 12 and thought he was 4 -- easy mix up.
Before he EDITS his blog, here are hos own words:
"Hatchet: This is the first book I ever read by myself--I think I was like 4 or 5--and it has held a special place in my heart since. I re-read it a few years ago, and thought, "This would be a really cool movie."
AND, he "re-read it a few years ago"????
FROM AMAZON Reading level: Ages 9-12
So he was 30 re-reading a book for 12 year-olds?
This clown has a problem with numbers!
I was just thinking: what Tucker will do with this silly 'Hatchet' saga is not mention or acknowledge it for a while, then, after some times has passed, he'll mention it in an offhand fashion, as though the whole thing is passe and you just weren't current enough to know that.
Now, this whole 'Hatchet' thing is ridiculous minutia, but it makes me realize something about Tucker - something that all manipulative egomaniacs do: revise history. This is what Tucker did with the Opie & Anthony thing, with the discrepancies in his stories, with the promises he's made about his book, his TV show, details about his movie - EVERYTHING. He doesn't address the issues directly, then he alludes to them indirectly later on in ways that lead the casual observer to tacitly conclude that everything's on the level. (He used a different form of the same tactic to address the script leak, also)
See, Tucker constantly heralds himself as honest and real, and I actually think that in his mind, he believes himself to be so. But the problem with a self-absorbed, control-hungry jackass like this is that his worldview is so badly skewed that he literally cannot see reality for what it is. He cannot see that his buying into the whole notion of 'popularity and public response determining value in art,' for example, is fundamentally flawed (because if it weren't, the books on the NYT that outsell Shakespeare, and the records on Billboard that outsell Mozart, would de facto be better literature and music, respectively, than their lesser-selling counterparts). It's all tied up in his desperate need for attention - any kind of attention - and he truly doesn't understand how fractured he is.
Oh, and one more thing: he goes on about how 'nobody hate on the unimportant' as if the relatively minute amount of attention he gets for his antics actually validates him as an important person. But the revisionist-history technique he uses, which I've described above, doesn't work for the TRULY important - they are held to a level of public scrutiny and observation that makes such underhanded maneuvers rather difficult. If anything, his success in doing what he does only proves his relative insignificance to the world.
I'd love to read his response to this, but I know I won't see one.
#5--Horse Face Beth is dedicated to the one and only Original Jada, who fucked Tucker in Bunny's bed (with Bunny's toys).
While fact-checking Tucker is a pointless endeavor, sometimes the lies are so blatant (and easily verifiable) that they scream out for someone to expose them. Besides, this goes to Tucker's penchant for telling lies that are just so far beyond the pale, they must be pointed out.
I completely believe Tucker when he says 'Hatchet' is the first book he ever read on his own.
I ALSO completely believe him when he says that he read it a few years ago.
I just think he's referring to the same event when he makes these two statements.
nice catch on the date guys. i was just referring to how ridiculous it was that tucker would read a book geared towards 11-12 year-old boys at age 4. but the fact that it wasn't even published is even better. this sort of completely unnecessary lie really makes you wonder how much of what tucker says about anything is true.
Tucker's movie might do okay, given the low budget and title. But if the press finds out who he really is, as in angry rich kid with attitude and lisp and no persona, fake stories, whatever, it could backfire on him.
Despite what he thinks, nobody likes an asshole.
Here's what Otto and his ilk inspire.
God, help us all:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_4p4SEUIy0
Thizzle!
Abizzle?
TIZZLE!
" Anonymous said...
Tucker's movie might do okay, given the low budget and title...."
i would not call $6 mil a low budget, although it is all relative. compared to Pirates of the Caribbean or The Dark Knight, sure....but look at Pulp Fiction, Clerks 1 & 2. there have been many successful, popular movies made on around $6 mil. the difference is that tucker won't get wide distribution, and it won't be that easy for them to get their money back. his fan base isn't as wide as he would have you believe. i predict his movie will end up on the last list on this website:
http://www.the-numbers.com/movies/records/budgets.php
what makes you guys think he'll get wide distribution? if you've read the script you know it'll get terrible reviews and negative word-of-mouth and nobody would want to see it anyways.
mcjeff blanked his wikipedia page http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=User_talk:McJeff&diff=prev&oldid=245897836 and quit wikipedia foreverz because wikipedia deleted the article about 'characters in the video game bully.' he was so mad that he left in a huff and changed his status to 'retired' http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:McJeff . btw this is the man, besides ryan holiday, who single handedly kept all controversy out of tucker's wikipedia article. he really likes pro wrestling too.
Keep Thinking About Tucker Max. It's worth the space in your head. It's worth the subtracted moments for your life.
"Keep Thinking About Tucker Max. It's worth the space in your head. It's worth the subtracted moments for your life."
I stopped thinking about Tucker for the moment. You see, I'm reading this Book called Hatchet. After that it's nap time and then I have to do my pre-school homework. Today I also counted to 5 and traced a picture of the sun with a smiley face.
But most of my other activities will have to wait until I finish Hatchet.
Hans anyone seen my blankie?
Forget Summit Entertainment's Sex Drive because everyone else is (and should). The umpteenth rauchy teenage sex comedy opened to just $1.3 million from 2,421 dates for probably just a $3.6M weekend and 8th place. (DHD)
Surprised, film had good title, lots of marketing, not any real stars. But it's the story that matters.
In this case: "Eighteen-year-old Ian Lafferty sets out on a cross country drive with his best friends Lance and Felicia in order to lose his virginity to a red-hot babe he met on the Internet. But the journey, filled with hilarious misadventures and raunchy escapades, teaches all three more than they expected about life and love. Randy, raucous and unexpectedly romantic, Sex Drive follows three friends on the road trip of a lifetime!"
It's actually based on a book. I guess the whole teen sex comedy road trip thing is dying out.
College tanked too. Took 4.6 million. Had huge target audience.
Both films opened on well over 2,000 screens. They'll make their money back on dvd tho.
^^^Oh, yeah? Well, were any of THOSE characters never-before-seen in Hollywood? Was ANY of those characters a lovable narcissist with a heart of gold? Or a vitriolic-yet-secretly-broken complex enigma of a man, who has the potential to be one of THE great characters in American cinema?
I THOUGHT not.
^^^Wow that is so well thought out. Your unqualified and non sourced math banter is surely to make a huge impression everywhere. Thanks!
A few counter-points:
- The average movie ticket price is seven-and-a-half dollars, not ten.
- Where did you get your figure of 500,000 copies sold?
- What makes you think that in the next 6 months, the book is going to sell an additional 60% of what it's sold in the last two-and-a-half years?
- You're taking gratuitous liberties with the assumption that EVERYONE who reads the book is showing it to five friends. Nobody's EVER shown ME a copy - come to think of it, I don't know anyone besides myself who knows who Tucker Max is.
- Do you really think his target-readership goes to libraries?
- A majority of Tucker's fans are too young to get into an R-rated movie in the first place.
- Word-of-mouth is going to kill this movie dead - I know Tucker really WANTS to believe that the modern critic is dead, and that everyone just loves a loudmouthed womanizer, but it ain't so.
- The edgy stuff is tame by international movie standards, and 'humor' is too Americanized to resonate much with non-American audiences.
- The fact is that MOST of the people who are in the target demographic for this movie are casual moviegoers, and we've seen how well the whole 'wild 'n' crazy college dudes' thing has gone over at the box office in recent years.
- Most of the groups of people who go watch will be collective Tucker fans, or else people who were already 'converted' from the book. Tons of overlap from the 'converted fans' you mentioned.
I don't know who you hang out with, but the people I know don't talk about Tucker Max. The only place I ever hear any 'buzz' is on this blog and his website. Media's not talking about it, nobody's talking about it.
The fact is, nobody has ever REALLY talked about him, except in a passing-fancy sort of way, because that's all he is.
straight to dvd
yes--tucker max is on fire and billions of people are reading his book which is why his web traffic is going up for his book site and movie site:
http://www.alexa.com/data/details/traffic_details/ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com
crash!
ahaahaahhhaaa ha!
october surprise:
http://www.alexa.com/data/details/traffic_details/ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com?site0=ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com&y=r&z=3&h=300&w=470&c=1&u%5B%5D=ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com&x=2008-10-19T01%3A25%3A36.000Z&check=www.alexa.com&signature=GCec9%2FlpnX3Lyr5A%2BDYRykzB2uE%3D&range=1m&size=Medium
surprise! nobody gives a fuck!
far more people care about britney spears than tucker max, and britney hasn't done anything for five years either:
http://www.alexa.com/data/details/traffic_details/eminem.com?site0=eminem.com&site1=ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com&site2=britneyspears.com&y=r&z=3&h=300&w=470&c=1&u%5B%5D=eminem.com&u%5B%5D=ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com&u%5B%5D=britneyspears.com&x=2008-10-19T01%3A26%3A46.000Z&check=www.alexa.com&signature=wk%2Fy3qWkBQoLBQUI1%2FI%2FL157NuY%3D&range=3m&size=Medium
sub mediocre vanity project, straight to dvd. enjoy relative obscurity, internet celebrity. i hear william hung is looking for blogspace
^^^Tucker bangs.
Guys, you say "straight to DVD" like that's a bad thing. Tucker won't even have that much success. He's gonna be burning DVDs and Blue-Rays on his home computer and selling them from his website ala Maddox. He will also make enough money from them to "stay above water," which will lead to the reasoning that his movie was successful since he can use it to support himself. Tucker will be in eternal negotiations with distributors to get the film pushed out to theaters, or at least get the DVDs released commercially. He will claim that his website sales prove the film's marketability, and when he fails to get anywhere else, he will rent theaters to show the movie himself, and claim that by selling the DVDs and conducting movie showings himself he has revolutionized the industry.
Dude, one of the coolest things about Tucker is how, like, he's really crazy and zany and stuff - you know, like he's just ALWAYS in party mode, you know? It's RIDICULOUS!! HahahahahahahahahaI'msociallyinept -, but yet he's also really, really smart and brilliant - like, all at the SAME TIME, dude, bro, dude!! I mean, for Mark Linn-Baker's sake, you people, the guy read a BOOK that's supposed to be for 12-year-olds - when he was much YOUNGER than 12!! (he was 4 or 5, by the way, which is definitely younger than 12)
I think that's maybe my favorite aspect of Tucker's artisserie. See, lots of people are just wild and crazy, nutso partiers, and then there's lots of (other, different) people who can totally score with the babes, but then there's ALSO this segment of people who are totally smart and who read books (for PLEASURE!! No, that's not a mis-typing you just read! Hahahahahahahawhydidmymotherkillherself?), and who know all the words and sound like the news!!
Okay, okay, so what makes Tucker so unbelievably inCREDible, is that - he's, like, ALL THREE!!! HOLY ROTTEN TOMATO PASTE GUMBO SHOES!! That must be why he's accomplished so much! Like, let's make a list of awesome things to do, and see how Tucker stacks up:
- write a book: check!
- Be really cool: check!
- Be awesome and funny, too: check!
- Make a really good movie: check!
- Famousness: check!
- Have lots of sex with the girls: check!
I just don't know which aspect of Tucker I think is the MOST awesome, but it's probably how he's cool and how amazing it is that he's the best.
I have a serious ethical question for the folks who visit this blog. Here it goes:
You’re walking down the beach when you see two people drowning. You only have enough time to save one person. The other will drown. The two people in the water are:
A) TUCKER MAX
B) THE MAN WHO HAS THE CURE FOR CANCER SOLVED.
So you have very little time to make a choice. Here is the kicker. YOU select to save the MAN WHO CAN CURE CANCER (and end the suffering of millions of people – including children) BUT… Tucker will somehow get rescued by his Dad and a group of Navy seals at the last minute. While you did help to save millions of lives – which is a great thing – Other events will now occur: Tucker’s film will be released and do several hundred millions at the B.O. -- 4 Stars, etc. Tucker will become a celebrity up there with Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp – Tucker on the cover of every magazine. He will be banging every hot chick as his billion dollar empire grows. Phrases from IHTSBIH will become art of cultural history. He will be accepted as the King of Cool. His legacy will be bigger than Elvis, etc.
BUT… IF you decide to SAVE TUCKER instead, here’s what will happen.
The MAN WHO CAN CURE CANCER will be eaten alive by sharks as he drowns. You will hear his screams as you drag Tucker to shore. Tucker Max is now alive and well. WELL…. Not that WELL.
Two weeks after rescuing Tucker a few things will happen. First his Dad’s company goes bankrupt. Next a series of lawsuits erupt preventing IHTSBIH from being released in any way shape or form – NOT EVEN DVD. The lawsuits claim the film is unwatchable, etc.
Next, Tucker forgets to renew the URLS for all his websites. The URL names are bought up by a gay porn company who redirects all traffic from Tucker’s websites to their gay websites like “MANHOLED” and “BALLBOYZ”
Depressed and broke, Tucker gets pulled over for a DWI after drinking six Zimas. He is jailed in L.A. County central holding where for three days he is beaten and raped by an angry gang of Mexicans.
After getting out of jail, Tucker is thrown out of his apartment. Desperate to make money to live he starts hustling tricks on Santa Monica blvd. One night he is picked up by Eddie Murphy. Murphy pays Tucker $400 to suck his toes and toss his salad. However, a police sting catches them in the act and the news crew from TMZ films the event. It becomes worldwide news – “Murphy Arrested Having Sex With Former Blogger Tucker Max.” There is even news footage circulating on the web showing Tucker looking up from Murphy’s lap.
After a few more weeks in jail, Tucker is bailed out by Nils (who by now has a decent career, ironically.) Tucker decides to get back to his roots and go on a road trip. Since he is “obviously not gay” – he decides to do what real men do and goes hunting with some of his Green Beret Commando buddies. Unfortunately, Tucker gets separated from his friends and ends up lost in the woods.
Tucker then accidentally steps into a bear trap. He is stuck there for 5 days, surviving only by eating his own feces. The flesh and bone of the foot caught in the trap rot and decay enough that he can eventually rip the rest of his leg off. He is now bleeding to death as he crawls through the woods crying and missing his right foot.
He is found on the side of the road by two drifters. They take turns raping him before leaving him in a ditch. Near death, but still fighting to stay alive, Tucker is found and arrested for loitering.
After six months in the hospital, Tucker takes a Greyhound bus to Hollywood. He steps off. Well, HOPS off the bus – he only has one leg – they had to amputate most of the right leg due to gang green.
Penniless and homeless Tucker sits near a Hollywood freeway exit with a sign that readers. “Hungry, please help.” No one stops.
Two weeks later he dies… of CANCER.
SO… Who would you save?
To respond to the above posts:
Who to save: I save the guy who can cure cancer. I only read this blog because it is chronicling the inevitable downfall of Otto. It's side humor while I'm at work. No way do I pass up a chance to cure cancer.
Movie Math Guy: I bought Tucker's book. I'm one of the '800,000' that you claim. I have not recommended it to any of my friends nor do I intend to see this movie if it even makes the theaters. No, I will never buy it on DVD.
Your math is severely flawed in that:
1) You assume that 500,000 people have bought the book even though the stories floating around are that people are buying multiple copies just to keep its sales figures inflated (See also: Enron Stock).
2) You assume that everyone who bought the book LOVED it and would recommend it to 5 different people. Doubtful.
3) You assume that everyone who has laid hands on this book will fork over $7.50 or $10.00 to see it in a theater or buy a DVD. Again, keep dreaming.
4) You also assume that anyone who goes to the movie will bring a friend that has never read or been recommended the book.
Assuming Tucker gets wide distribution (which is easy to do according to him, he just wants to get "his deal"), Tucker would be lucky if this movie made back even $2-3 million. A lot of people are fans of various comedians and sell out their stand-up shows. For example, Larry the Cable Guy's stand up shows over the last couple years had the highest gross for a comedian. His movies bomb. And he has a MUCH bigger name than anyone in Tucker's Movie.
As Otto's movie is so original, will that many people who don't know who he is give a shit that he's attempting to fuck a midget?
Tucker's a good drummer.
you guys keep forgetting the most important thing, which is that tucker's movie is revolutionary and also the *easily* the funniest comedy written in the past 10 years.
^^^EXACTLY! See, this is the thing that people just aren't getting, and it drives me CRAZY! Haven't you guys ever read his STORIES?! I mean, EVERY time I think of a Tucker Max story, I just can't help but laugh unconTROLLably! They're SO FUNNY!
Like, you know the one where he went to a party and, like, told a bunch of losers off?! Hahahahaha! I mean, how many of us meet some weirdos at a party or something, and then it's like, 'wow, that guy was really weird', or 'wow, that guy's personal hygiene is lacking'! But we don't SAY those things, 'cause that would just be crazy! Well, Tucker SAYS those things to people!! I mean, he actually really says those thing -not later, AFTER he sees the weirdos, but, like, DURING the time where he's observing their idiosyncrasies!! Oh, hahahahahahait'snotfunnyatall! I mean, he really must be some kind of crazy, wild character who's nuts and crazy and likes to have fun, in order to actually SAY stuff to people!! Ohmahgawd!
And, you know, if that were ALL, it would make a GREAT, GREAT story for the ages. But - hee, hee - there's MORE!!! You see, later on that night, he hooked up with some dumb whoreslut, and whenever he was parking her car - hahahahaha - he TOTALLY crashed it through a donut shop!! Don't adjust your monitor - don't re-read what you just read - because you read it right! He really, actually CRASHED a CAR through A donut SHOP window!! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!
Who even DOES that?!?! I'll tell you - Tucker Mac, THAT'S who!
I don't think I need to tell YOU that these sort of wacky, zany, drunken hijinks have a deeper, more profound meaning - a meaning that vaults Tucker's stories to the upper echelon of great modern art.
In short, Tucker's REALLY funny and smart, and he's cool, also, and really funny and good at stuff, and THAT'S why he's awesome.
"Don't adjust your monitor - don't re-read what you just read - because you read it right! "
HAHHAHAHAHAHAHA
I needed that. Great stuff.
Tucker has to get a kick out of reading this board each day. He has a sense of humor, right?
some of the posts here are classics for sure. Keep up the good work.
^^^ i'm not sure he has a sense of humor, brah. have you ever read his material?
tucker's grammatical errors make me sad
The fake Tucker fan's posts are hilarious because they point out the obvious in a sarcastic way. The obvious being that Tucker is a loser who isn't funny and that his fans are the kind of people who find enjoyment in extremely low brow garbage humor.
Its still really strange though, how as you read one of his posts you can really feel his concern over it, and perhaps even anger for it. There IS a passion there, a use of personal energy that hardly seems worth it, and is almost unfortunate.
Didn't Tucker say he expects his movie to make $25 mil in the opening weekend? Does anybody know of any movies that came out '00-'08 with a similar budget that has made that much? I did find:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madea%27s_Family_Reunion
The difference is that Tyler Perry wrote, produced, directed, and starred in it.
After seeing the pictures from Tucker's surgery, I actually feel sorry for the wanker. Posting pictures and video of the whole experience is pretty ballsy. Too bad he's still an arrogant asshole and douchebag.
fake tucker fan's is funny shit, yo.
Fuck him. I hope he gets an infection.
Tucker,
Hope your knee heals. Also, hope you figure out one day how to be cool. I mean that.
You're a bright guy. But at your core, you're mean. MEAN. That sucks.
That is your main character trait that will always keep you down.
Not sure what makes you the way you are. Was it your parent's divorce? Only child? Too much money and not enough love?
People will still like you if you just be like them. Like people. Flaws and all.
Assholes finish first? At what?
And who are the judges?
Take some pain pills and chill.
But at least consider the last two questions.
Signed, FORMER CLASSMATE
^ No, see what you are doing is being a normal human being and approaching it in a rational way. This forum is for doing in-depth research into the man's personal affairs, ridiculing said affairs and reaping the benefits of the ridicule...which mainly consists of a waste of time on your part and a just a smidgen of self-satisfaction mixed with suppressed doubt and imagined superiority. You must sustain this exercise for over a year, as many here have done, and eventually you will understand that the exercise is indeed explainable, as something you just do on your spare time, when your not leading a exciting and productive life that is infintely better than that of the doucebag Tucker Max. I know its confusing, but stick around a while, you'll get the hang of it.
^ P.S.
I'm Ryan Holiday.
Holy fucking shit!!!!
Tucker totally fucked up his knee just to spite you palsy ass bitch motherfuckers!!! He totally outsmarted you!!!! Do you not understand?!?! He fucked up his knee IN SPITE OF YOU!!!!!
That being said, Tucker, I think you are totally awesome, and I totally jerk off to your awesome and sweet stories of you inside some random chick. It reminds me of the dream of when I jerked off on some chicks back and it totally ran down the back of some chick. and you were on the sheets with a straw!!!
Now that's awesome
" The fake Tucker fan's posts are hilarious because they point out the obvious in a sarcastic way. The obvious being that Tucker is a loser who isn't funny and that his fans are the kind of people who find enjoyment in extremely low brow garbage humor.
Its still really strange though, how as you read one of his posts you can really feel his concern over it, and perhaps even anger for it. There IS a passion there, a use of personal energy that hardly seems worth it, and is almost unfortunate.
10/20/2008 6:30 AM"
Dude, I TOTALLY agree with everything you said! So I want to know - who IS it? Who IS the fake Tucker fan? I WANT TO KNOW, SO I CAN KILL YOU WITH MURDER UNTIL YOU DIE FROM IT!
You see, I get a little hot under the collar whenever someone FAKES appreciation for great artwork - you know, artwork like Tucker's. It makes me so mad, because the world is in such desperate need of good, beautiful things, and Tucker's massive body of artwork perfectly fills that need.
keep thinking about tucker...
I don't hate Tucker.
But I pity the fool.
Kung Fu Mike is fake Tucker. It all makes sense now!
I swear I'll quit reading at 4400 comments.
Dude, I'm really growing concerned for the mental stability of the people around here. Don't you jerkfaces underSTAND? Tucker isn't LIKE other people! He just doesn't give an F what people think! See, he does what he WANTS to do, and he does it on HIS terms, and that's INSANE!!
Have you ever heard of a person who just is always doing things their way all the dang time, and who doesn't take any S from ANYone? Well, if you HAVEN'T - let me introduce YOU to the one - the ONLY - Tucker Max! See, because that's PRECISELY what he DOES! I mean, woah, man!! You know?!?!
Let me give you a salient example of this unprecedented insane grooviness. There was one time, when this comedian dude or whatever, had this book he wrote, and so he wanted to have it be number one on Amazon.com. BUT - and this is where it gets really, really funny and cool - TUCKER'S book was ALREADY number one! So, this other guy is all like, 'oh, okay, well I'll just fight Tucker Mac', and - ah,hahahahahahaha- he was JOKING, see, because sometimes, like, people joke around and stuff. But Did Tuckre let the joke go? OH, HECK TO THE NO!!! He TOTALLY posted a blog on his futuristic movie blog saying, 'dude, let's totally fight - I'll even show up drunk!' WOAH!!! OH, HOLY SERENE SHEPHERD GIRDLES!!!
I mean, WHO DOES THAT?!?!? Seriously! WHO THE F DOES THAT?!?!?! Well... there's only one answer, in all of heaven and earth, that will answer that question, good sir, and that answer is TUCKER MEX!!!!!
And this, my friendly people, is why I think Tucker's so awesome. If I had to reduce my reason for appreciating Tucker's incredible oeuvre of artwork down to just two words, they would be: Tucker's really, really funny, and he's also SO cool, and it's just awesome about how he's number ONE!
Think About Tucker.
wciam?
Your time, your thoughts, you life = food
Keep on Thinking About Tucker
WCIAM?
^ P.S.
I'm Kung Fu Mike.
whenever tucker posts pictures of himself and all his best "friends," i always think about a caption--"the very best douchebags viacom ca$h can buy."
so now that czursky (douchesky) is a star in the world's greatest film, what other offers has he received?
imagine going from dating kate bozworth to douchebaggery.
what just happened?
so now that czursky (douchesky) is a star in the world's greatest film, what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
so now that czursky (douchesky) is a star in the world's greatest film, what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
what other offers has he received?
WCIAM
Whizzle cizzle izzle azzle mizzle? Thizzle abizzle Otto.
Bunny offered to fuck Matt Whocry!
That's gotta count for something.
Think About Tucker Guy must be the saddest sadsack of all time.
just as they destroyed lehman brothers, merrill lynch, AIG, fannie mae, freddie mac, the family, the country and the university with debt, they are now destroying viacom.
tucker max is the new face of corporate america.
unmanly.
tiny, little hands.
a lisp.
the complete contradiction of the higher soul and epic art.
he is your king, americans.
he is the chosen one, as he video tapes secret anal sex sessions with girls, without telling the girls.
he is the one that sumner redstone fathered and that jeff bezos sells, sells, sells to please the fiat banksters who are laying the foundations for the banker's rule, by get this--money they printed out of thin air.
gone now is everything noble and all exalted poetry and literature.
all hail your new king, as the douche drips off his face and into matt whosky's wide-open mouth.
"is that douche?" the public wonders as the image is projected on the corporate-state jumbotron.
Anonymous said...
Think About Tucker Guy must be the saddest sadsack of all time.
10/21/2008 4:56 PM
I'm sorry I want you to think about Tucker. I'm sorry. I'm definitely the saddest sadsack. I'm especially sad when I don't think you are reading my posts which are keenly designed to keep your ass thinking about Tucker (As if you wouldn't so that on your own) and spending time doing so...because thats really the prize here...your time, neatly snipped and forever unretrievable, spent in the diligent study and research of this obscure internet nobody. My time is also gone, which is why I am the saddest sadsack.
^Oh, don't be so hard on yourself TATguy. I happen to think that you're the premier anonymous poster on this board!
i think its funny how michael ian black, who i think has some talent (he was in the state, which was a hilarious show), had to piggyback off tucker's kinda internet fame just to get some extra publicity for his book. but then tucker took it all seriously because he does not understand humor. he still has on his blog post 'i am fighting michael ian black.' that is probably the only fight tucker could possibly win, against a skinny little hipster comic. the whole thing just makes tucker look bad.
obviously michael ian black was joking and just trying to start a blog war for publicity, but tucker is the kid who is practically the biggest pussy in 8th grade and somehow thinks that picking on an even bigger pussy will make him less of a pussy. you're both pussies, tucker, except michael is a funny pussy, and your obscurity is 1 scrutinizing mass media article away from you killing yourself.
Tucker Max cannot be defeated at this time, because he is the literal Antichrist and the main character of Heroic Destiny Squad. This is the plot of Starchaser Immortal:
SYNOPSIS: A young man who dreams of being a hero but has no good villains to fight sets out to install a drunken asshole who once insulted him at a bar as a corrupt Emperor God so he can later overthrow him, saving the world from a problem he himself has created.
This is the future history of our entire planet, so it may be unfortunate for Tucker Max haters to know he will at some point literally rule all Earth as an Emperor God, but take hope in the fact he will then later be defeated by Heroic Destiny Squad Rebels led by the next generation of Real Space Heroes, like in Star Wars itself.
Welcome back Cloud.
"Ayer Hyne is a Cyber-Organic T-Rex God with Machine Guns for Arms."
You conveniently (or not) forgot to mention that he has one real eye and one shiny red electronic eye.
TAT
So, Cloud. I see that you're no longer taking the meds. Isn't that a violation of the terms of your release?
Do you have any plans to re-ignite the feud with Tucker Max?
cloud is crazier than tucker is a doucebag. but in all honesty, cloud, you did kick kung fu mike's ass, and we all saw the video and confirmed it. it is interesting that kung fu mike didn't do any kung fu, though. maybe that's why he's fat? keep up the good work, cloud! destroy tucker the douchebag max plz!
I very much doubt that this is the real Cloud. Justin was actually pretty smart, albeit mentally imbalanced. The blog entry on the Heroic Destiny Squad website appears to have been written by someone a few pegs lower on the IQ scale.
The most likely explanation is that one of Tucker's kool aid drinkers has snapped up the domain name. I'm thinking Kung-fu Mike.
I was worried that things had gone boring. Maybe Cloud works for Otto.
Holy Shit! Welcome back Cloud!
Can you make it to New Hampshire? Kung Fu Mike wants his manhood back.
Interview guy, where are you?
TATguy, I'm thinking about Tucker.
In fact, that's how I start my day, every day. Except for days like today, when I clandestinely videotape sodomy in the morning.
Cloud, you're a fucking weirdo, but you hate Otto, so it's all good.
I will smash Tucker Max in amazing ways that will stun everyone and my plan is to steal all his actors such as Matt Czuchry and Keri Lynn Pratt as well as crushing distribution of his movie for maximum pwnage.
Dear Friends,
Are you tired of Tucker Max and the poor influence he exerts on this nation?
The C.I.A. has become aware of this problem and has plans to track Tucker Max and his plans, and you can help by joining the C.I.A. now.
Go to The C.I.A. Recruitment Page for more details.
^^It just gets more and more surreal, eh, folks?
Thizzle.
i bet beer in hell will be really, really funny because bob gosse has directed so many hilarious comedies and nilhs parker is a fat fuck, which is kinda funny in itself, as tucker makes fun of fat people and his writing partner is a fat fuck. hahahaha. get it?
no longer shall we have the stiller/ferrell/rogen/apatow/ brat back, but now we shall have the douche pack.
i saw jessie bradford in swimfan and that was a really comedic movie too. and matt douchesky is really, really funny too. and tucker is hilarious--making fun of people for their physical appearance and ethnicity.
yes, this is the revolution in funny, and if you do not laugh and go to the movie, it is because you are anti-viacom, and thus unpatriotic. and kung fu mike will write down your name for sumner redstone.
^ You suck. Leave the sarcasm to fake Tucker fan.
^ You suck. Leave the sarcasm to fake Tucker fan.
---TUCKER MAX INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT PART 7 -----
(The truth had been revealed. Tucker's unseemly father, Dennis, had just finished telling the story of how Tucker - Otto - got his name. In the moments between Otto's protests about our reporter hero's harrowing interviewing the senior Max, and the revelation about Otto's moniker, Otto had vanished.)
Reporter: I don't understand;; he was here just a second ago...
Dennis (via speakerphone): Aww... that's just like my little buckaroo... when he was a boy, we'd tease him sometimes about his name, or his face, or his questionable personal hygiene, and the little bugger would go off and hide somewhere, heh, heh... in the crawlspace under the stairs, maybe, or in the treehouse he'd paid the housekeeper to build for him. Ah, those were the days... you know, come to think of it, he'd do the same thing whenever he'd come home from college, too... and last Thanksgiving, we had to promise him a whole new wardrobe to coax him down from the attic...
Reporter: Uhh.... that's... fairly dysfunctional behavior for a thirty-year-old man, don't you think?
Dennis: Oh, you know how the young people are these days... I try not to discourage my little Maxi-man; after all, he IS an artist, and you know how temperamental artists can be...
Reporter: Uh-huh... tell me, what exactly IS your son's 'art?'
Dennis: Oh, you know... erm, he has a thing, you know... like a web-page or whatever... and I book, I guess, I don't know, I try not to meddle - listen, I'm going to have to let you go. The mayor of Boca Raton JUST got a table, and if I don't go press the flesh... well, you know how it goes! Tell my boy I love him, and that his new Beamer'll be all shined up and waiting for him when he comes home for Christmas! Ciao!
(Dennis hangs up)
Reporter: Hmmm.... I wonder where Tucker scurried off to?.... (calling into the kitchen) Nils! Nils, have you seen Tucker?!
(Nils is on the horns of a dilemma. With one hand stuck in a Pringles can, and the other wrist-deep in a tub of pure Crisco, he can't quite figure out how he's going to turn the T-bone steak he's frying.)
Nils: I'm sorry, what? I'm a little distracted over here...
Reporter: I can see that. Why don't you just pull your hand out of that tub of shortening, turn the steak, and then you can get back to... wait a minute... are you... are you greasing yourself up?!
Nils: Uh... yeah... after I eat my second dinner, I'm supposed to go to the Olive Garden with some people from Darko, and I don't want to get stuck in the booth again.
Reporter: Uh-huh... and the Pringles? Why don't you let go long enough to-
Nils: LET GO!? Are you INSANE? If I pull my hand out of this can, a microscopic amount of the fat from the chips will dry up... you think I'm going to let that happen? That fat is what keeps me alive, dammit!
Reporter: Wow... I mean... uh, anyhow, look, I can't find Tucker. He's not in the apartment anywhere. Do you know where he might have gone?
Nils: Hmmm.... well, normally, when he gets upset, he goes down the doughnut to that bar on the corner.
Reporter: Uh... did you just say 'he goes down to the DOUGHNUT?'
Nil: Huh? Did I? Oh, that must have been a Freudian slip. I haven't eaten anything since before I began speaking this sentence; I'm famished... but I'm sure you can entire-side-of-beef what I'm talking about.
Reporter: Right.... okay, I'm going to give the apartment one last look, then I'll go check out the bar...
Nils: Okay, man! Falafel!
Reporter: Uh... yeah... right back at ya...
(Our fearless journalist sticks his head into Bunny's room. She is darting from one side of the room to the other, apparently watching something moving around under the bed.)
Reporter: Uh... hey, Bunny... I need to go find Tucker. Is everything all right in here?
Bunny: Ohhh, yeush, ervything's juzt grr... I finished off thut botttle of whiskey, and I accudentallalaly turnded my vibrator on.... and it's *hic* escapeded... damn thang's a mind of it'z ownn... *THUD* (Bunny passes out and hits the floor with a deafening... well, thud. Just like you read.)
Reporter: Oh, man... this place is loonier than the Arkham Asylum...
(As our brave stenographer makes his way toward the door, he notices something he hadn't seen before. One of the apartment walls isn't a wall at all... he steps closer to observe that it's made completely out of books, stacked one on top of another, like the fort a child builds on a rainy day. He notices a small doorway and, figuring things can't get any weirder, peeks inside.)
Ryan: Who... who's there? Is that you, Violent Acres? I'll tell everyone your name!
Reporter: Uh... no, it's not Violent Acres... say, this little fort is kind of neat. Did you build this whole thing yourself?
Ryan (Rocking back and forth in one corner of the small structure): Yeah... built it myself... out of all the books I've read... I read a lot of books, you know... you wanna know how many books I've read? You want I should tell you how to read a book? You need highlighters... definitely some highlighters... gotta have post-its to line the pages with...
Reporter: Um... okay, I'm gonna go now... but, uh... yeah, good luck with... um, reading...
Ryan: Yeah... reading lots of books... definitely gonna change Hollywood... definitely gonna be the new media... yeah... definitely Robert Greene...
(Will our swashbuckling newsperson FINALLY discover the whereabouts of the newly-remonikered Otto Max?)
STAY TUNED!
----END OF PART SEVEN----
cloud shows up, then the site gets broken. pls fix
.
What the hell, new layout.
This new layout bullshit will be blamed on Tucker.
?
Fuck. Viacom are onto us.
Abandon blog!!
Also, new post @ http://tuckermaxlies.blogspot.com/
?
where'd the comments go?
From the I got a Comedy Central Deal post
How many fucking times do I have to tell you people that I have some great marketing ideas but will not be disclosing them now, for you to stop asking me about this? Once more:
I AM NOT GOING TO TELL YOU SHIT ABOUT MY MARKETING IDEAS FOR THIS (potential) SHOW. STOP ASKING. IF/WHEN I WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, I'LL BRING THE SUBJECT UP.
What the fuck?
1
?
Anyone have a clue how to get to the end without posting a new comment?
bookmark the page
new comments?
damn it cloud, quit fucking shit up.
Tucker Max runs an Orwellian Network I will expose and defeat, Hahahahah.
Yes! The comments are BACK!
Looks like the beginning of the end. Comments are back but I think the people in here may be getting set up for pwnage. Looks like that time is nigh, ftw.
^^^^ You might be right. I guess someone better post this, then:
THE FAMOUS SUSHI PANTS STORY
Occurred-July 2001
Written-July 2001
I used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the
past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull's title has been usurped by the
portable alcohol breathalyzer. The same device that cops have been
using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now available to the
public. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round
tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into
the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC)
reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are
accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.
I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with
me on a Saturday night. This is the story:
9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there,
even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded
full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already
depressed, I order a vodka and club soda.
9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another vodka and club. I consider
checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.
9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me.
Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts.
They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I
begin drinking faster.
9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third vodka and club. While I
wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the
greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the
fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.
9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender
over and change my order to a tall double vodka on the rocks,
splash of club.
9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the
fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I
1
am the center of attention. I am happy.
9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer.
He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women
loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I
order a double vodka on the rocks. No splash.
9:29: I blow again, a .04. I've been drinking for half an hour, and am on
my fourth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka
haze that is already forming ... four drinks ... a .04 ... that must
mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I
can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very
interesting.
9:38: Six of the eight are here. Lie to the hostesses, and they seat our
incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the
focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this
night may go OK after all.
9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven't ordered another
drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant
DAR.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant,
regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two
hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.
9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how
she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like
this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be
a cop, but couldn't pass the entrance exam to the police academy,
even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart.
She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart
enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.
10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table
has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy
with my table. If the spotlight is not shining directly on me, I feel small
inside.
10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing.
Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that
energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They
think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the
girl's class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a "legitimate, certifiable
2
science," while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they
are all (while imitating his air quotes) "legitimate, certifiable idiots"
because they believe in horse-shit like energy healing. Two girls call me
close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their
brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone
at my table.
10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am
slamming down straight vodka as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan
Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my
BAC slowly creep up.
10:10: .07
10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida.
I announce this fact to no one in particular.
10:26: .09
10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be
functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a
good goal.
10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and
go back to the bar. I don't leave money for my drinks.
10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks.
Upset that I'm only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive
drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the
shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot
smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey (I once went to the
ER drinking whiskey, but I don't tell them this).
10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila.
It is smooth. We order another round.
11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my
goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is
impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.
11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn't even stick around the table
for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I
walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.
3
11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people
are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone
here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.
11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized
by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl
who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I
tell her I don't have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at
least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it
will. I take off my pants.
11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of
underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize
that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.
11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers.
They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People
watch me do this.
11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.
11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed.
He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am
a star again.
11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a
shot.
11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me
feel warm inside. I ask what it is. "Cognac and Alize." There is a God,
and he hates me.
11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my
mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.
11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table
manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting
their turn to find out their BAC.
12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are
applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I
forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.
4
12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge
to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a
beer back. The crowd is in awe.
12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk shit to my challenger,
"Who runs this bar now, BITCH??" The crowd erupts. Momentum has
swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will
rule the sushi bar.
12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall,
broadshouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is
not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws
it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking
shit to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach
is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to
adore me.
12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for
the challenger to blow.
12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two
more shots.
12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn't go down well. I decide to take a
short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.
1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly
make it outside.
1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.
1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of
my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.
1:14: I can't figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them
in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are
embedded in my shins.
1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A
bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to "get that
fucking light out of my face." The owner of the light identifies himself
as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the
problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. "Son,
5
where are your pants?" Remembering past encounters with the law,
and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lockup,
I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I
apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the
restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to
share my sushi with the bush. He doesn't laugh. Another long pause.
"You're not driving tonight are you?", "Oh, NO, NO, NO ... no sir, I
don't even have a valid driver's license."
1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.
1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a
peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack
back into my boxers. I don't know what to do about my bleeding legs.
I look around for my pants.
1:24: I can't find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A
.23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add
that he hasn't thrown up yet. I tell them to "kiss my fucking ass." My
last clear memory.
8:15am: I wake up. I don't know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating
horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.
8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down
directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and
try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that
cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink
Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on
the asphalt.
8: 19: The fetid standing water finally jars me into full consciousness. I
can't find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my
breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of
Florida.
8:22: I drive home anyway. Let me be clear about this night: it was in my
top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up
multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I
WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's fucking ridiculous. That device is awful.
It is the devil dressed in a transistor. My advice to you: avoid it at all
costs.
6
THE NIGHT WE ALMOST DIED
Occurred-April 1999
Written-July 2001
There are fun nights, there are crazy nights, and then there are those
nights that make men legends.
It was a Saturday night in law school. Me and about 4 friends (Hate,
GoldenBoy, Brownhole, and Credit) had collected at EI Bingeroso's
apartment. EI Bingeroso had a college fraternity brother in town,
Thomas, and wanted to show him a good time. We got there at around
7pm, and immediately began cooking large quantities of meat and
drinking lots of alcohol.
EI Bingeroso, who lived with his fiancée, was excited about seeing his
college friend and began attacking the Natural Light. His fiancée,
Kristy, knowing EI Bingeroso's proclivity towards unruly drunken
behavior, caught me in a corner and made me promise to stay sober so I
could drive. Owing her a favor, I agreed. Though pissed at the time, it
became the best decision I have ever made in my life.
All the meat and liquor in the apartment consumed, we headed out. It
was decided that we needed to try a new bar. Someone mentioned
that a place called "Shooters II" had a mechanical bull. This was an
easy call.
By the time we arrived, EI Bingeroso and Thomas were so drunk they
were singing Johnny Cash songs and kicking cars in the parking lot.
The rest of the party was not doing much better. Hate, normally an
edgy person anyway, was so drunk he was eyeing Stop signs
suspiciously.
Having wrestled with Jim Beam for the past two hours and
lost, he was ready for a fight. Brownhole and GoldenBoy were already
staggering. I mentally prepare for the worst.
We paid $2 to get the obligatory bracelets. The girl behind the counter
was dressed in a tight red Lycra cowgirl outfit, replete with white lace
and frills. Her boots were black and white snake skin. But it was the
white leopard print ten-gallon hat really brought the outfit together.
The bar was decorated in classic neo-Western Roadhouse: longhorns,
7
oil cans, and saddles decorate the walls. I half expected Patrick
Swayze to be smacking around unruly townies. I was so busy looking
at the redneck paraphernalia, I failed to notice it before I heard Hate
gasp, "No way! This is awesome!"
In the center of the bar was something I had never seen before in my
life: Live professional wrestling.
Let's be clear about this: there was a ring, a full wrestling ring set up in
the middle of the bar, and there were people, ostensibly professionals,
in the ring, wrestling each other. I must have stood there for a good
three minutes, trying to let my brain catch up with my eyes.
A real life ring, right in the middle of the bar. Two sweaty, out of shape
wrestlers grappling, and a white banner behind the ring, proclaiming for
all to see, "THIS IS THE SOUTHERN WRESTLING ASSOCIATION."
Hate is the first into action. Being an ex-high-school wrestler, completely
shit-housed, and constantly filled with rage, he immediately
pushed his way though the layers of crowd to arrive ringside, and
began yelling curses at the wrestlers.
''THESE FUCKING CLOWNS ARE AWFUL! MY GRANDMOTHER
COULD WRESTLE BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE LUCKY I'M NOT
IN THERE, YOU COCK-SUCKING PUSSIES!! LET ME WRESTLE,
I'LL KICK THEIR FUCKING ASSES!!"
This continued for a good five minutes. All of us were mesmerized,
drunkenly fixated on this surreal comedy playing out before our eyes.
To Hate's credit, the guys in the ring were not in good shape. If by "not
in good shape," I mean "fat and disgusting."
A mere one beer later, Hate made his move. He stepped over the
ropes that separated the crowd from the ring, and began banging on
the canvas, yelling at the wrestlers. A bouncer told him to stop. Hate
takes this as a cue to get into the ring, and beer firmly in hand, tried to
climb into the ring. Two bouncers pulled him out of the ring before he
could climb all the way in. We collected Hate from the bouncers,
promised that he will behave, and gave him another beer. Hate
continued repeating "My grandmother could kick their asses, this is a
complete joke," over and over to himself.
Then I noticed how much we stood out. We were dressed in the standard
grad-school uniform; khaki's and button down's. No one around
8
us shared our fashion sense. They were dressed in "redneck casual;"
dirty blue jeans and assorted trailer-park shirts (e.g. WWF shirts with
logos like, "Come Smell What the Rock is Cooking"). The better dressed
had on cowboy hats, cowboy boots, flannel shirts and clean blue
jeans. Having grown up in Kentucky, I knew that these sorts of people
generally don't take kindly to those they perceive as rich and snobbish,
especially when they've been drinking. I filed that thought under
"obvious foreshadowing."
By this time, Hate had separated from us and found his way into a
discussion with a group of younger red necks about the relative merits of
the North versus the South. Hate is from Pennsylvania. They did not
share his views. He claimed that he could whip any wrestler in the bar
that night. Two of the rednecks, one very fat, claimed to be cousins of
one of the wrestlers, the one called "Motorbike Mike," or some such
bullshit. Hate questioned the sexuality of their cousin. A girl in the
group claimed to be the girlfriend of "Motorbike Mike." Hate questioned
her taste in men, her moral turpitude, and her intelligence.
The fat one, the alleged cousin of Motorbike Mike, who was apparently
also somehow a relative of the girl, took exception to this. He
was about 6'1", making him a good 8 inches taller than Hate. He had
thick glasses, so horribly smudged I wanted to rip them off his face
and clean them on my shirt (remember, I'm sober). His white tank-top
shirt had grease and ketchup stains on it, partially covering the
"George Strait" concert logo.
The redneck desperately needed a course in logic. He was losing an
argument to someone so drunk he tried to climb into a wrestling ring:
Hate 'The south is full of inbreds and red necks. How are you related
to both of them?"
The redneck tries to explain. I'm not able to follow. Hate ignores him.
Hate "None of this changes the fact that they're dating, and they're
related. That is incest. You are southern in-bred trash."
Redneck "Yeah, well the north is just a bunch of rich bitches."
Hate "Possibly, but that doesn't change the fact that you have not
responded to me. You are obviously an idiot also."
Redneck "Wa, well ... You ain't worth a shit, and neither is the north."
Hate "That's a great comeback. You're making my point for me,
moron."
9
Redneck "Bitch, I'll fight'cha ass. Well see who's better then, ya rich
bitch."
A few more minutes of this, and the wrestling round mercifully ended,
creating a short break in the action. I pulled Hate away from this
stimulating conversation, and we joined everyone else at the bar. Hate
ordered shots for the group.
After a post-shot round of beers, the mechanical bull started up. Hate
not only signed himself up, but continuously yelled across the bar at
the fat redneck with the smudged glasses until he came over and
signed up also. EI Bingeroso slammed a ten dollar bill on the bar, and
called the redneck out.
EI Bing "Hey FATASS, ten bucks says my friend rides longer than
you." Redneck "Screw you, northern bitch. I'll fucking outride your mom."
EI Bing "What? My mother's not here, idiot. You just have to outride
him," pointing at Hate.
The redneck walked off without answering. After a few girls rode the
bull, the redneck got on and was thrown after about 4 seconds. A poor
showing. We mock him mercilessly. He flips us off. We cheer loudly.
Hate rode for the full 8 seconds, an eventful 8 seconds at that. The
first four or so he was doing fine, until the bull reared back, and flung
him forward. Hate, had he been like the redneck, would have flown off
into the cushions. But Hate is sort of like a British pit-bull: once his jaws
are locked, nothing short of death can get him to release. As a result,
his entire body landed on his crotch, which hit his hand, which he had
tied to the saddle horn. You could almost see him turn green as his
entire body weight crushed his testicles against his wrist. To his credit,
he stayed on for the full 8 seconds.
Hate, along with EI Bingeroso and Thomas who have joined in the
North vs. South discussion, begin taunting the fat redneck.
Hate "Hey, Jethro, how'd I stay on longer than you? Your fat ass alone
should have kept you on for more than 4 seconds."
Thomas "Can anyone from the South do anything right?"
EI Bing "Maybe if you weren't fucking your cousin, you'd be able to
hold on tighter."
Hate "I thought the North wasn't worth a shit? I've never even seen a
10
mechanical bull before tonight, and I outrode your sorry ass."
The redneck flips us off again, yells a stream of non-sequiturs that he
presumably intended as disparaging remarks, and storms off with his
friends. This enrages Hate,
Hate "HE OWES YOU TEN DOLLARS!!"
EI Bingeroso and I convince Hate that it's OK, in this case, a moral
victory is sufficient.
The mechanical bull interlude over, wrestling began again. Everything
stayed calm for a while. The two wrestlers were incredibly fat, but they
were using props (trash cans and such) and fake blood, so it was
entertaining.
I went to the bathroom and when I get back Hate had disappeared
again. I found him up against the ring, trying to grab one of the wrestlers
by the ankle. I run over to the ring, where the bouncers had pulled
him off the ring, and were trying to calm him down. He did not respond
to them agreeably.
At this point, dealing with Hate was like taking a leashed pit bull to the
Westminster Dog Show. I assist the bouncers on moving Hate away
from the ring, and he and I end up in the area where the fat redneck
and his entourage are. By this time, Motorbike Mike has come down
to hang out with his myriad cousins and girlfriend. Hate, seeing the fat
redneck, demands EI Bingeroso's ten dollars. Motorbike Mike and I try
to break them up, when Hate realizes who he is, yells at him,
"YOU FUCK YOUR COUSIN! YOU INBRED BITCH, GIVE ME MY
TEN DOLLARS. I'LL KICK BOTH YOUR SOUTHERN WHITE TRASH
ASSES."
And then hell starts breaking loose.
The bouncers lose their patience with Hate, and three of them, plus
Motorbike Mike, picked him up and literally threw him out the back
door. It was a scene straight out of "Roadhouse." I go to find everyone
else, still at the bar, to tell them that Hate has been thrown out. EI
Bingeroso and Thomas are drunk, hanging all over each other, telling
college stories to each other that both were there for. Brownhole is
talking to the only female bartender with a full set of teeth, and
GoldenBoy is cheering the wrestlers, urging them to spill more fake
11
blood.
When EI Bingeroso gets drunk, violence tends to follow. Provoked by
the knowledge of Hate's ejection from the bar, EI Bingeroso begins
smashing ashtrays and flinging them off the bar. This upsets the bar
manager, who pulls me aside.
Manager "Son, I think it's time you and your friends left."
Tucker "Yes sir, I agree wholeheartedly. Let me just get them together,
and we'll promptly leave."
I huddle everyone together, and explain the situation. We are getting
kicked out. As I herd them toward the door, Hate walks up.
Hate "Hey guys."
Tucker "What are you doing here? You just got kicked out."
Hate "It'll take more than that to keep me out of here. I paid my two
dollars, I've got a bracelet, and I'm getting my goddamn money's
worth."
Fine, I tell him we've been kicked out anyway, it's time to leave. I get
everyone moving towards the door. EI Bingeroso is one of the first
outside, and as he waits for the rest of the group, he sees a truck parked
right next to the door. He rears back and kicks the front grill of the
truck. Twice. I am still trying to round everyone up, when a large redneck
comes out the front door, and walks up to EI Bingeroso.
Redneck "Hay boy ... hay, did-jew juss kick dat truck?"
EI Bingeroso is unsure how to answer. The redneck is large and El
Bingeroso knows he's guilty of the offense charged, but doesn't seem to
want to admit this to the redneck. So he just glares at him.
Redneck "I asked you a question, boy, did you kick that truck?"
EI Bingeroso " Who the fuck are you?"
That was apparently the magic phrase, because the redneck
immediately open fist slapped EI Bingeroso right in the face. Thomas,
who was standing there watching, throws his beer bottle on the ground,
12
takes a little crow hop, and swings at the redneck. His aim is not good,
and the fight degrades into a poorly choreographed dance, where EI
Bingeroso, Thomas and the large redneck are each swinging at each
other and alternately moving away so as to not be struck by any
counter punches.
Before I can even intervene (I was a good ten yards away as the first
punch was thrown), ten more red necks pour out the door. Brownhole
and I successfully pull EI Bingeroso and Thomas away from the
increasingly large group of rednecks, and manage to settle things down
for a second.
Tucker "OK, we are leaving. Sorry about any problems, but we're
going."
The group of now twenty to thirty red necks crowded around the door
are staring and yelling at Brownhole, Credit, GoldenBoy and I as we
try to pull Thomas and EI Bingeroso away from the door.
A few seconds later Hate pushed his way through the crowd of rednecks,
emerging on the other side just as one of the rednecks yelled
something derogatory at EI Bingeroso. Hate, being both loyal and
drunk, immediately tackled this redneck, pinning him up against the
very truck that EI Bingeroso was kicking three minutes prior.
The events of the next minute are somewhat unclear, but I do remember
these images:
• Hate with his head buried in someone's stomach, waling at his ribs,
as other red necks descended upon him.
• GoldenBoy and a redneck trying desperately to strangle the life out of
each other.
• EI Bingeroso and Thomas, back to back, swinging at anything that
came close.
• Credit standing in the street debating.
• Me and Brownhole trying to pull Hate off of his redneck punching bag.
Then, the defining words of the night rang from out of Brownhole's
mouth: "DUDE, HE'S GOT A FUCKING GUN! GUN! GUN! GUN! A
FUCKING GUN!"
The word "gun" can do strange things to a fight. In this case, it ended
it immediately. At those few words, EI Bingeroso and Thomas were
immediately out in the street with Credit, and GoldenBoy and Hate
13
began retreating, hesitantly, with me and Brownhole, into the street.
Brownhole and I succeed in pulling everyone down the street, towards
the first safe place we can find, a bar called the Oak Room. We walk
up a flight of stairs, and there are 3 girls standing at the top of the
landing. Hate is the first one to make it to them.
Girl "Hey guys, welcome to the Pi Phi Fall Philanthropy Event. It's two
dollars to get in. Which fraternity are you guys from?"
Hate "Two dollars? I just paid two dollars and got into a fight, what the
hell is this? Tucker? Take care of this, I'm not paying shit. Where's the
damn beer?"
He pushes his way past the girls towards the bar area.
Girl "Hey! You can't do that! It's two dollars to get in. Um, excuse me!"
I really don't need this right now. I try to walk past the Pi Phi police, but
she grabs me, "Excuse me, you have to pay two dollars, and two more
for your rude friend."
That was my limit.
Tucker "What are you, fucking kidding me? Do you even work here?"
Girl "Uh, no. But it's a sorority philanthropy event; it's for charity."
Tucker "If you don't work here, then get the fuck out of my way. I'll drink
to charity."
Brownhole ends up paying for the group to get in, and throws in an
extra twenty to make the girls feel better. He'll do a thing to get girls
to like him. We all get a beer, myself included. EI Bingeroso buys the
round, and then huddles everyone together. His speech is not entirely
lucid.
EI Bing "Alright guys, seriously ... guns. OK? We cannot go anywhere
without each other. We could die. For real. From the guns. We cannot
leave this bar, except as a group. We have to stay together. We could
get shot. Understood? Everyone together."
We agree. At the time, the group, mired in a fog of drunkenness,
misses the irony of this statement. I smirk and head to the bathroom.
14
Alone. On my way back, I smile at a beautiful girl, and she gives me a
cute little acknowledgment smile back. I wrote the book on pickup lines,
so I head over to her and drop one of my favorite: "Did you invite all
these people? I thought it was just going to be the two of us?"
She laughed, and I spent the next twenty minutes staring into her
deep green eyes, pretending I was interested in the stupid things she
was saying. A beautiful house, it's a shame no one was home.
Eventually remembering my shepherding duties, I looked around the
bar to make sure everyone was OK. Much to my dismay, NONE OF
MY FRIENDS WERE THERE.
I sprint off from the girl, she still in mid-sentence, and find Brownhole
standing near the door, talking to the girl who wanted us to pay to get in.
Tucker "Dude, where is everyone?"
Brownhole "Oh, the red necks came up and got them, but I think it's
best for us to stay up here." Tucker "WHAT!!! ARE YOU A FUCKING
RETARD!! WE'RE THE ONLY SOBER ONES HERE!!!"
I fly down the stairs, and stumble out to what can only be described as
something straight out of a bad '90s remake of West Side Story.
On the near side of the courtyard are my friends, EI Bingeroso,
Thomas, GoldenBoy, Hate and Credit, standing up on benches, pointing,
gesticulating and yelling, in a fashion similar to agitated African
savanna baboons.
On the far side of the courtyard are about twenty rednecks, engaged
in the same type of ritual male-dominance displays. In between this
are 5 large bouncers, trying to maintain calm and keep the warring
factions apart. Hate chooses this point to try and charge across the
courtyard towards the rednecks. Thankfully for him, one of the bouncers
intercepts him and places him in a headlock. Hate does not like this at
all, and begins swinging at the bouncer's ribs. Presumably, he would
have swung at his face, but Hate is 5'6", and the bouncer's face was
about a foot above Hate's reach. I help the bouncer move Hate back
over to our side and out of the demilitarized zone in the middle of the
courtyard.
The bouncer takes this as a sign that I'm the sober one in the
group, and says something to me I heard many times in my law school
career: Bouncer "You need to take your friends and get out of here."
Tucker" Look man, our cars are out in that parking lot. You are going to
15
Have to walk us out there. Those fucking guys have guns, and they are
very angry with us." The bouncer sees the logic in this, and explains the
situation to the other bouncers. They encircle us, and begin walking us
towards our car. The rednecks are none too happy about this, but the
lead bouncer has somehow managed to convince them to not launch a
full-scale assault on us. I can only assume he threatened violence and
inevitable police involvement.
We finally make it to Credit's car, when I notice that Brownhole is
nowhere to be found. Fucking great. I should leave that disloyal coward
cocksucker back in the Oak Room. Scanning the parking lot, I see
him.He is walking next to the very truck that EI Bingeroso had been
kicking earlier, talking to the older redneck driving it.
Thomas sees this, and yells out, "Oh shit, guys, Brownhole is gonna
get fucked up." EI Bing "What? Where? Brownhole! WE HAVE TO BACK
HIM UP!," and he tears off running towards Brownhole and the truck.
The subsequent conversation I did not hear, but was reported pretty
much the same from both Brownhole and EI Bingeroso. Brownhole
had apparently made headway into calming the old redneck driving
the truck. This guy not only owned the truck in question, but also the
very bar that everything had started in. He was on the way to convincing
the old redneck to call off his henchmen, when all of the sudden EI
Bingeroso runs up.
Old redneck "Son, your friends are lucky you're here to get them out of
this. I kill people like them."
Brownhole "Yes sir, I'm glad we can resolve this peacefully."
EI Bing [As he runs up] "Brownhole, what the fuck? Let's get the fuck
out of here. He's got a gun!"
Old Redneck "A gun? Boy, I got two guns." At which point the old
redneck pulled a 9mm pistol out from a hidden compartment in the truck,
and held it up along with his sawed-off shotgun from before.
EI Bing "OH SHIT!"
EI Bingeroso tried to back up so fast he fell over. Brownhole "EI
Bingeroso, go away, go back to the car, I'm taking care of this."
Old Redneck "Hey, hey boy, you're the one who kicked my truck. You
16
got to pay for a new grill." Brownhole "EI Bingeroso, come on, let's go.
Sorry sir, my friend needs to get home, he's very drunk. Your grill looks
fine." Old redneck "Who's gonna pay for a new grill for my truck?
Goddammit!"
The bouncers thankfully re-intervened at this point, and everyone
piled into Credit's car. Being the sober one I drove over to GoldenBoy's
car, and GoldenBoy and Brownhole got out. We sat there and
watched them get in, and then pull off.
This is important, because the conversation in the car for the next
twenty minutes as we drove to Chapel Hill revolved around this event.
EI Bingeroso was convinced that we had left GoldenBoy and Brownhole
to die by the hands of the rednecks. Hate refused to believe that
there were any guns involved. Thomas was convinced we were being
followed. Credit fell asleep. It went something like this:
Hate "Dude, we fucking left GoldenBoy and Brownhole. They're fucking
dead, man. We left them to die man. What the fuck!
Thomas "Tucker man, speed up, those lights have been behind us since
we left Durham."
Tucker "Guys, everyone relax. GoldenBoy and Brownhole are fine, the
redneck with the gun parked his truck, we are fine, so everyone just
shut up."
Hate "What gun are you guys talking about? There was no gun."
Bingeroso "Fuck you Hate, I saw the fucking gun. I saw the gun that
the rednecks are using right now to kill Brownhole and GoldenBoy.
How the fuck could we leave them? They've been shot. We left them
For DEAD.THEY'RE DEAD! FUCK!!"
Hate "There was no gun."
Bingeroso "FUCK OFF HATE, I SAW THE FUCKING GUN. THERE
WERETWO GUNS, ASSHOLE!!"
Thomas "Seriously, just pull into a police station. The red necks are
following us."
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Hate "Who cares? They don't have any guns."
Bingeroso "FUCK YOU MAN, I SAW THE GUN. I SAW THE FUCKING
GUN! GOLDENBOY AND BROWNHOLE ARE DEAD! WHAT
THE FUCK?!? WE ABANDONED THEM!"
Thomas "Those are totally the same truck lights. They've been behind
Us since Durham. Tucker, seriously, start evasive maneuvers or
something."
Bingeroso "We left our friends ... WE'RE COWARDS."
Hate "Speak for yourself."
Bingeroso "FUCK YOU HATE! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
We eventually made it to Chapel Hill. GoldenBoy and Brownhole were
fine, noone was following us, Credit woke up, and everyone told Hate
that there were indeed guns. We drank some beers, calmed down,
and headed home.
I was exhausted. Being the only sober one in a group of nine retarded
Drunks is not fun. Fuck this; from now on, I'm drinking and driving. EI
Bingeroso and Thomas were the last wo I dropped off, and I headed
into EI Bingeroso's place with them to get a beer; I figured I had
earned it.
EI Bingeroso decided he was hungry, so he took out a roll of unopened,
pre-made cookie dough from the refrigerator, tore off the
package, plopped the whole thing down on a cookie sheet, and threw
it in the oven, setting the temperature at somewhere around "Lowest
Levelof Hell." He tossed us a few beers, and we relived the night for a
while,filling each other in on the parts that the other two had missed.
Aftertwo beers, Kristy came out of her room, groggy and sleepy-eyed,
and said to EI Bingeroso,
Kristy "What is that smell?"
EIBing "Oh, sorry baby, that's cookies burning."
Kristy "Umm, OK. Can you guys keep it down, I've got to be at work
early tomorrow."
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At this, Thomas stood up and said, "Keep it down? WOMAN, WE'RE
LUCKY TO BE ALIVE!!!"
19
THE BLOW&JOB FOLLIES
Occurred-various 1994-2004
Written-July 2004
Blowjobs... the sweet sounds of silence. The problem with oral sex is
that it's like writing. When done right, it's amazing, but there are just so
many ways it can go wrong, and when it goes wrong, it's just not worth
it. These are some of my funnier blow job stories:
Say it, Don't Spray it
High school was the first time I realized that blow jobs would be a
painful pleasure. I was dating a girl from another school in my area.
Besides being one of the hottest girls I've ever known, she was also
One of the very first girls to give me head. We were both new at it, and
She liked me to courtesy tap. This was because I had convinced her
that-I'm not making this up-it wasn't "real" oral sex as long as I didn't
cumin her mouth. Aren't 17-year-old girls funny?
The first few dozen times she went down on me I courtesy tapped just
Like she asked. One time we were in my car, parked right out front of
her house because I was dropping her off after a date. Instead of a
kiss goodnight, I suggested she blow me goodnight. She thought this
was a brilliant idea.
I quickly got carried away with the risk and thrill of having her suck my
dick twenty yards away from her house where her father, who I hated,
was waiting for her to come home. I was lost in the sexual ecstasy of
the dangerous youthful blowjob when I heard her let out a little yelp.
She immediately sat up, her mouth half open, full of splooge, the excess
dripping off her chin, and uttered a muffled, "Youasshole!"
Then she spit the cum all over my face. Sprayed it allover me.
I was still recovering from getting my own jism spat into my own face
as she jumped out of my car and sprinted into her house. I quickly
drove off. I had no desire to face her rifle-wielding father with my face
covered in my sperm.
Once I was out of imminent danger, I couldn't help but laugh. I had no
idea that this would only be the first in a long line of strange blowjob
incidents.
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Miss Chokesondick
One girl I was dating the summer after I graduated high school,
"Jayne," had never given head before she started seeing me. Now, my
experience has taught me that whenever a girl tells me she "doesn't
normally give head," she inevitably ends up giving me an incredible
blowjob. It's the ones who say they never do it that do Jayne was the
exception.
She was the absolute worst I've ever experienced. I've never even
heard of girls worse at fellatio than Jayne. Her teeth were all over my
dick, she had no rhythm, no enthusiasm, and had a mouth that
mysteriously never got moist. It was awful.
It was a month of painstaking instruction before she finally got good
enough that I didn't just stop her after 5 minutes and tell her to jerk me
off-she was that bad. After another month or so, she got good
enough that she could at least come close to finishing me off by herself.
Here's the weirdest part: no matter how much she improved, she
never moved her head. She kept her head still and I would have to
move my hips. This was annoying, but I was patient with her because
she was stunningly beautiful and I was still young enough to think I
was' actually capable of love.
One night she was doing a pretty good job and I got very enthused
with my hip thrusts when I felt a warm, wet sensation on my crotch. I
was laying on my back and I looked down and saw what looked like A
LOT of splooge.
This confused me because even though I was close to coming, I didn't
think I had actually achieved orgasm. The cum was chunky to the touch,
very dark, and much more viscous than any semen that I've
ever seen shoot out of my dick. My first thought was that she had
given me some crazy hybrid VD that made my discharge all thick and
chunky. I dismissed that, but my mind was still racing; I couldn't figure
out what could be wrong, so I said, "What did you do to my dick?"
She looked up at me. The expression on her face immediately gave it
away: "Oh my god-did you just throw up on my dick? Did you just VOMIT
ON MY FUCKING DICK?"
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Yes Tucker. Yes she did. I ended up dating her for another two years
(beauty does strange thing to the male mind), but she stopped going
down on me and we just focused on vaginal sex from that point forward.
Bull's-eye
The next incident was a few years later, in college, right after I had
discovered the art of coming on a girl's face. Even before I made the
term "dotting her eyes" famous, I was a fan of giving the facial.
As my climax approached, I moved her onto her back and pulled out
just in time, covering her face with a solid 5-roper. Being the neophyte,
I had no idea how to aim, and accidentally shot the first-and
strongest-rope right in her eye. As I finished and collapsed, very happy
with myself and proud of my prodigious paint job, I noticed the look of
agony and pain on her face.
Tucker "Baby, are you OK? What's wrong?"
Girl "I ... I can't see ... Jesus, it hurts ... it's burning."
I helped her scoop most of it out of her eye and, both of us still naked
and sweaty, lied her into the bathroom where she washed her eye out
for a good five minutes.
Apparently, semen does not agree with the eye. I called her "Red
Eye" for the next few hours, until she got mad and refused to ever
give me head again. Then I apologized profusely. She forgave me
until she realized that she had ejaculate in her hair and had to wash
it twice to get it all out. Needless to say, there were no more facials for
her. After that, she swallowed every bit of my seed like a nun taking
communion.
The Phantom Menace
One time when I was visiting some friends and family in DC, I went out
drinking and ended up going home with a girl. I'll be honest: this girl
was not attractive. But she was into me, and she was there, and perhaps
most importantly-she just gave off a blowjob vibe. You know the
type; they aren't good looking or exceptional in any way, but they just
give off a look that says 'I suck dick like I invented it.'
I was pretty drunk when we got back to her place, but that didn't seem
to faze her. We didn't even make it to the bedroom. She grabbed me
right as we came in the door, undid my pants as she pushed me onto
22
her white sofa and knelt on the ground in front of me, working me right
there in her living room.
My God was I right: She blew me away, literally and figuratively. She
must have spent at least 20 minutes fellating me, never once taking
her mouth off my penis, slurping at the exact right moments in the
exact right places. She was so good even my ankles started sweating.
God bless whoever taught her.
As soon as she finished, she went to the bathroom to wash out her
mouth (she's one of those), and I stood up to rifle through my pants
pocket and get a condom when I saw the sofa: there was a HUGE skid
mark prominently displayed on her WHITE sofa.
I laughed at first. Then I remembered that she drove me to her place ...
and she lived a good 30 minutes away from where I was staying. As
the thought of having to hitchhike 45 miles walked through my mind,
she appeared out of the bathroom. Fuck.
Thinking fast, I put my pants on the sofa and "romantically" whisked
her into her bedroom, where I had to fuck her at least 3 or 4 times to
get her to go to sleep. Once she was safely out, I snuck out of her
room and flipped the cushion.
I still don't know if she ever found that stain.
Blowjob Betty
Those incidents were from back when I was young and cared about
Things like feelings and emotions. As I grew older and my soul became
jaded, I realized that I could be an asshole and get away with it, so I
became more risky with my blowjob activities.
Onetime I was with a girl, we'll call her "Betty." She lived in a house
with three other girls, but they were all out, so we hooked up in her
livingroom.
Betty was a master of her craft, and especially loved going
Down on me. She was hitting the crescendo of her well-conducted
Symphony of knob-slobbing, but right before I felt myself let loose into
Her mouth, the door to her house opened.
Her roommate was barely inside when she saw Betty on her knees
Sucking me off like she was auditioning for a porn movie. Betty, lips still
23
wrapped firmly around my penis, hand wrapped around my shaft,
heard the noise and looked up. Momentarily the eyes of the two
roommates locked, one walking in the door, the other with my dick in her
mouth. At that exact moment in time, two things happened
simultaneously:
• I shot my load into Betty's mouth .
• Theroommate screamed and ran back out the door.
I had not cum for about three days before this encounter, and thus I
had a Peter North sized 8-roper waiting for her. This did not sit well
with Betty, especially because she was not expecting it.
Betty tried to take the porn star load, but it was just too much. She was
not ready and still trying to process the fact that her roommate saw her
sucking dick, so she started choking. Not coughing or a slight choke the
bitch was turning red and dying right in front of me, with my seed
as the instrument of death.
I was unsure what to do; I'd never seen a girl choke on dick before. I
thought that only happened in rap songs.
After about five seconds of watching her retch, the words from the Too
Shortsong "Blowjob Betty" rang through my head, "A young girl died
just last night, she choked on sperm in her windpipe ... " so I did the
only thing I could think of: I gave her the Heimlich Maneuver.
I grabbed her around her chest just below her breasts and pulled my
fists into her ribcage with all my force. After about three times she
heaved, coughed my splooge all over her couch and started yelling at
me, "STOP IT! [cough] YOU'RE HURTING ME! [cough] STOP
ASSHOLE!"
I ended up having to take her to the hospital. Not for asphyxiation she
wasn't choking after all, the cum just surprised her and got in her
nose. Nope ... in my enthusiasm to save her life, I had succeeded in
breaking one of her ribs.
The highlight of the night was at the ER when the doctor told me that I
did a very good job with the Heimlich. Apparently, you’re actually
supposed to break a rib if you do it right.
We never could get the old magic back after that night. It might have
24
been because she couldn't take a deep breath for two months.
A Satisfying Meal
My personal favorite blowjob story happened with a girl I hooked up
with only once. I met her in some city, out at some bar, on some
night-I barely even remember what she looked like (thank you, Dollar
Beer Night). I am pretty sure she was engaged, but it wasn't to any of
my friends, so I didn't care.
The girl did a pretty decent job sucking me off, especially considering
how much I drank, and I finished in her mouth. Like a pro, she kept her
lips wrapped around my dick till it was dry, but when she came up,
there was a strange look on her face. She contorted her expression a
little, opened her mouth like she was going to vomit, which of course
made me pull back quickly, then all of the sudden:
"BUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPP!"
The girl belched like a drunken sailor-OFF OF MY CUM!
Easily one of the proudest moments of my life.
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EVERYONE HAS "THAT" FRIEND
Occurred-various, 1999-2001
Written-June 2005
While at Duke Law School, I made some of my best friends on earth.
Guys like PWJ, GoldenBoy, EI Bingeroso, Hate, JoJo and Credit made
mythree years there some of the best of my life. Even though all of
them were awesome in their own way, one friend stands out:
"SlingBlade."
SlingBlade is white, about 6'1", a generally good looking guy except
for his huge nose. Picture a younger Owen Wilson, fucked up nose
and all, but with a buzz cut. The first time I met Sling Blade was in the
lawschool library. JoJo was sitting with him at a table shooting the shit
and I joined them. Even though I didn't know him at the time, when
SlingBlade started talking about a movie he'd just seen, saying things
like, "It was so bad I had to hit myself in the hand with a tack hammer
to take my mind off the pain it caused me," and "I'd compare watching
that thing to masturbating with sandpaper," I knew that this kid was
hilarious and I wanted to hang out with him some more.
Over the ensuing months and years I've gotten to know him much better,
and it seems like every layer I uncover is weirder and more hilarious than
the next:
OCD, GI Joe, and his nickname
When I first went over to Sling Blade's apartment, it was to pick him up
on the way to a bar. This was about a month or so after I met him in the
library and I was a little weirded out: his place was a shrine to
obsessivecompulsivedisorder.
He kept it meticulously clean and Spartan to the extreme. The only thing
in the living room was a TV on a stand, a single chair in front of it, and a
PiayStation2 at the base of the TV. The controllers had the cords
wrapped around them, placed on each side, equidistant from the PS2
base, which itself was perfectly perpendicular with the TV stand. On his
shelf were about 300 DVDs, perfectly in line and arranged alphabetically
by genre. He had a lot of the standard guy movies like Scarface and
Godfather, but most of his collection was sci-fi. He had every Star Wars
and Star Trek DVD I've ever heard of, and lots I hadn't.
26
His bedroom had only a bed and a desk. The bed had Batman sheets
and a Green Lantern comforter. Just about every free piece of space
in the room was occupied with dolls, or as he calls them, "action figures."
He must have had like 70-100 various toys all over the place,
most of them were set up like they were fighting each other; the GI
Joes were battling the Spawn characters, Superman and the Justice
League were squared off against Star Wars figures, and dozens of
other genres that I didn't recognize were locked in frozen combat with
each other. I was momentarily encouraged by the hot Jeri Ryan poster
on the wall ... until I realized that she was dressed as Seven of Nine
(the character she plays on Star Trek). The kicker was a talking Yoda
doll that he had on his desk. I walked by and the thing blurted out, "Size
matters not." I punched it and it chirped at me, "Beware the Dark Side":
Tucker "Dude, have you ever brought a girl back here?"
SlingBlade "Yeah ... once."
Tucker "What did she say when she saw all this?"
Sling Blade "I don't know. Nothing. It was dark."
I am not a toy expert, but one thing I did notice was that he had both
the older and the newer GI Joes. Because I loved my GI Joes-when
I was TEN-I jokingly asked him about them:
Tucker "Are the new GI Joes better than their 80's counterparts? I
don't see how you can beat the old school Snake-Eyes."
Sling Blade [the exactness of this response is due to the fact that he
rewrote it for me. From memory. You think he might be OGD?]:
"The answer is a resounding yes. The old figures suffered from a potent
and debilitating malaise known as Wasting Rubber-Band Syndrome.
WRBS occurred when you held the legs of Duke or Roadblock, the
only two GI Joes you had since your parents were poor and hated you,
and spun around the top portion to create a 'super-spinning punch'
wherein the figure would triumph over his enemy, much to my adolescent
delight.
This punch was an amazing tool, used only under dire circumstances,
such as when Cobra (populated by conscripts from my
sister's Barbie collection who were sold into white slavery) was about
to overrun your Lego fortress. Why Lego, you ask? Because your
parents wouldn't spring for the GI Joe base. God forbid you should spend
twenty dollars so your lonely son who spent his formative years confined
to quarters for things like "backtalk" and "auto theft" could have a
cool fortress for his only friends. Coincidentally enough, I won't be
27
springing for the silver package when I stuff those two idiots into the
old folks home in a few years. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?
Anyway, after enough of this the rubber band would snap and your GI
Joe would be cleaved in two. You would then cry, as your supply of
friends had been effectively cut in half.
There was also a secondary problem named Fatigued Thumb
Syndrome. FTS was when the GI Joe received a constructive form of
leprosy due to overuse and their thumbs would falloff, rendering them
incapable of holding a weapon. Once the thumb was gone these figures
became almost useless. At this point the only thing they were good
for was renaming them for one of your enemies at school and then
melting them on an open flame or destroying them with a firecracker.
Neither problem exists in the current version, from what I can tell.
In unrelated news: I'm still single."
Looking through his DVD's, I saw a movie that didn't really fit with the
sci-fi/gangster themes of the rest of his titles: Slingblade. I love that
movie, and asked him why he had it. He told me it was his favorite
movie, and started reciting lines from memory, in the same low, baritone
gravely voice that Billy Bob Thornton used in the movie.
[In case you have never seen it, Slingblade is a fantastic movie about
a semi-retarded man named Karl Childers. My buddy Sling Blade relates
on a very personal level with the main character (played by Billy
Bob Thornton) because they are both very sensitive people who feel
disconnected and hurt by a world that doesn't understand or appreciate
them, and as a result must wear a social mask that is different from
their inner self. The only major difference is that SlingBlade is a fucking
genius, while Karl Childers is mildly retarded.]
This was only like the fourth or fifth time I'd ever hung out with him, so
I didn't really understand how unpredictable and random he could be.
After we got to the bar and had some drinks, I was talking to a hot
UNC soccer player and Sling Blade was playing wingman with her
friend. I guess the girl he was talking to was an idiot, because eventually
he got bored, and when he gets bored you never know what he'll
do to entertain himself:
Girl "So, do you like Duke?"
Sling Blade [imagine his voice in a low, baritone rumble, like Billy Bob
Thornton in the movie] "Some folks call it a Kaiser blade, but I call it a
sling blade, hrmmmm."
28
Girl "Excuse me?"
Sling Blade "I reckon I want me some of them French fried taters,
hrmmm."
Girl "What did you say?"
SlingBlade "I reckon you bout dumb as post, hrrmmm."
Girl [to me] "Your friend is scaring me."
Tucker "Me too."
After a few nights of this, I stopped trying to fight it and just went along,
because after all-it is pretty damn funny. We'd be talking to some
girls, and if they bored us or pissed us off, we'd just bust out with these
improvised mini-montages from the movie. Usually, I'd play the role of
Doyle Hargraves, the abusive boyfriend (played in the movie by Dwight
Yoakum):
Sling Blade "I reckon this'n girl bout to fuck you, hrmmmm."
Tucker [in a redneck voice] "Boy, you shut yer mouth or I will beat the
dog shit outta yew."
Sling Blade "I want me some of that there vaginer, hrrmmmm."
Tucker "Dat's it! Linda-I'm bout fed up with this retard hangin' round
the house!"
Random Girl "What is wrong with you two?"
The McGriddle Argument
Even though he can be weird in a lot of ways, Sling Blade is a legit
comedic genius. The purest example of this is "The McGriddle
Argument. "On the message board attached to my site, SlingBlade
and we were talking about a McDonalds breakfast sandwich called
theMcGriddle. This is the basic transcript of the discussion:
Tucker: "Dude-that thing looks disgusting. It has to be nasty, with the
syrupshit in it. What is that?"
SlingBlade: "I can only assume from your cavalier attitude that you
haveyet to partake of the wonderment that is the McGriddle. Let me
enlighten you. What happens is the One True God grows them on
treesin the Elysian Fields using a heretofore unused incantation. He
then proceeds to magic them down to your local eatery where whatever
Ghetto Bastard cook your McDonalds has rescued from welfare
that week proceeds to wrap it in cellophane and pass it along to you,
the fortunate consumer. You proceed to ingest this finery in the vain
hope that your obviously overmatched taste buds can somehow grasp
29
the delectable intricacies it is suddenly faced with. Is that egg? Why
yes it is, and bacon too. But wait-they didn't add ... yes they did, yes
they did indeed. They added cheese. And then, then my friends, they
wrapped it in a sumptuous pancake bun! As your taste buds try to
process that amazing piece of information, IT hits them ...the syrup
nugget. THE MOTHERFUCKING SYRUP NUGGET! It announces itself
with a burst of confectionery grandiosity the likes of which your
palate has never seen."
Tucker: "So you like them?"
SlingBlade: "If you EVER speak ill of the McGriddle again I will
personally force-feed you one while I fuck you in the butt using the
wrapper as a condom and then donkey punch you when the infused
syrup nuggets explode in your mouth."
Ironically, I think more people on my message board have commented
on that than anything I've ever written there.
"Welcome to my life"
But of all his little quirks, one characteristic truly defines Sling Blade:
his issues with women. The first few times we went out, the same
basic thing happened: I'd hit on a hot girl, he'd play wingman and hit
on her friend, but invariably he'd get depressed and/or upset with her,
insult her, and she would run off crying or get mad at him. At first this
was bothersome, because the hot girl I was talking to would usually
leave with pissed off/upset friend. But after I got used to it, I was
more intrigued than upset. This was a decent looking guy who was not
only blowing pussy, he was doing it on purpose. Who does this?
I had to drag it out of him, but I discovered what is perhaps the most
defining story of his life: He and his high school girlfriend, the love of
his life, went to different undergrads. He never cheated on her because
he is an honest and moral man, but she did not possess the
same integrity. She fucked half her school, and never told him. At least
not until he went down to visit her and didn't understand why all these
guys kept coming by her room asking her what she was doing later ...
until she dumped him and asked him to leave. He has never recovered,
and still cannot deal with women on a meaningful romantic level.
After that sort of trauma I can understand having issues with intimacy,
but he should still be able to hook up. You don't have to be in love to
30
fuck, right? Even though Sling Blade agreed with that notion in principle,
it didn't work for him in practice.
You know that saying, "Any club that would let me be a member, I
wouldn't want to join?" Sling Blade assumed that any girl that he liked
enough to want to fuck, wouldn't want to fuck him. But any girl who did
want to fuck him without first knowing him and respecting him, he
automatically thought was a whore ... and he refused to sleep with a girl
he regarded as a whore. This absurd Catch-22 pretty much guaranteed
that Sling Blade got no ass.
Add in his low tolerance for stupidity and his utter disdain for whorish
female behavior, combine it with the fact that many of the girls I hit on
fit right into either the dumb or slutty categories that he hated, and you
have a recipe for hilarity. This is only one example:
A few months after law school graduation I went up to DC to visit
SlingBlade for a weekend. He was in bad shape, even for him.
Working 70 hours a week doing document review as a temp (the lowest
level of legal work), living in a crappy over-priced apartment in
Alexandria, no women or prospects, Sling Blade was as thoroughly
depressed as I've ever seen him. From what I could tell, the only thing
that brought him joy was beating his roommate at Tetris. I decided to
take him out, get him drunk and see if I couldn't get him out of his
despair.
We pre-partied at his place and get hammered, then went to some bar
in Clarendon that was packed with hot girls. Across the bar I see what
I think is a super hot girl.
Tucker "Look at her; that girl is hot."
SlingBlade "She probably looks alright when it's dark.
Tucker "What are you talking about? She's hot."
SlingBlade "Here's a shock. Let's see: she's a tall slutty blonde, and
You are drunk. Cupid has spoken."
We walk over there, but before I can hit on her I realize much to my
dismay that SlingBlade was right: Her hot face and great tits are
paired with ghetto booty and elephant legs. This girl had a cover-of
Maxim upper body and a World's Strongest Man lower body.
SlingBlade "HAAHHAHAHHAAH-Welcome to Zerosville, population:
Her."
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Tucker "I need some more shots."
SlingBlade "Well, you know who to go to if your car gets stuck and you
Need a push."
Tucker "Dude ... just leave me alone right now. If I hook up with her,
You can make fun of me all you want tomorrow, but let me have my
illusion tonight."
She comes over and starts flirting with me before I can even get my
Shots down. I played it coy as I talked to her, but not because I was
trying to run advanced game; I was trying to hurry up and get drunk so
Her legs would look skinnier.
Tucker "So, what do you do?"
ElephantLegs "Well I'm about to finish school, but I've been doing
some modeling and I'll probably do that full time when I graduate."
SlingBlade "You're a model? Right, and the red 'S' on my chest means
that I'm Superman." [Did 1mention that he was wearing a Superman
shirt ... to a bar?]
ElephantLegs "I mode!!"
SlingBlade "I might believe you were a model if you didn't have such
fat legs. Oh wait-have you been in a Lane Bryant catalog? That kind
of modeling?"
ElephantLegs "NO!!"
Tucker "In her defense, do you realize how much money plus-sized
models can make? It's shocking."
Elephantlegs "I DON'T PLUS SIZE MODEL!! I'll have you know that
Ford signed me to a contract just last week!"
Sling Blade "Whatever. You did that on your back."
One great thing about Sling Blade's attitude was that he was truly great
at unintentionally playing "The Bad Guy." When you are picking up
girls, sometimes having an asshole friend can actually work towards
your advantage. Though this girl was all pissed off and huffy at
Sling Blade, it made her more into me. Not only is it easy to be The
Good Guy when a Bad Guy is there, but that little exchange made her
32
really want to fuck me, just to prove that the Bad Guy was wrong and
that she was desirable.
But there is a limit to what a girl will endure before she gets pissed and
leaves. I talked to her for a while longer, solidified my position, and then
took Sling Blade around to try and get him in with another girl. And of
course if I can trade up too, that's always a plus.
The next group of girls we talked to were really cute, and one seemed
into SlingBlade.
Girl "I totally recognize you from somewhere."
SlingBlade "Perhaps we go to the same comic book store."
He said that sarcastically, but she didn't get the joke.
Girl "No, no, that isn't it. I think I saw you riding a bicycle the other day,
over in Ballston."
SlingBlade "Are you fucking stupid?"
Girl "What?"
Sling Blade "Yeah, I was riding my bike to the porn store. I take my bike
there so no one will recognize me."
Girl "I have to go find my friends."
I get us in with another pair of really cute girls. Things were going great
for me ... sadly SlingBlade's girl was not quite up to the task:
Girl "I am hoping to get my masters in psych after I get my BA."
SlingBlade "It takes someone very smart to get a psych degree."
Girl "I'm smart."
Sling Blade "The smartest thing to ever come out of your mouth is a
penis."
Girl "I'm NOT STUPID!"
SlingBlade "IT STOPS TALKING TO ITS INTEllECTUAL SUPERIOR
OR ITGETS THE HOSE."
She turns and walks away.
SlingBlade grabs his nipples like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs,
"I'DFUCKME!!"
Tucker "Dude, do you realize that when you insult one girl, you aren't
Just fucking it up with her, you are polluting her entire group of friends.
See those girls that she's sitting with? Now as far as that group is
concerned, we might as well be lepers."
SlingBlade "Did you hear the nonsensical prattle spewing from her
pie-hole?" Tucker "Dude, I am your best friend. Help me out here."
33
SlingBlade "Best friend? I can't begin to elucidate my hatred for you."
Tucker "That's the funny thing: I really am your best friend, but if I died
tomorrow, I don't know if you'd come to my funeral"
SlingBlade" I don't know. Maybe ... if nothing good was on TV."
I try one more time to get him set up with another girl, but that ends
before I can even get them both drinks. As I am ordering, he yells out:
"FELLATIOWON'T FILL THE HOLE IN YOUR SOUL!!"
That pretty much sealed his fate with all the other girls at the bar, so
We head back to Elephantlegs. In a stroke of luck, this time she's with
Some other girl. OtherGirl is very pretty, has a great body, and seems
sweet, so she and Sling Blade get along well enough that when the bar
closes, the four of us decide to go to IHOP together. As we are walking
out, I pull Sling Blade aside:
Tucker "Dude, be cool, this one likes you and wants to hook up. Just
be yourself and everything will be fine. She seems like a good girl"
SlingBlade "Yeah, I think so. And if she doesn't find my unique blend of
caustic wit and political satire amusing, I'll just pull out the 'B' game:
potty humor and slightly veiled masturbation references."
I should have just pushed him into traffic right then to save us all time,
But what can I say, I'm a loyal friend.
We get to IHOP and there are, about thirty people, mostly black and
Hispanic, waiting in line. SlingBlade storms in front of them, yelling:
"There are white people who need to eat, make some room, white
people need a table, outta the way."
It was obviously a joke, and most people got it and laughed. The
Alexandria City cop working the door did not.
Cop "If your attitude doesn't improve, you are going to sort it out in the
tank."
Sling Blade "OK, Mr. Plastic Badge. So, which section of the police
academy entrance did you fail, hmm? Perhaps it was the hospitality
portion."
Tucker "Dude-he's a real cop."
SlingBlade "Oh ... we'll be leaving now."
34
We take the girls across the street to Denny's. I guess they have lower
standards for seating drunk idiots than IHOP because they give us a
table immediately. SlingBlade goes to the bathroom and when he gets
back he tells the table:
"Dude, taking antibiotics and then drinking beer is a bad idea. I just let
loose a symphony of bowel movements, each in different pitches and
melodies. It was like a poop xylophone in there."
I think this is hilarious, while the girls do not. Some people just don't
get good potty humor. After we order, Sling Blade and OtherGirl start
getting to know each other.
OtherGirl "So what do you do in your free time?"
Sling Blade "Cut up Guatemalan hookers and bury them in shallow
graves by the interstate."
OtherGirl "What was your family like?"
Sling Blade "My dad was so mean, he'd give my sisters and me ten
dollars on Christmas Eve, steal it back from us that night when we
were sleeping, and then beat us on Christmas Day because we lost it."
She was a nice girl, but wasn't getting the jokes. Sensing the night slip
away, I tried to shift the focus by talking about ElephantLegs'
exboyfriend.
He was a complete tool, and I figured this sort of gossip
would be more OtherGirl's intellectual speed.
ElephantLegs "Yeah, he was 26 and I was 20 when we met. We met at
a Macaroni Grill my friends and I were eating at, in [a very rural college
town]."
SlingBlade "He is an assistant manager at a Macaroni Grill? In that
city? HAHAHAHAH. This one sounds like a winner. Was he a townie?
Did he have a goatee and drive a rusted out Firebird?"
ElephantLegs "No, he was a really good guy. He was cool"
SlingBlade "He sounds like the type of guy who would profess his love
for a girl in spray paint across a highway overpass. I bet his busy
schedule includes
35
screaming into his pillow and crying himself to sleep, because his
life sucks."
SlingBlade decides that his food is taking too long and that he can do
better than the current line cook, so he leaves the table and goes into
the kitchen. There is no one in there, so he messes with the griddle,
flipping knobs and switches until it turns on. The female cook comes
around the corner, she sees him, stops and stares at him in
astonishment for a few seconds as he pours some pancake mix on the
griddle.
He sees her, and she questioningly shrugs her shoulders at him, to
which he replies:
"I'm hungry. I'm gonna make me some flapjacks."
She didn't think it was funny, and we had to leave our second restaurant
of the night.
The girls drove their own car, and in the parking lot we tried to figure
out what to do. OtherGirl came up with a good idea:
OtherGirl "You know ... I have a hot tub at my place. What would you
Two say if I asked you back there?"
SlingBlade "Heeellilloooo staph infection."
Tucker "He has health insurance. We'll follow you."
In the car, SlingBlade looked about as a happy as a Mormon getting a
lap dance.
Tucker "Hello staph infection? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
SlingBlade "Why do so many women disgust me?"
Tucker "Because you are fucked up and can't get over your ex. Are
you gonna hook up or what? That girl seemed into you."
SlingBlade "Yeah, I guess. She seems nice. I don't know."
We go back to their place and there are already a bunch of people at
the house; apparently one of the other roommates was having a party
that night. OtherGirl mixes us a few drinks, and we sit around and talk
awhile before ElephantLegs and I get into the hot tub and start making
out. A few minutes later, I hear him screaming from inside:
SlingBlade "Oh you don't want to hook up with me? What, my fetid,
hoppy beer breath bothering you? Oh yeah, daddy drinks too much!"
SlingBlade comes out to the deck:
SlingBlade "I am leaving."
36
Tucker "Why? What happened?"
SlingBlade "I'm going home to get my gun so I can kill everyone here."
He storms off before I can put my shorts on (ElephantLegs had them
off in the hot tub) and catch him. I find OtherGirl:
Tucker "What the fuck happened? Why did he leave?"
OtherGirl "I don't know-your friend is weird."
Tucker "There has to be a reason. He wouldn't just storm out."
OtherGirl "Well, I think he got mad when he tried to kiss me."
Tucker "What happened?"
OtherGirl "I backed away."
Tucker "WHAT? Why would you invite him back here if you didn't like
him?"
OtherGirl "I don't know. I thought I did, I just didn't feel like it."
I could not believe that this bitch flirted with him all night-andshe was
FLIRTING-and then dissed him AT HER PLACE, AFTER SHE INVITED
HIM BACK THERE. It's not like she had to fuck him, but to
deny even a kiss after all that is really bad. Especially for him; it's not
like this guy has lots of self-esteem with women to begin with.
He wouldn't pick up his cell, so I just go back to the hot tub and
ElephantLegs, who after 20 beers looked surprisingly good in a bathing
suit. We get pretty hot and move inside to finish off, when she
drops a bomb on me:
ElephantLegs "I'm not sure if we can hook up. Let me ask my friend."
Tucker "What do you mean?"
ElephantLegs "Well-I don't live here. I am visiting from Ohio. All
those bedrooms belong to her roommates. I'll see if she'll let us use
her room."
No fucking way. NO FUCKING WAY.
Ofcourse OtherGirl says no. OK, fine, I can understand not wanting
other people to fuck in your bed. So I go through the other options.
ElephantLegs wouldn't hook up or. the patio, "Someone might see us"
or on the sofa bed we had to sleep on, ''There are other people passed
out in the living room. What if they wake up?"
In a last ditch attempt to save the night, I make what I think is a very
reasonable suggestion: ElephantLegs takes OtherGirl's car, and the
two of us go to Sling Blade's place and hook up. He has an extra bed .
Do you want to guess what Princess CockBlock told her friend? No.
I was furious. OtherGirl had taken what could have been a great night,
37
and totally ruined it, for no fucking reason other than her whim. That's
OK bitch: I got summin' for you.
The next morning I woke up early, went into the bathroom and locked
the door. I took off the lid of the toilet tank and dropped a gargantuan
shit, right in the tank. I have hit many homeruns in my life, but this was
my first upper-decker.
Then I took a Sharpie marker I found in her house and wrote on the
underside of the lid:
"This is for [SlingBlade]. Whore."
I put the top back on the tank and used about half a roll of toilet paper
to wipe my ass, putting all of it in the bowl. As I expected, the toilet
clogged when I flushed it, spilling shit water all over her bathroom
floor.
I immediately get a taxi back to SlingBlade's, stopping to say goodbye
To ElephantLegs on my way out. I am laughing hysterically.
ElephantLegs "What's so funny?"
Tucker "Tell your friend I'm NOT sorry. She'll understand."
I take the taxi back to SlingBlade's, laughing the whole way, and walk
into his place at like lam, still giddy. I find him sitting in his chair in front
of the TV, soaking wet, fists clenched up in rage and a look of
exasperate danger on his face the likes of which I've never seen.
Tucker"Dude-what's wrong?"
He points out the window to his car. The front and rear windshields are
completely out, and the hood and roof have massive dents in them.
Tucker "OH MY GOD! What happened to your car?"
SlingBlade "I don't want to talk about it."
Tucker "Why are you all wet?"
SlingBlade "I don't want to talk about it."
Tucker "Have you been sitting here all night?"
SlingBlade "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. God obviously hates
me. HATES ME. Nothing ever goes right. ALL I WANT IS PEACE AND
QUIET AND A SMALL LIFE WITH MY NINTENDO AND COMIC
BOOKS. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK???"
After a few hours he calmed down and I found out what happened:
It was raining heavily on the interstate as he drove home. He was
38
cruising along in the right lane, still mired in self-loathing over his
rejection, not noticing that he was riding in the blind spot of a truck. He
noticed too late that the truck was swerving from the left lane across
his lane in order to make it onto an off-ramp. SlingBlade had to swerve
violently to avoid the truck careening across his lane, and since he
was going fast and it was slick, he ended up driving right into a road
sign at about 60 miles an hour.
It impacted on his bumper, smashed into the hood of his car leaving a
huge dent, then somersaulted and crashed into the roof-popping
both the front and rear windshields out-before flying off behind him.
The truck kept driving, never having seen what it did. In his own words:
SlingBlade "After the sign destroyed my car, I slammed on the brakes
and stopped. Once my heart rate dropped below 200, I was able to pry
my fingers off the steering wheel and thank all major and minor deities
that I was still alive. I had to kick the front and rear windshields fully
out, because they were both cracked and falling in. Once I regained
enough of my motor control to drive, I pulled off, and realized that even
though they saved my life, the gods were still mocking me ... and
every drop of rain that hit my face through the gaping hole where my
windshield used to be was proof of this."
Tucker [not even holding back my laugher] "That SUCKS."
SlingBlade "Yes it does. Welcome to every day of my life."
Tucker "Hold on now dude-fate may fuck with you, but I fuck with fate
right back."
I filled him in on my upper-decker. He told me I was a bad person, but
it was one of the few times I've ever seen him crack a genuinely warm
smile, even if it was wet and fleeting.
"I prefer vaginally-challenged"
SlingBlade and I interned at the same law firm in the summer after our
Second year. There is one night that summer in particular that really
exemplifies our friendship and explains Sling Blade as a person:
We lived a bit south of San Francisco and were driving into the city for
a party. On the way there, a cop in front of us, not in any hurry and with
no lights or siren on, ran a stop sign. SlingBlade flipped out. Even
though he hangs out with me, SlingBlade is a very moral and righteous
person.
39
To him you are either right or you are wrong, and this cop
was wrong. He started honking, flashing his lights at him and motioning
for the cop to pull over.
Tucker "What are you doing? That's a cop!!"
SlingBlade "I AM GOING TO CITE HIM! HE RAN THAT STOP SIGN!"
Tucker "What the fuck? Are you crazy?"
SlingBlade "Give me your cell; I am calling 911."
Thank fully he would not take his hands off the wheel long enough to
wrestle the phone away from me, I calmed him down, and we got
to the party. It was a launch party for a company called Eveo.com at a
clubish-type place, Ruby Skye.
Almost as soon as we got there, two girls dressed in clubbing outfits and
smeared with make-up came up to me:
Girl1 "Holy shit-I totally recognize you."
Tucker "I'm not your baby's daddy."
She giggles a little and gives me a coquettish smile.
Tucker "Just kidding. So how do you think you know me?"
Girl1 "You're that guy with the website, with the date application on
it?"[This was a big deal to me at the time because it was back when
my site got no traffic and I only had the Date Application on it.]
SlingBlade "Oh dear God. What kind of whores are these?"
Tucker "Stop it dude-anyways, yes ladies you are correct, I am that guy."
Girl 1 "YAY! I knew it! What do I win?"
Sling Blade "An incurable case of Hepatitis C and years of emotional
pain." Tucker "STOP IT."
SlingBlade "LINE UP THE SHOTS MAX. YOU KNOW THE DRILL-I
GET SHOTS OR THEY LEAVE CRYING!"
For the most part, the only way he will play wingman with girls he doesn't
like is if he is intensely drunk ... cue five shots of Jagermeister, it's
time to loosen up SlingBlade.
We get a table and drink and talk. The girl SlingBlade was talking to,
Girl 2, thought he was funny and laughed at his jokes, and everything
is going great until Girl 1 decides to fuck it up by telling Sling Blade that
she has a boyfriend but cheats on him all the time, especially with
guys like me. Oh man ...
Sling Blade "Well aren't you just spectacular. I'm glad to see that those
40
'Worthless Whore' lessons turned out well for you."
Girl 1 "Uh, you can't make fun of me. You are wearing a Batman shirt
out to a club."
SlingBlade "I'd rather fellate a hot curling iron than listen to fashion
advice from you."
Girl 1 "You NEED fashion advice, you dress like an action figure."
SlingBlade "Better an action figure than a Bowery prostitute."
I tried to calm this down, but they got started again.
Sling Blade "Do you have anything else in your life besides work and
fellatio? I'm not counting the empty syringes and used condoms
decorating your apartment floor."
Girl "YES! I do lots of things! What do YOU DO besides work? Watch
Batman cartoons all day?" Sling Blade "Woman, do not disparage
Batman, or you will find this fork sticking out of your eye. Not only do I
watch Batman, I go to the gym.
You should try it some time."
Girl "Excuse me jerk, I run."
SlingBlade "Run?!? What, do you run to the refrigerator during
commercial breaks? Huh, fatty?" [This girl wasn't fat at all, but SlingBlade
likes to push the obvious female insecurity buttons]
Girl "You are a real asshole."
SlingBlade "Settle down slim, don't hate the messenger. Just curious:
Have you ever eaten just one of anything?"
Tucker "Stop it."
SlingBlade "She has-the forbidden apple."
Tucker "Hey dick head, here's my beer bottle, go peel the label and
shut the fuck up."
I took Girl 1 to the bar to calm things down, because unlike Colonel
Masturbation, I wanted to fuck the girl I was talking to. Girl 2 actually
Thought Sling Blade was funny, so she stayed at the table to talk to him:
Girl "So you're single?"
SlingBlade "I prefer 'vaginally-challenged'."
Girl[laughing] "You're so funny. I can't believe you're single."
SlingBlade "I'm a 25 year old socially anxious, pre-mature ejaculator
and I'm wearing a Batman t-shirt. Is it really that implausible?"
41
After a few drinks I got Girl 1 settled down and back to the table, and
Girl1 and Girl 2 immediately went to the bathroom together.
Tucker "So, your girl seems into you. And she's kinda hot. You going to
finally close a deal?"
SlingBlade "I don't know. She has a 2 year-old kid ... oh well, at least
I know she fucks."
Tucker "You want more shots?"
SlingBlade "Yeah, whatever. It's not like I can hate myself anymore
than I do now."
I think it was George Burns who said, "It takes only one drink to get me
drunk.The trouble is, I can't remember if it's the thirteenth or the
fourteenth." The same could be said for SlingBlade about hooking up.
For him to hook-up he has to perfectly hit his drinking sweet-spot. It's got
to be enough alcohol that he is truly fucked up, but not so much that
he loses control. The problem with this is that his tolerance is terrible,
which leaves him without much margin for error. If he doesn't drink
enough he still thinks the woman is a slut and he won't touch her, but
if he drinks too much he throws up and/or passes out. It's a delicate
balance to get him into his Hook-up Zone.
We do one shot, and then another. At this point the girls return from
the bathroom, and he smiles when he sees Girl 2. I get excited because
I think I may have hit the spot exactly. I look over about 30
minutes later and his head is buried in his hands and he is muttering to
his drink:
Sling Blade "Alcohol, I know I can trust you. You won't leave me like
that dirty whore did, will you?"
Girl 1 "What's wrong with your friend?"
Tucker "He has a problem with women. And alcohol"
Sling Blade "My liver hurts, my liver is dying."
Girl 2 "He is really funny."
SlingBlade "If you aren't completely repulsed by me, you haven't been
paying attention."
Girl 2 "You aren't repulsive."
Girl 1 "Yes he is."
At that moment a guy with crutches walked by our table.
Sling Blade "I wish I had crutches like him, because then I could beat
myself to death with them, which would be preferable to my night thus
far."
42
Since the bathrooms are the small one-person-at-a-time type, the
crippled guy had to put his crutches outside the door while he pees.
Seeing this opportunity, I decided to lighten the mood at his expense. I
run back there and throw his crutches in the empty girls restroom. At
the table, I cannot control my giggling, because I know what is coming
next:
"WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY CRUTCHES?"
Girl 2 "Hehehehhe-you two are both so funny!"
Sling Blade [in the SlingBlade voice] "How would a man go'bout
contactin' da' po-lice, were he so inclinded, hrrrmmm."
Tucker "Oh Christ ... not again."
Girl 1 and I decide to take her car and go back to her place (you know,
for sex-something normal people do), leaving Girl 2 and SlingBlade
to the Fates. Though I did not see what happened next, SlingBlade
recounted it to me the next day:
He kept drinking until Girl 2 left. Without him. Apparently she got fed
up with him alternately passing out and calling her a whore in the
SlingBladevoice. After her departure he wandered around the bar, finally
deciding that he needed to go to the bathroom.
As he walks to the bathroom, he starts veering to the right, and in an
attempt to correct this he flings himself to the left. Instead of correcting
himself he ends up slamming head first into the wall, which lays him
out straight on his back. This is directly in front of a bunch of people, all
of whom naturally laugh at him.
He's so hammered that he just lays there for a minute, trying to
remember how to stand up. Eventually he rolls himself over, but can't
getup on his feet. Instead he starts to crawl, arm over arm, military style,
to a nearby chair. Once there, he pulls himself up on the seat,
looks over to the crowd who was watching and laughing, points to
himself and yells: "Still single ladies!"
Where is he now?
SlingBlade is a different person now than he was when all these stories
took place (most of them occur between 1999-2002). Even though
I begged him and begged him to start a site similar to mine where he
could display his prodigious comedic talents, he repeatedly declined,
instead pursuing a very different field. It ended up working out well for
43
him, and he is a much happier person now, mainly because of this
new job. He has asked me not to write anything about his current
occupation, and of course I'll respect his wishes.
And yes, though he has sold all his action figures on eBay (for a profit,
as he likes to note) and no longer sleeps on Batman sheets, SlingBlade
is still very single.
44
TUCKER FUCKS A FAT GIRL;
HILARITY ENSUES
Occurred-March 2000
Written-August 2004
We've all done it.
We've all accidentally fucked a fat girl.
You start the night with the best intentions, but somehow you end up in
one of those blacked-out, where-the-fuck-are-my-pants drunken states,
and wake up with some girl who is packing more ass than a Sir Mix-aLot
video. Getting smashed and gain' hoggin' is almost a rite of passage
for the American male. There's no shame in that.
This being said, very few of us have fucked a fat girl on purpose. I will
be honest; I may be a member of that club, but it's up for debate. Let
me explain:
It all started in February of 2000, the first month my website was up. I
was 23 years old and in my second year of law school. TuckerMax.com
originally started as a Date Application Page that I put up to settle a
bet. My friends thought the page was hilarious, but wanted to see
some results:
PWJ "Tucker, the site is awesome, but you need to actually meet a girl
through it."
Tucker "I don't know."
Hate "Max! How could you put that site up and not hook up with at
least one girl through it? That's weak."
Tucker "I don't know; there have been some crazies emailing me."
Hate "When has that stopped you in the past?"
SlingBlade "This is opposed to the crazies that you pick up in bars?"
PWJ "Dude, you can't put this thing up and never go on a date or hook
Up from it. You have to. At least one girl."
Tucker "Fine. Might as well. What's the worst that could happen??"
Hale "OH YEAH! That line of thought always serves you well!"
45
But I didn't just promise my friends that I'd go out on a date with a girl
I me through the site. I ended up promising that I'd do my very best to
hookup with her.
So of course as soon as I make this promise, I get no applications
from any girls near the Durham, NC area. I know this sounds ridiculous
now, as I get dozens of propositions a day from girls, but you
have to remember that back when the site started, it was almost totally
unknown outside my circle of friends. Maybe 30 people a day saw it, if
that. There were only like three of my stories up, and the notion that
this site would become anything beyond a silly joke never even
crossed my mind. If you had told me then that within two years my
webpage would become my launching pad to fame, I would have
laughed at you and told you stop sucking the glass dick.
One week went by, nothing. Two weeks, nothing. I was starting to get
a little desperate, thinking about all the shit I was going to have to eat
from my friends because I couldn't even get a date off my own Date
Application Page, when finally a girl emailed me. She had just moved
to Raleigh for a job, knew no one, and thought I was funny. We
emailed a little and she seemed cool and normal enough, but I had to
make a couple requests before she sent me a picture of her. Once I
got the pic, it was clear why it took her three emails to work up the
courage to send one.
Ladies and gentlemen: She's a fatty.
Normally, this would have been an easy decision. I'd just say "Get the
Fuck away from me and go back to your trough," and everything would
Be fine, but this time it was different. I had PROMISED my friends that
I would hook up with a girl from my webpage, and FatGirl was my only
option.
I put her off for a few weeks with cutesy email banter, while I prayed for
A girl without a giant oversized pig heart to email me.
One week ... two weeks ... nothing. Finally, I consulted my friends
on what I should do. I showed them the picture:
Hate "WOOOOOOO-WEEEEEEE! YOU GOT YOURSELF A CHUNKER!
FORGET THE DATE, LASSO HER AND TAKE HER TO THE
STOCKYARDS!"
PWJ "Yeah, you did promise. She might be your only chance."
Sling Blade "Just make sure you take her to a bar that doesn't serve
46
food. You can't afford that kind of date."
EI Bingeroso "Wow. Yeah man, that sucks. Wow ... but you did promise."
Hate "WOOOOOO-HOOOO! MAX YOU ARE MAKING US PROUD!
GOD BLESS THAT WEBSITE!"
After some deliberation, I decided to meet FatGirl out. It still makes
me laugh to this day, but I legitimately thought that this would be my
only shot at hooking up with a girl through my website, and I didn't
want to blow it ... even if it meant I had to go pork diving. I justified it
as such: Tucker "Well ... maybe she's lost weight. She said it wasn't a
good picture."
[Everyone in unison]
"HAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA."
Sling Blade "Lost weight? What, you think she caught that secret
rubella epidemic sweeping the Carolinas? When was the last time a
girl was better looking than her INTERNET DATING PICTURE?"
Tucker "Well, she does have a cute face. You can't fake that."
EI Bingeroso "This is not going to end wel!."
Hate "Max, just when I think you've tapped out, you find a whole new
way to fuck up!"
Tucker "Fuck you. I hope all of your children have birth defects."
I agreed to meet Fat Girl at a bar in Durham, The James Joyce. I
flatly refused to tell any of my friends where we were meeting, and
made them promise not to come looking for me, in case she turned
out to be morbidly obese, as opposed to just normal fat, like in her
picture. Like an IDIOT, I didn't think about extracting promises for
what would happen after the date. A rookie mistake that will haunt
me my entire life.
FatGirlwas there when I got there, and looked pretty much exactly like
She did in the picture-fat. We started talking over beers, and she was
exactly like her emails: a nice, sweet girl without a whole lot going for
her. It quickly became obvious that she was very much into me, and
after about three beers she really started loosening up. The turning
point in the conversation was this:
FatGirl [with a seductive, portly, dimpled look] "Tucker, are you a
player?"
Tucker "Uh, no ... I mean, not in the way you are thinking. A player is
Someone who is only out to have sex for the sake of sex, and will do or
47
say anything to hook up. Yeah, I mean, I like sex, but I won't do anything
to hook up with a girl. Well ... normally, at least."
FatGirl [Still with the seductive, portly, dimpled look] "I think you're a
player Tucker Max ... but I'm not going to sleep with you."
Well, this one is locked up. The night is obviously going to end in sex if
I want it, but I still had to decide: Do I bail on this date, avoid the
ignominy of having sex with Miss Piggy, and pray that another girl
emails me for a date, or do I just suck it up, take the opportunity in
front of me and fulfill the promise to my friends? I went back and forth
on this in my mind.
GoodTucker "She has a really cute face."
BadTucker "She is fat."
GoodTucker "Well, she isn't disgustingly obese. She's only like 30 ...
40 ... -ish ... pounds overweight."
Bad Tucker "What does that mean? Because she doesn't need a
crane to leave her house, it's somehow OK? She's FAT."
Good Tucker "But I promised my friends, and this might be my only
chance to hook up through the site."
BadTucker "Right ... but SHE'S STILL FAT."
I end the debate by moving my army across the Rubicon: "Bartender,
get me a shot."
And then I burned the bridges behind me: "Make it cheap tequila. With
a beer back."
Yes, I know that fucking fat girls is against the rules for any self
respecting guy, but the rules have a loophole. That loophole is called
alcohol. God bless it. With each tequila shot and beer combo, she lost
weight, and her face, which was previously only cute, became sorta hot.
The night started improving.
Then it went to shit. I chose the James Joyce because I knew none of
my friends would be there that night, as on Wednesdays they always
went to a bar in Chapel Hill. But there are more people that drink in
Duke Law School besides my friends. Namely, two loud-mouthed
gossiping bitches in my class, Carry and Amy, who were at the Joyce
that night.
I tired to hide when I saw them walk in, but it was no use, their scandal
radar was too sensitive. They immediately spot me: Carry "Hey Tucker, I
was just about to-"
48
She stops mid-sentence when she sees the land beast I am with. I
wish I had a picture of the look on her face. Complete and utter
confusion, with a hint of disgust and twinge of contempt. I almost
laughed ... then I remembered that I was the one with the fat girl.
Tucker "Hey, we were just about leave."
FatGirl is standing behind me waiting to be introduced, but that is not
happening. Carry "Wha- who- uhhh ... Tucker ... "
I am out of there before she can finish her thought. There is nothing at
the end of that sentence that I want to hear. FatGirl and I end up back at
my place (I knew my roommates, Hate and Credit, would still be out
drinking). We have sex, and both pass out afterwards, even though it
was only about 11. I'm not sure if it was the alcohol, the fumes, or the
PTSD that put me out. Probably some happy combination of all three.
The gods of alcohol often entertain themselves at my expense, but
sometimes they throw me a bone.
Waking me out of an alcoholic stupor normally requires nothing short of
ice water and a fog horn, but somehow I awoke in time to hear Credit
and Hate slowly open the front door to our apartment and start creeping
towards my door, conspiratorially whispering to each other. I spring out
of bed, dive at the door and lock it just in time to prevent them from
charging in. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about their
yelling and bangingon the walls:
Hate "MAX!! BRING OUT THE FATTY!! LET'S SEE HER!!!"
Credit "Tell her I have a cheeseburger!"
Hate "MAX!! LET'S HAVE A LOOK AT HER!! BRING HER OUT!!
WOOOOOOOOOO-WEEEEEE! !"
Ofcourse, I couldn't help but laugh. That shit is funny. But it wasn't the
best part: FatGirl"What are they talking about? Should we go out there?"
Tucker "Uh, no. So ... do you just want to spend the night? It's already
like midnight."
FatGirl "I would love to, but I can't. I have to go to work tomorrow, and
I can't leave from here for work. In fact, I need to get going real soon."
Tucker "Let's just wait a minute before you go."
Great. Now how do I get her out of here without my roommates meeting
her?
Hate and Credit eventually settled down in the living room to
Watch TV, and I devised a plan. Since the door to my room faces the
Front door to the apartment, I didn't need to move FatGirl through the
Living room to get her out of the apartment. I could just rush her from
49
my room out the front door and to her car.
Tucker "Alright, you put your clothes on and then we need to get you
out of the apartment."
FatGirl "Get me out? What about your friends? Don't they want to
Meet me?"
Tucker "Trust me, you don't want to meet my friends. They are evil.
Rapists and murderers, both of them. Very unsavory characters."
FatGirl "No, I want to meet them. They sound fun."
Tucker "This is not an option."
FatGirl 'Tucker, you are not hustling me out of here like some prostitute."
Tucker "Fine, but meeting my roommates is not an option."
FatGirl "But Tucker, I want to meet your roommates. Hold on, let me
pee and then I'll put my clothes on and go out and meet them."
Areyou kidding? The day I bend my will to a fat girl's is the day I retire.
I considered my options for a second, then very calmly opened the
window in my room and heaved all her clothes out into the yard. She
was confused when she came out of the bathroom.
FatGirl "Where are my clothes?"
Tucker [As I pointed out my open window] "If you want to meet my
friends, you are going to do it naked."
Talk about a priceless facial expression.
FatGirl "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?"
Tucker "You can either go out the window after your clothes, or you
can run out the front door and go get them. It's dark out. No one will
see you. Or you can meet my friends naked."
She stood there in shock for a good ten seconds. Not about to lose my
momentum, I quietly opened the door to my room and pointed to the
front door. She looked out the window, and even though I am on the first
floor, I guess she didn't like the idea of going through a window to get
her clothes, so she jogged, lumbered, whatever, to the front door,
opened it and ran out. I followed her and locked the door behind her.
Problem solved.
As I nonchalantly sat down in the living room, my roommates kinda
stared at me in a surprised what-the-fuck manner, then they got up
and went into my room. Hate "Max, where is she?"
Tucker "She's gone." Hate "Wha- how- where is she?"
Tucker "I hustled her right the fuck out. I'm not about to let you jackals
see her." Hate "AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA."
Credit "I wondered what that stampede sound was."
50
Postcript
I tell this story a lot, and people, girls especially, often ask me if I regret
what I did. Well, first they get real mad at me and act like they are
offended, but then they ask me if I regret it. In a way I do; it was kinda
mean. But I was only like 23 when it happened; what do you expect
from me? Compassion? Caring? Should I have just invited her out to
meet my friends and stay for a nightcap? Yeah, I guess that's what
most guys would have done. And that's why most guys are hard-up
schmucks who couldn't get laid in a monkey whorehouse with a bag of
bananas.
What really cracks me up is when girls ask me if I'd do something like
this again. Of course I wouldn't. I already fucked a fat girl once, why
would I do it again? That's a stupid question.
I found out later that Credit and Hate came home early that night
because they
saw Carry and Amy out, and those two bitches told them I
was home with FatGirl. The next day at law school was quite fun.
SlingBlade "Wait-you threw her clothes OUT your window?
HAHHAHAHAHA
.
She must have been huge."
Tucker "No, she wasn't that fat. Just overweight."
Credit "I don't know Max. I thought we had rhinos on our apartment
Last night."
PWJ "It was that bad?"
Hate "The floor boards were heaving and moaning."
Credit "I think she drove off in a cattle car."
Tucker "Whatever. As far as I am concerned, this never happened. If
your friends didn't see you, it doesn't count. I'm invoking that rule to
get out of this."
JoJo "Then you haven't hooked up with a girl from the website."
PWJ "Carry and Amy saw you."
I hate having smart friends. I guess that ends the debate: I fucked a fat
Girl on purpose.
51
THE NOW INFAMOUS TUCKER
MAX CHARITY AUCTION DEBACLE
Occurred-Summer 2000
Written-September 2002
Everything I am about to tell you is true. This is the complete and
unadulterated story, as I can best remember it, behind my infamous
summer with Fenwick and the very famous "Tucker Max Charity
Auction Debacle" email.
Let's start from the beginning:
In May of 2000, my buddy SlingBlade and I drove out to Palo Alto to
work as summer associates at a law firm called Fenwick & West. It
was the summer between our 2nd and 3rd years of law school at
Duke. The internet and tech boom was hitting its crescendo, and as
we arrived in Silicon Valley, the Nasdaq was set to pass 5,000.
Remember those days?
Almost immediately upon arrival, I realized that I HATED being a
lawyer. My mental picture of what being a lawyer entailed did not include
spending countless hours every day sitting in a lifeless office,
surrounded by boring people, doing idiotic and ultimately meaningless
paperwork. Unfortunately, that is all that a corporate lawyer does.
When you are a lawyer, your job is to clean up the messes of others,
to rubber stamp and make legal someone else's real work, to essentially
be a paper custodian for the people who actual do important
things. The people at Yahoo and Cisco and Network Solutions (all our
clients) actually did something; what did I do? Stupid, mindless, and
utterly irrelevant bullshit. I was a junior paper-monkey, and I hated
every second of it. Honestly, I wish I could say it was the firm, I wish I
could blame the people or the place, but that was not the case. I hated
the very nature of the job. Being a lawyer SUCKS.
When I am bored or unhappy, my behavior becomes akin to a
crackaddled ADD monkey until I find something to occupy me. The law
firm and the work bored me; so what did I do? Did I endure the boredom
And soldier on? Or better yet, did I find a productive output for my
creativity, like I did with my website in law school?
52
No.I got drunk and acted like an asshole. Virtually every day, and
especially at firm events where the liquor was free. If being a lawyer was
Not interesting, I was going to make it that way, goddamnit.
The first Friday I was there, the firm had an all-day orientation for the
incoming summer associates. The night before, I got my roommate
and myself into the SOMA magazine opening party in San Francisco,
where I got completely shit-faced and went home with one of the models
at the party (at least, she told me she was a model, but who really
knows). When I woke up at 6am the next morning, in her house 'in
Oakland, I realized that I had not carefully thought out the ramifications
of this act. My firm is far from Oakland, and I had to be at work at
9amfor the start of summer associate orientation.
First things first: I rooted around in her purse, noting the large supply
of condoms, and found her driver's license so when I woke her up, I'd
know her name (it was one of those nights). She said she'd give me a
ride, but she can't take me to my place because it was in Mountain
View (which is even further away from Oakland than Palo Alto), and
She had to be somewhere at ten. That meant I had to wear the same
clothes I wore out last night to work Friday. Not really a big deal, except
there was liquor, vomit, piss (and probably other fluids) all over them.
Liquor is understandable, but vomit and piss? On the way to her
house Thursday night, we had stopped at Jack-in-the-Box. Don't ask
me how she could eat that crap and still have such a good body….
She wasn't a plus-size model, so I guess she was bulimic.
Sitting in the drive-thru, the inhuman amounts of liquor I had consumed
caught up to me, so I calmly got out of her car, walked behind
a bush, and proceeded to vomit and piss at the same time. It is hard
enough keeping from vomiting on yourself when you're drunk; try
doing it while also pissing. Whatever; I just put in a breath mint and hid
the urine stains until they dried, and she still hooked up with me. Isn't
alcohol great?
I show up at orientation, stumbling drunk, eyes still bloodshot, smelling
like a speak-easy. I somehow made it through without incident until
after lunch, when they partnered us up with another summer associate
and had us tell each other all kinds of things about ourselves, and then
recite to everyone else in the room what we learned. I didn't know
what to say to the guy who was my partner, so I told him I was out all
night and I couldn't see anything because my contacts had fallen out
53
when I was hooking up with some random girl. He stood up and told
this to everyone. I thought it was funny; the hiring partner did not.
Whatever, if he can't take a joke, fuck him.
The next week, the hiring partner, John Steele, came down to the office
that I shared with three other summers, and started shooting the
shit with us. All of a sudden he started in about the Infirmation.com
Greedy Associate boards, how he couldn't believe that the Fenwick
summer salary info got up there so fast, and how that thing has really
changed the way firms do things. Let me digress here for an important
and revealing subplot:
During the spring, Fenwick announced that they were going to pay
summer associates only $2,100 per week, which was below the
$2,400 that most big firms in New York, LA and Chicago were paying
their summers. Yet, right before we arrived in Palo Alto, Fenwick,
along with every other Silicon Valley firm, announced that they were
going to pay summers $2,400 per week, commensurate with the big
firms in other major cities.
What does this have to do with anything? Well, I was almost single
handedly responsible for Fenwick, and basically every other Silicon
Valley firm, raising their summer associate salary from $2,100 to
$2,400. How is that possible, you ask? The beauty of the internet, and
the influence of an amazing website called Infirmation.com.
Infirmation.com is a job-related website that has message boards on
it, where anyone can anonymously post anything. The message boards
are divided by region, one being for New York associates, one for Silicon
Valley, one for Chicago, etc. These message boards, called "Greedy
Associate" boards, had vaulted to fame in the preceding months as a
means for associates at different firms to anonymously share information
with each other about salary, benefits, work conditions, anything
they chose. One of the sparking events was when Gunderson, a
relatively small firm in Silicon Valley, raised their starting associate
salaries from somewhere around the industry average of $100,000 to
$125,000.
One of the first places this information was posted and disseminated
Was the message boards on Infirmation.com, and from that event, as
well as a few others like it, junior associates at all the major firms
started sharing info with each other about the relative benefits and
detriments of their particular firms on these Greedy Associate boards.
54
As a result of these developments, partners at all the majors firms
monitored these message boards, looking for the latest gossip about
their firms and their competing firms. They had to stay up to date,
because a change in benefits in Firm A could mean a flood of associates
or law students to that firm, and away from Firm B, before Firm B even
knew what was going on.
How does this relate to the story? The summer salaries had already
Been announced in New York at $2,400, and everyone was waiting for
the Silicon Valley firms to announce their summer salaries [Fenwick
had three major competitors in Silicon Valley at the time: Cooley,
Wilson, and Brobeck (these are abbreviated names of law firms)].
Fenwick was the first to announce; they did so sometime around late
April, and they announced at $2,100, which was below NY salaries.
I was unhappy with this, so I immediately posted this info on the
Infirmation.com Silicon Valley/SF Greedy Associate board, and then,
using four or five different anonymous screen names, proceeded to
havea thread discussion on how horrible this was, how Fenwick was
insulting its summers, how no one was going to accept their offers
because the firm was so cheap it wouldn't fork over the extra $300 a
week, etc, et. even used one of my aliases to play the other side. It
was beautiful. Of the 20 messages on this topic on the first day, I
probably posted 10 of them. I kept this up, at a slightly lower output, for
about three days.
About a week after Fenwick's announcement, and the resulting
Infirmation.com message board "explosion," Wilson announced they
were paying summers $2,400. Each of the other Silicon Valley firms
quickly fell in line after that, including Fenwick.
Back to the story: So here I was, sitting with the hiring partner at a
major Silicon Valley law firm, talking about the very message boards
that I used to influence the summer salary structure, when he let the
clincher go.
"Yeah, what kills me is that we had decided to pay $2,100. But as soon
as we announced, that message board blew up, and other firms decided
to pay $2,400. That thing is something else."Holy shit! The whole time I
am thinking, "Ha, ha asshole, the joke's on you, I basically wrote that
whole thing myself'" It took everything I had to not laugh in his face.
We all bullshit a little more, when he asks to talk to me in private. He
took me into a conference room, closed the door, and began talking to
55
me about my reputation, how I'm starting to get the reputation as the
"party guy" in the summer associate class. Yeah, so? At this point, I'm
really unconcerned about my reputation; yes, I liked getting paid
$2,400 a week for what amounted to summer camp, but I hated this
job and I hated being a lawyer. Plus, the way he phrased the
conversation, I just thought he was talking about unimportant stuff-I am
not very adept at picking up subtle social cues, and even though this was
not a subtle one, I wasn't picking it up.
I did a couple of other stupid things in the next few days; I can't really
remember, because they were things that don't even register on my
radar as "events", yet others found them to be "seismic." For instance,
one day, one of the recruiters came into my office, when I was on the
phone. She asked who I was talking to, and I said, "Oh, I was just calling
a porn line." Obviously, I was kidding; I later found out she was
mortified.
The next day I get invited to sit in on a meeting with a prospective
client, the managing partner, and a senior associate. The client is a girl
who is an aspiring artist, a good one, and is about to graduate from
Stanford. A Stanford alumni-VC (venture capitalist) in the area has told
her she should orate herself, and set up what amounts to a
start-up for her artwork. She came to us for legal advice about this
venture. Well, I may have been the junior person in the room, but I'm
sorry, she was given some serious horseshit advice, and I proceed to
tell her this, point blank. Who's ever heard of this? Incorporating a new
artist? Is this a joke? I'm not even talking about securitizing her future
work and selling bonds, like what David Bowie did; he wanted her to
literally set up some sort of corporation with herself, and pass out
stock options to get people to work for her. I tell her to ignore this VC,
he knows nothing about the art world, and for her to get an agent or a
manager, or both, and start producing some art to sell and show, that
incorporating herself would be against her interests in both the long
and short term, and is completely unheard of in the art world, and for
good reason-because it's idiotic. I thought the meeting went well;
apparently, the managing partner did not. He was upset that I called the
VC's idea, someone who is apparently very important in Silicon Valley,
"idiotic."
The next day I get a call from John Steele to come see him in his office,
I go up there, and he gives me ANOTHER talk about my attitude.
Really, don't let anyone tell you they weren't patient with me at
Fenwick, because they were. But he told me that the good news was
56
That the lawyers I was working with, a senior associate and a partner,
thought the work I was doing was great, and that they really liked me.
Of course, I took this as carte blanche to keep doing what I was doing
(As long as my work was good, that's all that matters, right? Not when
you act like Tucker Max). Then he says, "Oh yeah, I saw your little
bachelor of the week thing on sfGirl.com. That was really funny."
WHAT? How did he find out about that? He continued, "The part about
The dog pound, I was in tears reading that. My wife thought it was
hilarious.
Of course, I wish you hadn't mentioned Fenwick, or a fat
Puerto Rican stripper, but you know, I guess that's just you." I didn't
think I had told anyone at Fenwick about that. I felt like Tom Cruise in
The Firm, but unlike Tom Cruise, I just willfully ignored the warning
Signs and kept on being myself.
Friday rolls around, and we have a firm cocktail party at a partner's
house. The liquor was free, and I was drinking, and after an hour or
so, I find myself talking to two female partners, "Betty" and "Kathy."
Betty is in her forties, married, a kid or two, and is one of the leading
lawyers in the firm. I am my normal gregarious, boisterous self, and
these two female partners are eating it up. Loving me. As the cocktail
party wound down, I convinced them to join me, ten other summer
associates, and a senior associates in a trip to a bar. / local Palo Alto
At this point, I'm just inviting them because I want someone to pay. On
the trip over to the bar, I'm in the car with Betty and the other partner,
and the conversation turns to sex. At first I was a little reticent, being
that Betty is married with children and an important partner, but before
I know it I'm explaining the BJ rule to them, i.e., what it means to "dot
someone's eyes," and why guys do such things. This was eminently
interesting to Betty and the other partner. The conversation carried
into the bar, and further explored such topics as whether a young man
(around 24), would know what to do with an older woman (around 40
or so), whether my lips were pouty, sultry or alluring, etc, etc.
We're all sitting at a long table, and by the time the food comes, I have
Betty hand-feeding me calamari. All the while, Jim, another Duke Law
student, sat across the table from this scene, unable to believe what
he was witnessing, and (I swear this is true), eating ribs with a fork.
Needless to say, this scene was just too much for most of the other
summer associates. And the look on the face of one of the junior
associates was priceless when I leaned over and asked her if the woman
feeding me calamari was actually a partner. Yeah, I was a little out of
57
control. Everyone scatters except me, Betty, Kathy, and one other
summer. I'm assuming they saw the train wreck coming, and didn't want
to be anywhere near when it hit. Smart decision. My car was still at the
firm, so Betty offers to give me a ride to the office to get it. I accept, and
then another summer, Brian, invites himself along, "Oh, I need a ride to
the office too." I didn't really understand why at the time, but Betty gave
him a mean look, but agreed to take him along. [Side note: The only
reason I can tell you this next part is because truth is an absolute
defense to libel, and this particular event had a sober witness named
Brian, who went to law school at Columbia. Though it may seem libelous,
this is the complete truth. I'd been drinking, but I remember this vividly. If
you don't believe this, find him and ask him about it. He has no reason to
lie for me.]
We get to the firm, and Brian and I get out of Betty's car, and then she
turns ff the car and gets out herself. She looks up at the building
(Fenwick has all of a ten story building in Palo Alto), then looks right at
me and says, "It looks like I left the lights on in my office. I should
probably go turn them off. What do you think?" I am oblivious to the
implied meaning here, and look up and say, "Whatever, who caresthey're
halogen, it'll cost like 3 cents for the night. Forget it."
Betty gets a mildly frustrated look on her face, and still staring right at
me, says, "I need to go up to my office and turn off my lights. Maybe
you should come up there ... help me out." Did I ever mention how
retarded I am when I get drunk? Well, I missed that signal too, "No,
whatever, they're fine, don't worry about it." She kind of pauses for a
second, looks right into my eyes, and says, "DO YOU ... want to
come ... HELP ME ... turn off the lights ... IN MY OFFICE?"
Bingo. That one registered.
What did I do? Did I go with her up to her office and fuck the shit out of
her? Did I dot her eyes right on her desk? Did I show her that this 24
year old knew exactly what to do with that 40 year old?
No. In perhaps the single stupidest move of my life, I quickly said no,
jumped into my car, and tore out of the parking lot. The irony here is so
fucking thick it's ridiculous. There is no category that Betty falls into
that I have not slept with before; I have hooked up with women as old
as Betty, uglier, more married, more children, everything. Shit, I have a
hard time counting the times I've turned down sex at all, unless the girl
was ugly and my friends were around.
58
So why did I chicken out? Why did I pass up such a sure thing? I
DON'T KNOW!! That's the worst part. I can't figure out what happened.
It's like for about 5 minutes of my life, I was a moral puritan.
The next weekend was the firm retreat at Silverado Ranch in Napa
Valley. My roommate and I drove up Friday afternoon, in my car,
checked into the hotel, and then met everyone in the reception area.
Starting at around 7PM, there were cocktails and hors d'oeurves, and
then at 9pm the Charity Auction was starting. I get to the reception
promptly at 6:58 to find numerous well-stocked open bars ... and no food.
OK, there was some shrimps perhaps some baklava, and maybe even a
petit four or two, but nothing substantive to eat. Well, HELLO, what do
you think is going to happen? Did no one involved in the planning of this
thing ever hear of the behavioral effects of alcohol on an empty
stomach?
By the time the auction started, I was so drunk I was walking around
carrying, seriously, two bottles of wine in my hands; red in my left,
white in my right, taking alternating swigs from each. I sat, clutching
my wine bottles, at a table right next to the stage, with my roommate,
about maybe 5 or 6 other summers, and a few junior associates.
The charity auction was only for the 400+ firm people associated with
the firm (and their spouses), and was all firm-specific items. Things
like the managing partner would cook you dinner, you could throw
things at some other partner, a chair from a partner's office, etc. I forget
where the money was going, probably to Our Sisters of the
Festering Rectum Orphanage, who knows? Most of the things were
stupid, so I just sat there and solemnly poured wine into my face. Then
an item came up, which, in my drunken stupor, I simply had to have:
The hiring partner, John Steele, would chauffeur you around for a
night in his Cadillac. Beautiful, I thought in my inebriated stupor, if I
buy this, they have to give me an offer. That's how drunk I was.
The bidding started at $50. It slowly went to 60, then 80, then 100, so
I got bored, and just stood up on my seat and held my paddle up. The
auctioneer took this as a sign to just start yelling out ever increasing
numbers, never even looking at the other bidders. The bid got to
around $600, with no one bidding but me, and I yelled at him to quit.
One or two other people might have thrown a bid in there, when John
Steele got on the mike and said that if a summer won, he'd pay half.
This, predictably, doubled the bid immediately.
When the bidding hit about $2000, I thought I had it won. No one else
was bidding, when all of the sudden, Aparna, another summer who was
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good friends with me, knew the condition I was in (shit-housed drunk),
and knew that, given my egomaniacal personality, I would not stop
bidding, ever, no matter what, regardless of the price. So, with the help
of a few partners bankrolling her, she started slowly bidding me up.
2200, 2300, 2400 ...
The next thing I know, I'm on stage, and I grab the microphone from
the auctioneer, and start yelling at her. I'm doing it in a teasing way, but
I'm like, "Aparna, what are you doing? You know you can't afford this.
You're just trying to mess with me. I have to win this; it's the only way
I'm getting an offer." This sends the crowd into fits of laughter. I wasn't
even trying to be funny, but hey, put some liquor in me and you never
know what's going to come out.
He kicks me off the stage, the betting gets up to about 3300 or so, I
climb back on stage, wrestle the mike away from the auctioneer, and
start yelling, "This is not fair. You have partners bankrolling you, I only
have a few scrubby summers in my corner. Seriously, Aparna, I need
this. QUIT!" Again, eruptions of laughter.
The bidding eventually hits $3800, and this time the auctioneer says,
"Alright Tucker, come on up here. I know you'll come up anyway." I get
on stage, and eventually have to make the call, do I go to $3900 or
not?
Microphone in hand, in front of everyone, I say, "Fuck it-go ahead."
The funny thing is, people not associated with the firm think this is why
I got fired. Not at all; the managing partner came up to me afterwards
and told me it was the funniest thing he had ever seen at a firm event.
The name partner, Bill Fenwick, told me, literally, I did Kentucky proud.
Another partner I didn't know told me I was awesome. For the rest of
the night, I was a star. Believe it or not, that's the absolute truth.
We end up back at the hotel, and the summer associates and some
other junior associates go to someone's suite, and we're playing
cards, drinking, and socializing. It was about this point that I blacked
out. My last clear memory is trying to convince some summer to beat
up an associate, because he was cheating at poker. The next day, Eric
told me that I tried to hook up with Aparna, but all I could manage to do
was pass out on top of her. It was that kind of night.
I wake up the next morning, it's like 11am, and I feel like a bag of ass.
All the summer associates were supposed to be at the morning lecture
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given by the managing partner, and some other guy. They were there, I
was not. I throw something on and make it there right as it's finishing.
Someone tells me that Gordie, the managing partner, asked, on the
microphone, if I was there when it began at 9am. So I go up to him
afterwards, and say, "Hey! I made it ... eventually." He smiled, shook
his head, and said, "There's always one."
Fast forward to Monday. I'm sitting in my office, bored out of my mind,
when I decide to write my friends and tell them what happened over
the weekend. So I compose the now infamous email. Here it is, exactly
as I wrote it that day Oust so you know, it's pretty much the same
as what I wrote above]:
--Original Message-
From: Tucker Max
Sent: Monday, June 05, 20002:51 PM
To: [name removed]
Subject: The Now Infamous Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle ...
Here is the story of what happened to me this weekend at my firm's retreat.
That's the last time I ever drink before an auction:
My roommate and I decide to leave for the Silverado Ranch by car instead of
taking the bus at 2 pm. You have not lived until you've ridden
through three hours of Bay Area traffic with Slingblade at the wheel. By
the time we got to Silverado, he was madder than fire
.
The first reception starts at like 6pm. There are finger foods, etc., and
lots and lots of wine and beer. Not really liking any of the food, I start
drinking. Heavily. By the time I know what's going on, I'm talking to the
name partner, Bill Fenwick, in a redneck accent. Of course, he is from
Kentucky, so we talked about basketball for an hour. It was great.
About 9pm the charity auction began. There were lots of "Fenwick" type
items, like a dinner cooked by the managing partner, etc. One of the
items was an entire night chauffeured by the hiring partner, John Steele.
In inebriated stupor, I thought that if I won this, then they would have
choice but to give me an offer. The bidding starts at $50. People are
bidding here and there, but I get tired of all the slow bidding, so I stand
on my chair, and hold up my bidding card. Without getting down. So the
auctioneer takes this as a cue to just start yelling price increases, without
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even identifying other bidders.
When the price hits about $800, John Steele says that he will pay half if
a summer associate wins. The bidding automatically doubles (John is a
litigator). As the price gets to $2000, I think I have the thing won. I get
the "going once" call, and then this other summer, Aparna, goaded on by
some partners, decides that she has to beat me. So the bidding hits
$2600, and before I know it, I'm on stage, taking the mike from the auctioneer,
and yelling at Aparna to stop bidding. My exact quote, "Aparna,
seriously, stop. I have to win, this is the only way I'm getting an offer."
So that just inspires more partners/attorneys/recruiting staff to contribute
to Aparna's pool. When the bidding hits $3400, I start yelling, on
the mike, about how this isn't fair, because she has partners bankrolling
her, but I only have a "few scrubby summers in my corner." I keep trying
to bid only like 5$ more than her, but the auctioneer gets all mad at me,
and is making me bid in hundred dollar increments. When her bid hits
$3800, I get back on stage. After some banter, the auctioneer asks me if
I want to bid $3900.
I ponder this for a second, and in front of the whole firm and spouses/
significant others, with the mike in my face, say, "Fuck it-go ahead."
I won the auction.
Now, as you can see, the email is exactly what happened. I left almost
nothing out. I may be an obnoxious asshole, but I don't need to
exaggerator lie in my stories; they are funny enough as it is. I sent this to
about ten friends, and thought nothing else about it. They didn't even
think it was that great; I had had some much better ones that summer
(like the one about the SOMA party, and the one about this Korean girl
who raced me home doing 120mph on the 101 ... you get the picture).
That was Monday. Wednesday comes, and around 4:30 John Steele
Asks me to come to his office. I stroll up there and notice my key card,
which you have to have to operate the elevators or doors, isn't working.
This means only one thing ...
I get into is office, and he's in there with some other lady I've never
seen before. John introduces her, some HR lady, and then proceeds
to tell me that I have an option to either voluntarily withdraw from the
firm or get fired. He cited certain things I had done that led them to this
course of action, like my "porn line" comment and some other stuff like
that, but said nothing about the really bad stuff I did. If I withdraw, he
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tells me they will pay me a large separation sum, pay my rent for the
summer, and pay the for the item I "won" at the charity auction. In total,
this is close to $20,000, plus I get to keep what I've already made in
the not quite four weeks I was there.
If I get fired, I get nothing.
I'm a little bit in shock, but not really; one of the associates at the firm,
who is no longer there, heard about this, and gave me a heads up the
day before. I took the money, thanked them, and headed out. It all
went rather pleasantly, considering.
Granted, I had acted a little reckless, but I was nonetheless confused .
I figured I wasn't getting an offer, but I didn't think I was going to get
fired, and the reasons he gave me for them letting me go were bullshit.
They had plenty of reasons, don't misunderstand, but the ones John
named did not seem like reasons to fire a summer associate.
The next day, I got two calls, both from associates at the firm. One
talked to me on the phone, the other met me for lunch a few days later.
They both thought I had been dealt with the wrong way, and
independently told me basically the same opinion: I got canned mainly
because of the Betty incident, and not because of the charity auction.
The one who met me for lunch claimed that he had talked to a "very
important partner" in the firm, and he was told that, given my track
record of outlandish behavior, the firm was scared I was going to
eventually sleep with Betty, or even do something worse than that,
which would make me either a huge liability (if I, say, got drunk and set
the building on fire) or invincible (if I slept with Betty). Why would it
make me invincible? Because if she slept with me, and they didn't give
me an offer, then they could be liable for a sexual harassment suit. Not
that I would ever sue them if that happened, but considering my behavior
that summer, I can understand why they viewed me as a liability.
I was never able to verify these theories, but they made sense to
me. To me, the most delicious irony is that, ultimately, because I didn't
sleep with Betty the firm was able to get me out. Can you believe that?
Because I didn't fuck her, I fucked myself. But that's not all.
About a month later, my email started popping up. Everywhere. Paul
had forwarded it to Linda Brewer, a Dukie at another Silicon Valley
firm, who forwarded it to some other people ... you get the picture.
That email went around the world, several times, and at last count
went through like 100+ firms. The next thing I know, my Inbox is filled
with these forwards, and my friends from all over the country are calling
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me, like, "Dude, what happened? Is that you?" My favorite random email
I got was from some guy who wrote: "Mr. Max, with the hope of a six
year old on the night before Christmas asking about Santa, I ask the
same question: Do you really exist?"
I called John Steele a few months later for some reason, and the first
thing he said to me was, "Man, you're famous. We've been collecting
those emails, and have counted over 100 firms that they've been too.
Hey, congrats, it was really well written." I swear to God, I had that
conversation with him.
My mother even got that email. My uncle is a lawyer in DC and he got
it and then forwarded it to her. Her only comment: "Well, I guess that's
what happens when you can't hold your liquor."
I became a minor celebrity in the legal world after that. Every law student
and lawyer in the country knew about me. Someone told me that
some students at Columbia Law threw a "Save Tucker" party. I wish
someone would have told me about it; I would have shown up. Of
course, that probably would have been anti-climactic. When I got back
to Duke, the Dean of Students wrote me a letter telling me that I
should go into alcohol rehab. I thought that was pretty funny.
That is the whole true story, exactly as I remember it.
In the final analysis, I have almost nothing bad to say about Fenwick.
Yes, they fired me, but I can understand their position: I acted like a
drunk retard and they couldn't tolerate my potential liability. What
could I expect them to do? Pat me on the back and get me a hooker
and some beer? That would be pretty cool, though. Seriously, I hold no
ill will towards them. I probably would have done the same thing had I
been in their position, and some jerk-off had come in acting like me.
I often get asked if I regret what I did. I'm never exactly sure how to
answer that; I mean, yes I would have liked to have kept making $2400 a
week for the summer, but in the end, it was probably the best thing for
me. I hated being a lawyer, but the money was so good, I don't know if
I would have ultimately had the courage to quit on my own. I would
Have just languished in a job I hated, doing just enough to get by, and
would become bitter and disillusioned, like almost every lawyer I know.
So instead I did the immature thing and forced the issue, leaving the
decision up to Fenwick, and they made it for me. Oh well ... what can
you do?
64
QUITE THE VACATION
Occurred-May 2000
Written-March 2005
I don't know exactly how many girls I've slept with, but it's well into the
triple digits. You start to forget a few last names somewhere in the 30s,
some first names around the 60s, and entire girls altogether somewhere
around the 90s, but no matter how much or how many you fuck,
some are just unforgettable.
This particular girl, "Candy," I met while working in Cancun. I was so
busy fucking her sorority sisters, I didn't hit on her until the day before
she left, but she was having none of me. I figured that she just respected
herself and didn't want to fuck someone like me, so I was
kinda surprised when she asked for my number the day she left. I
gave it to her and didn't think twice about it, until two months later
when Candy called and wanted to come visit.
By that time I had kinda forgotten what she looked like, so I was
stoked when I picked her up at the airport and she was even hotter
than I remembered. Short and Vietnamese but with just enough of the
French rapist heritage coursing through her veins that she had that
hybrid-vigor hotness that you really only see in mixed races.
I was 24 at the time and still didn't know as much as I thought that I
did, so when on the ride back to my place she was very formal and
quiet, I didn't understand what was going on. Why would this girl call
me to come visit, knowing what I am like, and not be more into me?
One of my roommates was home when we got to my place, so we had
a few beers in the living room and talked. Well, my roommate and I
talked, and she just sat there and acted obsequious. Every time I tried
to involve her in the conversation, she would briefly answer and then
go back to her beer. I've seen kidnapping victims be more social with
their captors.
Then my roommate left for the gym. As soon as the door closed behind
him, I learned a very important lesson: sometimes the quietest
and meekest in public are the loudest and wildest in private. I mean, I
knew this about women in an intellectual way, but the reality of this
proverb never hit home with me until I found myself being nearly sexually
assaulted by this girl who had said no more than 10 words over
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the past hour.
Right after the front door clicked shut, she calmly put her beer down
and then pounced on me like a jaguar. Since I have never had an
Asian projectile fired at me, I wasn't sure what to do. She was literally
jumping me, but I was so shocked and totally taken by surprise that I
put my hands up and kinda hit her. Right in the face. I didn't mean to,
but for a split second I thought she was trying to kill me. What would
you think if some quiet Asian girl unexpectedly jumped at you?
She was fine, and I tried to apologize but couldn't talk because she
was kissing me so hard. Fuck it; if she isn't hurt, I'm not going to worry
about it.
Before that day, I thought I was aggressive and dominant in bed. That
was before a 5'3" Vietnamese college girl turned me out.
She wanted everything and she wanted it hard. I hit it from the front,
the back, the side, from underneath, on top, diagonally, every way I
thought possible and then learned some new positions. I honestly didn't
even think the pile driver was possible for normal people. I was wrong.
And no matter what I did, she wanted it harder and faster. So I put my
dick in her ass. Not hard enough. I hit harder. And harder. And harder.
I hit it so hard I was hurting myself. It got to the point where I was fucking
with so much force her booty was clapping like Madison Square
Garden, the bed was chipping the paint off the wall, my hips were
bruising as they slammed against her ass bones and I was sweating
like a migrant worker in a strawberry field, but it still wasn't enough.
I fucked her in the ass with so much force it started to bleed. Not much
blood, but enough that I had to get new sheets. She didn't care, she
just took my cock out, put a new condom on, and threw it in her pussy.
Then in her mouth, then back in the ass again when it stopped bleeding.
Unreal.
I needed a few more dicks that weekend, because mine was not enough.
It got to the point where I had to schedule rest breaks, because she
was shredding me. It was emasculating in a way; this little docile girl
totally out-fucked me. By the end of the weekend, after we had had
sex some ridiculous number of times and my balls were aching and
my cock was raw, she was still horny and would go down on my limp
penis for like five minutes to get me hard, then she'd mount me and
impale herself on my cock like a jackhammer. I think I could have gone
to sleep and as long as I stayed hard, I doubt she would have cared.
I didn't fuck for like a week after she left I was so tired. My dick was
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raw. That normally only happens when I am black out drunk and try to
jack off (which is a supremely bad idea). I still have scars on my back
from her nails and rug burn on my knees from two days of violent sex
with her.
She left and I told myself that was it. I couldn't handle another weekend
of that, especially when it appeared that she was just fine.
Then I got the email. I still talked to one of her sorority sisters I had
slept with in Cancun, and like a week later, she sent me this:
"Do you remember that girl [her name]? The quiet Asian girl in my
sorority? She supposedly went home to visit her parents last week,
but the day after she got back she had to go to student health with
"female problems." Well, she always told us that she's never had sex,
and she wouldn't tell us what was wrong, but my friend is a resident
there, and he said that she had impacted bowels AND a urinary tract
infection! Can you believe that? How could that happen if she doesn't
have sex?"
BITCH, I'LL TELL YOU HOW IT HAPPENED-I AM AWESOME!
Truthfully though, I can't really take much credit. Whatever damage
was done, she pretty much did to herself. I'm not going to sit here and
write some lie about how big my dick is; it is exactly average for a
white guy. I've measured and compared to numerous studies, and no
matter how much I wish it hung to my knees, it sits right on the top of
the bell curve. Her UTI was from going directly from anal to vaginal,
which even with a new condom isn't a good idea, and the impacted
bowels ... well, she was a tiny Asian girl. My dick may not be huge,
but it is probably bigger than her colon.
Nevertheless, to whoever is dating that girl now: You are a better man
than me, and I wish you luck.
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TUCKER GOES TO VEGAS
Occurred-October 1999
Written-April 2005
There are certain defining events in every man's life: the first time he
has sex, the first time he gets drunk, the first time he gets in a fight. ...
and his first trip to Vegas.
During my 2nd year of law school I had to fly to LA for call back
interviews, and I planned to stay with my good friend "Junior" while there.
Junior is 5'9", well built, half-Italian half-Arabic, with light green eyes
and olive skin. He's got that "dark with light eyes" look that that women
lose their shit over. I knew Junior from Florida, where he used to work
for my father. We became friends because he is one of the few people
I've ever met in my life who not only does better with women than I
do-WAY better, actually-but simply put, he can not only keep up
with me, he can exceed me at times. Not many people can.
He lived in Santa Monica and was attending UCLA at the time. I arrived
in LAX around 8pm on a Thursday, intending to party all weekend
and go to my interviews on Monday. Junior was there to pick me
up.
Junior "Hey, what's up man?"
Tucker "Not much, what's up with you?"
Junior "Nothing. Let's go to Vegas."
Tucker "Well ... OK."
By about 8: 15, Junior and I were on our way. I didn't even drop my
bags off at his place. Halfway there, in some shit-bag cow town called
Barstow, Junior tells me to exit the highway and pull into a place called
"In-N-Out." I was not impressed:
"Dude, where are we going? This place looks like shit."
Junior glared at me like I had turned down sex with Penelope Cruz
and said nothing. He insisted that we go inside, as he said that one
couldn't properly drive and give these burgers the attention necessary
at the same time. He ordered me the Double-Double, and looking at it,
I was still unimpressed. It's just a fucking hamburger.
I have only fallen in love three times in my life, and the first bite of that
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Double-Double was one of those times. The crispy bun complimenting
the cool lettuce, the special sauce accentuating the fresh tomato, the
sweet meat mixing with the salty cheese, all of it coming together in a
harmonious medley of flavor thus far unseen on the American fast food
landscape-I was smitten. It was the single greatest fast food meal in
the history of civilization. Even though I was full, I immediately ate
another Double-Double. I was nearly in tears at this meal, it was so
transcendently excellent. Those fuckers should hire me as a spokesman.
This is me eating an In-N-Out
burger-from the looks of it, my
second of the day. I look pissed
because pausing to pose for
the picture is keeping me from
my Double-Double.
Junior insisted that he drive for the second half of the trip. I didn't
understand why until we pulled onto the strip; had I been behind the
wheel, I would have wrecked. I am not a big fan of the movie
Swingers, but I have to give it to Favreau, he really nailed the scene
"where they come over the mountain and see the lights of Vegas. I was
like a child, I was so completely fixated by the flashing bright lights and
shiny things everywhere. Times Square has nothing on driving into
Vegas.
We pull into the Bellagio around 1am and immediately sit at the $25
blackjack tables and start playing. And drinking. And winning. Before I
realize it, I am drunk, Junior and I are screaming, and we have collected
quite the crowd around our table. We were "that table."
Everyone who has been to Vegas, or really any casino, knows the
table I'm talking about: The one with the guys standing up, cheering at
every winning hand, cursing at every losing hand, making ludicrous
bets that payoff, yelling at everyone within earshot, ordering drinks for
the entire floor, telling random onlookers to bring us food, grabbing the
asses of cocktail waitresses, demanding the pit boss comp a room
and some whores-that was us.
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There were many aspects to The Tucker and Junior Gambling Show:
We called every dealer, no matter what his or her name, "Slappy." We
would routinely threaten every Slappy with bodily injury:
Junior "If you beat my 20, I'm gonna kick you right in the crotch."
Tucker "I swear on my grandmother's dried up decomposing corpse, if
you draw a five card 21, I'll punt your tits across this casino floor."
One dealer nearly cleaned us out, so we threatened and cursed her
and called her 'The Angel of Death," to the point where she left the
table nearly in tears. This didn't stop us:
Junior "You better not leave this casino alone! I'll find you!"
Tucker "I hope your children get lupus!"
One of the Slappys was quite the Puritan:
Tucker "Look at that card. FUCK ME IN THE EAR."
Dealer "Quiet. You can't say ‘fuck' here."
Junior "We can't say 'fuck' in this casino, but prostitutes can run
around selling themselves all over Vegas."
Dealer "Prostitution is legal in Vegas. Saying 'fuck' isn't."
Tucker "THAT'S HORSESHIT."
Junior "Can he say 'horseshit?' Is it legal for horses to shit in Vegas?"
I honestly have no idea how we didn't get kicked out.
As much fun as messing with Slappy was, you can only have so much
fun with a dealer. What was more fun was the people who either
gambled at our table or watched us. These two women stood near the
table, one very young, and the other old and obviously her mother.
Junior has the sex drive of a bull elephant in mating season, so he
immediately perked up.
Junior "I'm going to go hit on her."
Tucker "Dude, what are you talking about? She's not even old enough
to have seen all the episodes of Seinfeld."
Junior "I have to compliment you, because you obviously did a great
job raising your daughter." [As he says this, he is facing the mother but
ogling the daughter.]
Mother "My daughter is 15."
Junior "Well ... I'm rich. I'll give you a large dowry."
Tucker "HOW MUCH FOR THE LITTLE GIRL! HOW MUCH FOR THE
WOMAN!!"
Mother "Goodbye."
We got so carried away with the gambling and attention, the next time
I took notice of my watch, it was 9am Friday morning, and I was feeling
a bit tipsy. I casually ask the cocktail waitress how many beers I've
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had: "I don't know sweetie. I work the 2am to 10am shift, and you were
rolling along when I got here. I'd guess you've had at least 20 or 25
since I've been working."
Like when a young child doesn't know he's hurt until he actually sees
the blood oozing out of the cut, I didn't realize how drunk I was until I
realized how much I'd had to drink. I grabbed Junior,
Junior "You OK man?"
Tucker "Get me a fucking bed ... I am about to hit a wall."
Junior laughed at me, told the pit boss and dealer to watch me, gave
me about twenty $5 chips, and ran off. I went from 'Fun Tucker' to
'Comatose Tucker' in only five minutes. I am not sure what happened
over the next half hour, but when Junior came back my head
was on the table, I was randomly pushing chips forward, and the
dealer was playing my hand for me. People were gawking and laughing
like I was some sort of street performer. The best part: I was up
$20.
Junior "We can't get a room, they are completely booked up, but I just
met this girl, you can stay in her room. Tucker, meet [Charlene]."
Junior is amazing with women, but even for him this was something
special. He not only picked a girl up in twenty minutes in Vegas-a hot
girl no less-he got her to agree to let a complete stranger, me, pass
out in her room while he gambled with her. Golf clap for Junior.
Too drunk at that exact moment to recognize this feat, I grunted a
response, took her room key, and headed upstairs. I don't remember the
trip to her room, or taking off my pants, or pissing on the bathroom
floor instead of the toilet, or knocking over a side table, or laying on a
bed or anything else that I did. I still deny responsibility for those
incidents.
That's the beauty of alcohol: if you don't remember it, it didn't
happen.
My next clear memory is waking up to the sound of skin slapping
against skin. I was so dehydrated, I couldn't even blink my eyes.
Rubbing them, I saw Junior on the other bed humping that girl so hard
that through my fogged vision, I thought he was trying to dig his way to
China. A real pleasant scene. I passed back out.
When I woke up, they had showered and cleaned the stench of
stranger sex off themselves. Junior and I left her room to go gamble
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some more, but not before Junior gave her a fake cell number, because
he is a bad person. About two hours later, I realized that I had
left my glasses in her room:
Junior "How could you leave your glasses? Are you so drunk you forgot
that you couldn't see?"
I went back up to her room and knocked on the door. I think she
thought that Junior was coming back for more sex, because she
answered the door only in her towel with this seductive smile. When she
saw me, her expression shifted to confused, then quickly moved to sly.
Charlene "What can I do for you?"
Tucker [confused by the palpable sexual tension] "Uhh ... I, uhhh ...
I left my glasses here. Really."
Charlene "Come in."
I looked around and found my glasses under the bed. Then it just got
weird. She was leaning up against the wall between me and the door
with this look on her face I had never seen before. Well, I had seen it
before, but only in porn movies where the lonely wife fucks the muscular
plumber in the cut off jean shorts, and that just couldn't be happening
here, could it? I mean, this is real life, and real life is never like
porn ... is it? Women don't randomly fuck strange men they just met ...
do they?
You have to understand, I was only twenty-three at the time, and didn't
quite understand what I do now: While there are many wonderful
women in the world who should be treated with respect, some are just
filthy whores. Even though I was inexperienced I relied on my sixth
sense about this and decided to roll the dice. Besides, what's the
worst thing that could happen? She kicks me out? I'm leaving anyway:
Tucker "You aren't dry yet? Why are you still in a towel?"
Great line Tucker, real smooth. Apparently, it didn't matter:
Charlene "Why don't you finish drying me off?"
Twenty-three and naive, even I couldn't miss that one.
Now that I think about what I actually did, I am kinda disgusted. I
followed one of my best friends not even two hours after he was done.
She did shower though, so I guess that's good. Whatever; nothing
counts in Vegas, right? The best part: I've never even told him about
that. He's going to find out when he reads this story.
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Afterwards, back down at the tables:
Junior "What took you so long?"
Tucker "I got stuck in something. That girl is pretty hot."
Junior "No shit. She's incredible in bed."
Tucker "I bet."
By this time it was around 5pm on Friday. We had an awesome roll the
night before, but this day luck was not with us, and I ended up losing
like $500. Whatever, I had at least 12 drinks, so I clearly came out on
top. Stupid Vegas, they don't know anything.
The hemorrhaging stopped at 8pm, because my buddy SlingBlade
was coming in on a flight. At the airport, I see him come out of baggage
claim, and lean out the car window and yell:
Tucker "SLlNGBLADE- THIS PLACE IS GREAT! WE DON'T EVEN
HAVE A HOTEL ROOM! JUNIOR FUCKED SOME WHORE AND I
WON LOTS OF MONEY! WOOOOOOO-HOOOOO!!!"
SlingBlade "I am getting back on the plane."
We ate dinner at the In-N-Out right off the Strip (yes, I am obsessivecompulsive),
gambled and drank for awhile, and then went to the big
club inside of The Venetian. Junior and I rounded up two women, and
of course because they had vaginas SlingBlade hated them and spent
the whole time grousing about "whores" and "wanton filth." At some
point, the five of us noticed this hilarious scene on the dance floor:
A stunningly hot girl was casually dancing with one of her female
friends, when this disgusting bald old man came up and started grinding
her. Not just dancing next to her mind you; he was freaking her 6th
grade negro style. It was ridiculous. She kept turning away, and he
kept following, and we kept laughing at him. All of the sudden
SlingBlade walked over to the old man as he was trying to wheedle his
way between the girls, pulled him aside, pointed to the exit and said:
"You sir are a failure in dancing and in life. Please move away from the
hot girl." The expression on the hot girl's face was amazing; it was the
personification of true love. She was almost in tears laughing, and
immediately draped herself all over Sling Blade and gave him a big kiss
on his cheek. In fact, so many people were laughing that the old man
actually did leave the club.
The night progresses, and things start going really well with my girl.
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Her hands are down my pants, her tongue is in my ear at the bar and
she whispers to me:
Girl "Is it true nothing counts in Vegas?"
Tucker "It only counts if you live here."
Girl "I am from Cincinnati."
Tucker "It counts even less if it's not in a bed."
Girl "That is so hot. I've never done that."
I immediately pull her into the bathroom hallway, where we start making
out so intensely we could have been giving each other CPR. This
club, instead of separate men's and women's bathrooms, has four unisex
bathrooms. And the bathrooms have those really cool type of doors
that are totally clear glass when unlocked, but frost up when you lock
the door.
Cool bathroom doors aside, I have to find a solution to my dilemma: I
am drunk and horny with a drunk and horny girl who wants to fuck, but
there are 20 people in front of me waiting to use the bathrooms. I decide
that since I am clearly a more important person and have greater
immediate need, I can cut the line. I just have to give everyone
something in return.
A door opens and I rush towards it, pulling the girl with me. A douchebag
guido tries to say something, but I stop him, 'TRUST ME I'II
make it worth your while." Before he can protest I push her in and lock
the door, and the clear glass immediately frosts up. She grabs me and
plants a sloppy drunken kiss on me:
"Fuck me so hard I forget my name."
You don't have to tell me twice. I spin her around and bend her over
the sink, rip her Victoria's Secret panties as I pull them down her
legs, and slam into her like Dale Earnhardt into the wall at Daytona.
But as I thrust back and forth, my subconscious takes me out of the
moment:
"Tucker, you have a promise to a guido to fulfill." Stupid fucking
subconscious.
I look around and try to think of something.
The way the bathroom is set up, the toilet is on the back wall directly
across from the door, and the sink is on the wall to the left, so as she
74
is bent over the sink and I fuck her from behind, I am positioned between
the toilet and the frosted glass door. Then it hits me: Right
there, in front of my face, is the lock for the door. Hello, payback.
I turn it open and the door immediately goes from frosted to clear. A
few of the people in line turn to look at the door expecting it to open ...
but instead see me hammering away at this girl. I smile and lock it back.
No way. Did I just give all those people a shot of me having sex?
A few more thrusts, and I click it open again. The glass clears, but this
time there are four people standing there. They all stare in shock. I
give them a smile and a pump and lock it back again.
Unlockthe door.
Eight people standing there. I start spanking her. They cheer loudly.
HOLY SHIT! HOW COOL IS THIS!
Lock it back.
Unlock the door.
A dozen people standing there. I do the 'look ma, no hands.' They
cheer rowdily. WHO'S THE MAN NOW?
Lock it back.
Unlock the door.
More than a dozen people standing there. I grab her hair and spank
her like a rented mule. They cheer wildly. I AM A SUPERSTAR!
THIS IS AWESOME!
Lock it back.
I start to wonder: what do I like more, the sex or audience? I don't
care. I should go into porn. After all, it's not the size of the dick that's
important, it's the size of the crowd that the dick attracts.
I unlock it and lock it back over and over, giving them some different
variation of the show each time; pulling her hair, putting my finger in
her ass, pushing her clothes off, throwing toilet paper on her. Everything
I do gets me more cheers from more people there each time.
75
God I love being on stage. The best part is that the girl doesn't even
notice; the only part that unfrosts is the door, and except for her ass
she wasn't in front of the door. She could have just been an ass sticking
out of the wall for all the crowd could tell.
By the tenth time I unlocked the door, there were at least 30 people
crowded around watching me fire my cock into this girl. I'm getting
close to cumming and I decide that for my big finish, I am going to
shoot my load on the glass right as I unlock the door. I start pumping
harder and harder, and right before I cum I pinch the bottom of my
cock (to stop the cum from shooting before I am ready), turn towards
the door and simultaneously splooge on it as I unlock the door, giving
the crowd my best O face. WHAT A FINISH!
I didn't see him at first because I was caught up in the effect of my
orgasm, but he came into my vision pretty quickly.
Instead of 30 people shocked to see me shooting a five-roper on the
door ... there was a huge 6'5" black bouncer, arms crossed on his
chest, with a 12-inch Mag-Lite in his hand.
His eyes met mine, then he glanced down at the load shooting onto
the door, and his eyes came back to mine. We shared a moment. A
moment of complete and utter shock.
That shared moment ended quickly. I think the precise second it ended
can be pinpointed to when he slammed his shoulder into the door,
flinging it open and smashing it right into my face. Dick in my hand and
pants still at my ankles, seeing stars, I stumble backwards ... and
land right in the toilet.
In case you were wondering, toilet water feels exceptionally cold
against a bare ass.
The bouncer storms in, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
He had the Mag-Lite half raised and I am convinced that had the girl
not been there, he would have introduced it to my head in a violent
and ferocious collision. Thankfully, she came to my rescue:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
I guess he hadn't seen her in his rush to hurt me, because the bouncer
jumped in shock. I took this opportunity to pull myself out of the toilet,
76
and ass still wet, put my pants back on.
I tried to run, but I doubt Barry Sanders in his prime could have shook
this guy. He was not only big and athletic, but his tackle showed perfect
form, even despite the fact that he nearly slipped on the girl's torn
panties laying on the floor. I would have complimented his flawless
technique, but I had problems breathing through what felt like broken
ribs and a collapsed lung.
He grabbed me by the shirt and basically dragged me across the
dance floor. All I could do was muster a weak, "Help!" but thankfully
SlingBlade and Junior saw me and came to my rescue. Well, they didn't
stop the bouncer from dragging me out of the bar, so it wasn't really a
rescue. It was more of a "We'll just watch and hope they don't beat
Tucker any worse" type of rescue. I get kicked out of bars all the time,
but this was the first time that I was actually thrown-physically thrown
through the air-out of a place. And people say old school Vegas is
dead.
Even though the seat of my pants was still soaked from my wet ass,
we went to another casino and drank at the center bar for an hour or
so, just to decompress and digest the events that just happened.
Sling Blade has the intestinal fortitude of a premature newborn, and he
was not handling the combination of alcohol, In-N-Out and stress very
well, so we decided to go to a diner-type place in the casino to get him
some coffee.
It was about 4am Saturday at this point, and this place already had its
breakfast buffet out. Junior and I immediately got plates and sat down.
Greasy eggs and pork fat spilling over the edges of the plates. When
the smell caught SlingBlade, he winced and turned grey. I thought I
was being funny at the time:
"That's not a good smell if you're feeling queasy. Well, whatever you
do, don't think about greasy, fatty barbecue sandwiches with gobs of
melting butter on top. And a full ashtray dumped on it."
SlingBlade immediately leaned over and vomited all over the booth.
Tucker "OH SHIT!"
Junior "WHY DID YOU SAY THAT!"
Tucker "I DON'T KNOW!"
Still reeling from falling in a toilet and getting my ass kicked by a
77
bouncer, I just sat there. It was Junior who saved this day. He
immediately jumped into action:
"Get up SlingBlade, get up. Alright, Tucker, hold him up. Just stay
here, I'll be right back."
He ran off to the front of the restaurant and got the manager. She was
a well-dressed woman, probably in her late thirties, who looked unhappy
that, at her age, she was still pulling late shifts in a Vegas
restaurant.
Manager "Hi. What can I do for you?"
Junior "Yeah, we were just seated, and, well, I don't want to get anyone
in trouble for this, it's not a big deal at all, but it appears that someone
left something in our booth, and nobody cleaned it up before we
were seated."
He pointed to the booth Sling Blade had been sitting in.
Manager "What is that ... Oh my lord! I am SO sorry. Oh my! Is that
vomit? Please, oh, I am so sorry. I can't believe this. Please go to the
front, we'll get you a new table and take care of everything right away.
I am so sorry. JULIO, GET OVER HERE!"
SlingBlade and I went to the front of the restaurant, SlingBlade still
holding his stomach in agony. They quickly seated us at another booth
in a separate part of the restaurant. SlingBlade wasn't looking much
better.
Tucker "Can you hold it together? Are you going to be alright?"
SlingBlade nodded. I was ordering him some coffee as the manager
and Junior came over to our new table.
Manager "Please let me apologize again for that. I am really sorry, that
has never happened before. Let me buy your meal, whatever you
want. Again, I am really sorry."
Junior ''That's really nice, but honestly, it's not necessary. Really. It's
not a big deal."
Manager "No, please, I want to, I feel so bad about ... "
I heard it before I saw it, but the noise was enough. By the time I actually
looked at him, SlingBlade only had a small dribble of vomit coming
out of his mouth, but there was chunky liquid was all over the carpet ...
right next to the manager's shoes.
She stood completely still, in total shock, except for her head which
78
tilted downwards to see the damage. When SlingBlade started retching
again, she jumped out of the way of his second wave of vomit. She
waited for him to stop regurgitating before she spoke:
"I think all of you should leave now."
Junior and I were still wired from all the Red Bull we drank at the club,
so we decided to gamble. SlingBlade was done, but the casino we
were at didn't have any rooms either, so we had to travel all the way
down the strip to Circus-Circus to find a room. Once we had the key
we sent him up to the room, and started in on more blackjack. This
was about 5am on Saturday morning.
Junior left the table at 10am. I kept playing and drinking Vodka Red
Bulls until I looked up and it was 3pm (still Saturday). SlingBlade and
Junior had come back down to the table:
SlingBlade "Jesus Christ. How are you still awake? Are you on coke?"
Tucker "NoDude, RedBull isAmazingStuff,PluslThinkTheyReallyDoPump
OxygenlntoTheseCasinos. VegaslsGreatlLoveltHere!Do
YouThinklShould SplitTheseTensAgainstAn8?
BookSaysNo,ButlmOnARolI! HITME! HITME! COMEONPICTURE!"
SlingBlade "Should I just call Gamblers Anonymous now, or wait till
you pass out?"
Junior "What's wrong with your eyes? They are shaking."
Tucker "lmHungry, LetsGoTolnNOutandThenGoToAStripClub!
DoubleDoublesOnMe!!"
We left the casino in Junior's car, and as soon as I sat down in the
back seat I hit a wall. I passed out in the car and they just left me there.
I woke up at 8pm, five hours later, still in the car, in some parking lot I
didn't recognize. Whatever; this is Vegas, it's time to rally.
I look around and see Bellagio signs. I know why we are here.
Yesterday-at least I think it was yesterday-we had been playing
blackjack at the Bellagio in the early evening while we waited for
SlingBlade to fly in. Junior, who has an amazing radar for big-titted
girls with low self-esteem, was drawn like a tractor beam to the center
casino bar. It was crawling with his exact type of women. Seriously, it
looked like a Playboy shoot or something. He tried to pick up some of
the girls but was continually and unceremoniously shot down. I found
him and Sling Blade at the bar. Both were sipping drinks but not talking
to any of the women.
79
Tucker "So what's up Junior? I've never seen you give up on pussy
before, especially not pussy that looks like this."
Junior just shook his head as SlingBlade broke out laughing, "I can't
believe you two idiots didn't recognize this yesterday. THEY ARE ALL
PROSTITUTES! You don't hit on them, you negotiate price!"
That was the bad news. The good news was that Junior and SlingBlade
had not wasted their time. Even though Junior may not be able
to pick up working prostitutes, he did get a Bellagio cocktail waitress to
agree to come to dinner with us, and to bring two of her friends who
went to UNLV with her. They met us at the bar and took us to this
amazing local Thai place. Making small talk, the girls asked us what
we do. I considered telling them the truth, but hey, this is Vegas. You
can be anything you want here:
Tucker "We are in a band."
Girl 1 "No way really? Anything I've ever heard of?"
Tucker "I don't know-do you listen to Christian Rap?"
Girl 2 "I love Christian Rap!"
Tucker "Well, I am Big Baby Jesus, and [pointing to Junior] this is The
Beat Boxin' Prophet, and he [pointing to SlingBlade] is OJ Orthodoxy.
Together, we call ourselves Tha Last Suppa."
I wish I could have recorded the look on Sling Blade's face. There isn't
a word strong enough for the look he gave me; "contempt" doesn't cut
it, and "hatred" isn't rich enough. I fully expected the girls to laugh and
ask us what we really did ... and that is what I get for underestimating
the stupidity of UNLV students.
Girl 2 "OH MY GOD! I totally think I have heard of you guys!"
Girl 1 "Were you on the radio today? I think I heard you!"
Now, I want to pause here and point something out. People always
email me asking how it is I get into the ridiculous situations I seem to
constantly find myself in. Well people, this is a how I do it: Where most
anyone else would stop the joke here, I just dropped it into 5th gear
and zoomed past the speed limit.
Tucker "Yeah! I can't believe you heard us. We aren't that big yet, but
we're getting there. I'm glad that you two are fans."
Girl 3 "I'm a fan too!"
Tucker "Of course you are."
SlingBlade "And here I was thinking that Larry Johnson was the stupidest
person to ever go to UNLV."
80
Junior played along great, but SlingBlade was not happy. Not only did
he not like being "OJ Orthodoxy," but he could not stand the idiot girl
he was talking to.
Girl 3 "So where are you from?"
SlingBlade "I don't care."
Girl 3 "Did you say 'here?' Like Vegas? Me too!"
SlingBlade "Yeah here. I'm from right here."
Girl 3 ''This neighborhood?"
SlingBlade "No, this Thai restaurant. I was lost in a rather high stakes
game of Omaha Hold'em by my degenerate gambler father, but luckily
escaped from the glue factory and lived as a street urchin until this
nice Thai family adopted me. I lived out the rest of my childhood
scampering amongst the chair legs, bussing tables for a cot and eating
floor scraps for subsistence. This is like a home coming party for me."
Girl 3 "You don't have to be a jerk."
Sling Blade "Quite the contrary, my sloppy penile scholar. Order me
another drink and be quick about it."
Sling Blade got up and went to the bathroom. Girl 3 turns to the table:
Girl 3 "You guys are really nice, but ... DJ Orthodoxy is a jerk."
Tucker "Sometimes he has problems with the 'love thy neighbor' part."
To really solidify the Christian rapper shtick, at one point I took my
beer, held it up and motioned to Junior and SlingBlade:
Tucker "Beat Boxin' Prophet, DJ Orthodoxy ... I think it's time we
tipped one out to our fallen lord. Hmm? Some beer for Jesus?"
Junior "WE'LL SEE YOU AT THE CROSSROADS, JESUS!"
I poured a little drop on the ground. Junior laughed hysterically and
followed me, then the girls actually did the same thing. Sling Blade just
glared at me.
Sling Blade "I hate both of you with a nearly unspeakable hatred."
This Thai place was fucking awesome. We couldn't finish a drink before
they had another one in front of us. We got so drunk even
SlingBlade started being nice. At one point, the topic of anal sex came
up. As we were talking about the finer points of ass sex, Junior, who
was very drunk by this point, stood up at his seat and yelled out,
"No girl's butt can take this dick."
As he said this, Junior takes his cock out and slams it on the table with
a thud. And it does make an audible thud-the dude is hung like
Tommy Lee. I think a few glasses even clinked. I distinctly heard one
of the girls gasp. The table gets completely silent for what seems like
a minute, but was probably closer to a second. He then belts out:
81
Junior "I've never had buttsex because no girl's ass can take this dick.
Look at this thing; I have a black man's penis. Show me an ass that
can handle this! Look at this dick! It's huge!" Tucker "Now, now Beat
Boxin' Prophet; you are being prideful."
As soon as my words were out of my mouth, all the women were
immediately jarred out of a trance. They readjusted themselves and
turned away from Junior as he put his cock back in, and some normalcy
returned to the table. Well, as much normalcy as is possible
after a fucking elephant cock was slammed in the middle of a dinner
table.
After dinner we decide to go back to the house that two of the girls
share. Sling Blade claims that he is tired and wants to leave. We know
the truth: He freaks out at the prospect of having to sleep with a girl
that he isn't in love with. The kid has problems. He gets in a cab back
to Circus-Circus.
When we get to their house, the girls all go to the bathroom, and
Junior asks me: Junior "I can't believe they think we are Christian
rappers. Do you think what we're doing is wrong?"
Tucker "Junior, I don't think anything I've ever done is wrong."
We all go into the basement, which has the TV and all the couches
and what not. I pick one couch and Junior takes the other, but the
three girls head upstairs, "we'll be right back."
I had to piss really bad, so I start wandering around the basement
looking for a bathroom. I couldn't find one, and didn't feel like going
upstairs to deal with whatever it was those three were planning, so I
took the next best option, and started pissing in a cat box I found on
the floor.
Junior "Dude, what are you doing?"
Tucker "Meow ... meow."
All we could hear from upstairs was muffled arguing. Then a loud
crash. Girl 2 came downstairs and told Junior that Girl 1 was waiting
for him upstairs. She then explains to me:
"Yeah, I wish DJ Orthodoxy had stayed. We just had a big fight about
who was going to fuck who. I don't actually live here, it's the other two
girls' place, so even though I get to fuck you, we have to do it on the
sofa down here."
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We fuck and fuck and pass out and the next morning, I am awakened
to a scratching noise and a cat bawling incessantly. I look over the
sofa and see why: The fucking cat box is CEMENT. Totally hardened
over. Wow-that was quite the piss I took. I threw the remote at the cat
and it screeched and ran off, and I rolled the girl over and fucked her
again.
Junior and I left a few hours later to go back to LA, having never
changed our clothes or even showered, the girls wishing our band luck
and saying they'd come see our next concert.
We ended up having to pull over on the drive back to LA to sleep. The
weekend wasted us. We started at 1am Thursday night, and went almost
straight through until Sunday morning.
The bad part about that story is that it ruined me on Vegas. Every trip
back since then has been anti-climactic and shitty. I guess it's hard to
top something like that. Plus, the way that weekend worked out, we
really didn't run into or have to deal with the legions of douche bags
and tools that now seem to infect every aspect of Vegas. Maybe we
were just lucky, maybe it was a different time, but the city just doesn't
seem the same place that it was during that trip.
And yes, I made it to all my interviews on Monday.
83
FLOSS
Occurred-April 2001
Written-March 2005
Don't let anyone tell you different: The only good part about Duke is
that it is 15 minutes from Chapel Hill. That school was awesome; it
was 65% girls, most of them hot, and the 35% guys were, for the most
part, complete fucking tools and no real competition. Plus, once you
got in with a girl, you were in with all her friends and her sorority. This
effectively meant that meeting one girl who wanted to fuck you was
like meeting 15 who wanted to fuck you, simply because there was
such a shortage of good guys. There may have been no better pick-up
line on earth than meeting a female UNC undergrad and saying "Yeah,
I go to Duke Law School." God I miss that place sometimes.
One time I went to a sorority function with a UNC girl and quickly ignored
her in favor of the hotter girls in her sorority. This one girl was
particularly into me, but she was just a little too skinny for my taste; I
don't like girls to look like concentration camp victims, and this girl was
straight out of grainy Buchholz liberation footage. She noticed that I
was giving more attention to another girl, so she pulled me aside.
Skinny girl "Why do you keep talking to her instead of me?"
Tucker "I like her."
Skinny girl "But I am so much better than she is."
Tucker "But I think I kinda like your friend."
Skinny girl "I bet she can't give head like me."
Don't you just love UNC sorority girls?
Tucker "Yeah, maybe, but you are too skinny. I like girls to have some
meat on them. I am pretty aggressive in bed; if we fucked, I'm afraid
one of us would get injured. Either I would split you in half, or I'd get
my eye poked out by your sharp elbows. Plus, I'd spend the whole
time thinking about how I should be getting you a burger instead of
fucking you."
I figured this would be enough to get her to leave me alone. That was
before I truly understood how desperate most UNC girls are for men.
Skinny girl "Trust me, you want me. Bulimic girls give better head. We
don't have a gag reflex." I almost choked. What girl says this? The ones
that are attracted to me, apparently.
84
Since we were in a hotel and the sorority had a bunch of rooms rented,
we immediately went to one of them and she nearly broke my zipper
getting my pants off. She wasn't fucking around: The girl took every
inch of me without even flinching. Granted, my dick is only average
sized, but she forced so much of it in I am pretty sure the tip of it was
tickling her small intestine.
But she didn't stop with my penis. She took just about my entire crotch
area in her mouth. On every down stroke the girl seemed to take in
more and more flesh. At one point I am pretty sure she had my cock
and balls in her mouth at once. I didn't even think that was possible
until little Miss Sorority Python came along and unhinged her jaw.
The most comical part was what was going through my mind; here is
this girl sucking me off like my cock is the fountain of youth, and all I
could think was that this was probably the most she had eaten in
months without throwing up. I finished, she swallowed, and I started
laughing, wondering if later she was going to purge my cum.
Ignoring my laughs, she stayed down and slurped me until I was dry,
and then she looked up at me, smiled seductively and said, "I told you
that you wanted head from me."
I looked down at her and couldn't speak. Not because of the blowjobit
was good, but it wasn't so good that I lost control of my faculties. It
was something else:
In her smile ... curled across her two front teeth and wrapped around
the left canine ... was the longest, nastiest looking pubic hair I had
ever seen. And it was mine, directly off of my crotch.
It's weird how your brain works at moments like this. I wasn't really
thinking about how nasty my pubes are, or whether this means that I
should start trimming my pubes or whether or not I should tell her, or
even wonder how she didn't feel a huge pubic hair in her mouth; no,
the first thought through my mind was, "This is going to be someone's
mom someday? Wow. Those poor kids; they are going to kiss that
mouth." Then my next thought was, "I wonder how many calories my
pubes have?"
I still have never shaved my balls or groin area, but I now trim my
pubes on a regular basis. I don't trust myself with a razor near my best
friends (plus I don't want to have shaved balls like a porn star) so instead
I just use a groomer and trim the area. All because of a slutty
UNC sorority girl. I guess they do have a use besides hooking up.
85
THE FOXFIELD WEEKEND
Occurred-April 2000
Written-April 2005
I have never attended the University of Virginia, but I still feel like I
have a bond with the school. I applied and got in for college, and to my
mild regret chose to attend the University of Chicago instead. I got in
again for law school, and chose Duke because UVa didn't give me an
academic scholarship (Duke did). I have four cousins that attended
UVa and I've probably visited that school more than any other. But it
was one incredible event in April of 2000 that really cemented my
unofficial tie to that school: Foxfield.
Foxfield is the name for the spring horse races they have on some
farm near UVa. Everyone loads up their car or truck or RV with food
and booze, parks in this massive field and tailgates all day. Allegedly
there are actual horses and they race each other around the track, but
no one I know has ever seen them.
I was a 2L at Duke Law School that year. GoldenBoy and his girlfriend
(who would later become his wife) both went to UVa for undergrad,
and she was still at UVa when we were at law school. The Friday night
before Foxfield, GoldenBoy, Hate and I were out drinking in Durham.
This is the rest of the story:
11:OOpm:We are eating Mexican food and drinking beer. GoldenBoy
regales us with wistful tales of Foxfield. He describes a weekend of
virtually unlimited alcohol, raucous drinking, food spreads to rival great
medieval halls, and girls in sun dresses with negotiable morals.
11:15: Hate and I ask him why we aren't going. He doesn't have a
satisfactory answer. We demand to leave immediately. He balks. We call
him out. Doubt his manhood. Inquire as to his sexual preference and
conjecture that he is of bastard French origin.
11:16: GoldenBoy is on the phone with his girlfriend [GoldenWife],
telling her that we are coming, and requesting that she go out and buy
beer. GoldenBoy is easily manipulated.
12:00am: We are on the road to Charlottesville. I have a personal 12
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pack to make the three hours go by faster.
1:12: My beer is spilling on GoldenBoy's car. I don't notice because I
am passed out.
3:00: We arrive at GoldenWife's apartment. We ask her where the
parties are. She doesn't know. This pleases GoldenBoy. He sees it as a
sign she is true to him. Couples like that make me sick.
8:00: Hate and I wake up from a comfortable night sleeping on the
hardwood floor. We bang on the bedroom door until GoldenBoy wakes
up. "TIME TO DRINK!" He looks at us like we are rabid wild animals
trying to eat his children. He slams the door and goes back to sleep.
8:03: Hate and I crack our first beer.
8:05: Hate and I crack our second beer.
8:08: Hate and I crack our third beer. I tell Hate that I can out drink him.
He laughs, "So it begins, Max."
8:30: After we shotgun our 3rd beer in a row, I can feel the beer sloshing
around in my stomach. Drinking in the morning = bad decisions.
9:17: I am on my 8th beer of the morning, and am already starting to
look for places I can vomit. Hate is not slowing down. I decide that
Hate can indeed out drink me.
10:00: Hate doesn't care that I have stopped trying, and keeps furiously
pouring alcohol down his throat. He is stomping around the
apartment, calling everyone out. "COME ON MAX-WHERE THE
HELLARE YOU AT? YEEEEAAAAAHHH ... GoldenBoy, get your ass
out here. Bloody Mary's, one-for-one, YOU AND ME. Max already
tapped out. You can even get GoldenWife to help you.
YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH. MAX YOU PUSSY!"
11:00: We get in the car and pick up GoldenBoy's undergrad friends
who are in town for Foxfield. Hate has moved from Aggressive
Drinking to Combative Drinking. He is attacking the beer. Hate sticks
his entire upper body out the back window of the car screaming at
every female he sees, "WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH ... SHOW
US YOUR TITS!!!"
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11:15: GoldenBoy tells me that although there are lots of hot girls at
Foxfield, no one actually hooks up there. It's more of a social drinking
event, he says. I ask him if he knows who he is talking to. He rolls his
eyes and condescendingly wishes me luck, "OK, Tucker ... no one
hooks up at Foxfield, they hook-up afterwards." GoldenBoy has
thrown down the gauntlet. I pick it up and bitch slap him with it,
"Motherfucker! How dare you besmirch my whore-attraction abilities.
I'm going to hook up with a girl right in front of you, and then make you
smell my finger."
12:00pm: We arrive. The field stretches beyond sight, an endless
expanse of bushy-haired frat boy fuckwits in striped shirts and red pants,
their cold beer and underage women ripe for the plundering. This is
almost unfair.
12:01: I see my first hot girl in a sun dress and nearly break my neck
staring at her. This scene will replay itself approximately 1,200 times
this day.
12:13: We arrive at GoldenBoy's friend's tent. He starts to introduce us,
but Hate pushes everyone out of the way and dives into the fried
chicken. He looks up momentarily to greet them with a barely
decipherable mumble about "less talking, more eating," before turning
his full attention to the potato salad, pushing it into his mouth by the
handful.
12:14: GoldenBoy tells me that he is a little surprised. He had been
sure I would be the one who ruined the afternoon. I remind him that it's
still early in the race.
12:38: One girl, trying to be nice to Hate, points to the cooler and offers
him a drink. He examines the selections, "I will not drink light beer
or diet soda as both have been found to cause cancer in lab rats and
have not really helped fat Americans that much anyway. Do I see
Hooch in that cooler? OHHH LORD! MAX, COME LOOK AT THIS!
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" I decide that it's
time for Hate to walk around Foxfield with me.
12:50: Hate is not pleased, "Dude, they had beer. Why are we leaving?"
I explain, "You already pissed all of them off, we have to find new
victims. We'll just steal beer from people smaller than us." This pleases
Hate, "SHOW ME THE WAY!"
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12:54: We find our first victims. A tailgate with small kids. Hate storms
up and starts rummaging through their cooler. "JACKPOT MAX! THEY
HAVE BUD TALL BOYS!"
1:04: We go to another tailgate. Some sorority. Hot girls everywhere.
Hate walks right in the middle, "HELLLLO LADIES! WHO WANTS TO
DO A SHOT!!" He grabs a tequila bottle and starts recklessly waving it
around, sloshing the contents on several people.
1:05: We are asked to leave the sorority tailgate area.
1:09: We find another sorority tailgate. Hate walks right into the middle
of them, "I HEAR UVA GIRLS CAN DRINK! HORSESHIT! I CAN OUT
DRINK ALL YOU SKIRTS!"
1:10: We are asked to leave our second sorority tailgate.
1:20: We find another tailgate of girls. I decide on a different course of
action for us, "Hate, do not speak unless spoken to." These girls are
athletes. My cousin rows at UVa. I ask them if they know her. They do,
and I'm in. For college girls, common friends = the guy is safe = I want
to have sex with him.
1:55: Things are going great. Hate is talking to a girl taller than him, so
he is calm. Then it happens. Some girl decides to flirt with me by calling
me out, "You don't look like much of a drinker."
1:56: This will not go unanswered, "Who are you talking to? Bitch, you
couldn't even tie my drinking shoes." She challenges me to a shot
contest. This makes me laugh, "Line'em up. And no girly shit either.
Straight liquor. Anything except whiskey."
1:58: She raises the first shot and gives a toast, "Give me chastity and
give me continence-but not yet ... St. Augustine!" All her little friends
laugh and cheer. Amateurs.
1:59: I raise my shot, "This is for all the bitches, ho's and tricks, I'd
wouldn't talk to any of you, if I didn't have a dick ... Tucker Max."
Everyone laughs.
2:00: One of the girls asks me, "Who is Tucker Max?"
2:10: Two shots later, my female opponent bows out of the shot contest.
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I taunt her mercilessly, "You may be able to vote and drive, but
you'll never be equal!" I am not a gracious winner.
2: 11: One of her little friends comes up to me. She is cute with short
hair and thick black framed glasses. She is pissed:
Girl "That was really sexist."
Tucker "No it wasn't, it was a joke. If I had said that women are nothing
but life support for a pussy, now THAT would be sexist."
Girl "Excuse me?"
Tucker "If I had called her a hot mouth, that would be sexist too. Or, if
I said that the only thing going for her is that she's 98.6 degrees and
has two wet holes, that would be very sexist. But I didn't say those
things, did I?"
Girl "WHAT?"
Tucker "Uh oh! Did I piss you off? Are you going to write angsty
poetry?!?"
She is looking at me like I'm a toilet full of used condoms. Hate pulls
me away from her before she recovers, "Max, I think you have caused
enough damage here." It takes me a second to register it, but I realize
that Hate is now the voice of reason. This does not bode well.
2:25: Using the same "Do you know my cousin" line, we get in with
another tailgate. These girls think that drunk, sarcastic assholes are
funny. Hello wheelhouse. I decide to mock people for their amusement.
2:27: Some redneck doofus walks by: "Look at yourself-does the carnival
have the day off? If you can guess my weight, I'll give you a free
beer."
2:31: To a slutty looking girl: "Is that a cross on your chest? Just because
you spend most of your time in the missionary position doesn't
make you religious."
2:33: An old woman walks by who looks remarkably like Ethel
Merman. I bust out in verse, "You'll be swell, you'll be great, you'll have
the whole world on a plate, starting here, starting now, baby everything's
coooming up roooooses!"
2:34: One of the girls cracks up laughing, "OH MY GOD! AIRPLANE IS
MY FAVORITE MOVIE EVER!" I walk over to her, "My name is Tucker
and I am going to law school at Duke so I can be really rich and buy
shiny things for my wife. What's your name?"
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3:15: I am ruthlessly flirting with her. Hate saunters up, looks at her
and then looks at me, "Do I even need to know this one's name?" I
decide it is time to get this girl away from Captain Cockblock and find
someplace private.
3:30: I am having difficulty finding privacy at an outdoor race course.
3:40: A stroke of genius hits me-I find the open grass area on the
small hill behind GoldenBoy's tailgate, and suggest that we sit there,
"to be alone."
3:42: I look around and realize that at least 2000 people can see us.
One of those people is GoldenBoy. I wave.
3:45: I tell her that she is really pretty. She blushes. She tells me I am
funny.
3:50: I tell her that she is exactly what I am looking for in a girlfriend.
She blushes more. She tells me I am nice.
3:55: We are making out. In front of everyone.
4:00: Not satisfied with just kissing, I start exploring. She doesn't have
any underwear on. Gold-digging sluts are awesome.
4:05: I've got two fingers in her vagina and one in her butt. I am giving
this girl The Shocker. No one hooks up at Foxfield? Fuck you,
GoldenBoy.
4: 15: I try to climb on top of her, but she stops me. Prudes suck.
4:16: She grabs my hand and gets up, "Let's go somewhere else; we
are on a hill in front of everyone." Oh ... right, I forgot about that.
4:30: We walk past a Port-a-Potty. I consider the possibility, open the
door, and immediately change my mind. No pussy is worth enduring
that smell.
4:55: We come across an RV tailgate that is empty. The people next to
it say that everyone is off watching the alleged horse races.
5:01: They left the door to the RV open. Whoops. I throw her on the
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bed and we start fucking. I don't even have to take her clothes off, as
her sun dress without panties doesn't require it. Sluts are awesome.
5:04: Drunk sex is great.
5:08: I decide that drunk, transgressive sex in someone else's RV with
a girl you don't know is even better.
5:10: I start hitting it hard. Every time I thrust in, she yelps. It sounds
like a yelp of enjoyment, and she isn't asking me to stop, so I hit it
even harder.
5: 14: I hit it harder. She yelps louder.
5:15: I can feel it coming. This is going to be a great cum shot.
5: 17: My eyes start burning. I ignore it.
5:18: HOLY SHIT I CANNOT BREATHE-WHAT THE FUCK IS
GOING ON??
5:18: The girl and I stumble out of the RV, in tears, both coughing and
barely able to breathe. I am very confused. My throat feels like I ate a
handful of habanero peppers. We start gulping down water and beer
to get rid of this awful burning.
5:23: She screams. "OH MY GOD! I KNOW WHAT THAT WAS!" She
covers her face and runs back into the RV. She emerges, coughing
again, with her purse held as far away from her as possible. "I was laying
on my purse, and I guess my pepper spray went off accidentally.
Everything inside it is ruined!"
5:25: I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this. Still processing this
info, I reach down and adjust my sticky crotch. I learn the hard way
that capsaicin (the active ingredient in pepper spray) works on any
moist skin, not just the throat and eyes. I start screaming and hopping
around the tailgate.
5:27: THIS SUCKS.
5:30: I find a hose by the Port-A-Potties, pull my pants down, and start
spraying water all over my exposed genitals.
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5:32: The water is Arctic cold. My balls have retreated so far up into
my torso that I could pull them out of my throat. I look like a eunuch.
Everyone is laughing at me. I don't care. Stopping the pain is all that
matters.
5:35: The numbness has taken the edge off the pain. I stop spraying
myself and cover up my genitals. My pants are completely soaked.
5:40: I can't find the RV or the girl. I am totally lost.
5:45: I stop and consider what just happened. I cannot believe it. I just
got accidentally pepper sprayed during sex, then burned up my crotch,
then had a crowd of people laugh at me as I hosed off my balls. What
the fuck?
6:00: I am still lost. I can't even find GoldenBoy's tailgate. I try to call
him on my cell, but it won't work. I remember that electronics do not
mix well with water.
6:30: I finally find GoldenBoy's tailgate area. Everyone is gone. This is
not good. A passerby lets me use his phone to call Hate.
6:31: He answers, but I can barely hear him. It sounds like he is in a
wind tunnel. There are dogs barking in the background. This is too
much for me. I just hang up.
6:37: I call GoldenBoy. He is back at GoldenWife's apartment. He tells
me to meet him at her place. Am I supposed to walk? "Hey, you
hooked up at Foxfield, apparently you can do anything." Jerk.
6:55: I walk about a mile before an old couple picks me up. They are
nice and agree to take me to GoldenWife's apartment. There is a
cooler in the back seat. I ask if I can have a beer. "Uh yeah, son, go
ahead. You kids sure do like to drink a lot. You'd think a whole day of it
would be enough." I disagree, "Sir, when you are an alcoholic, there is
no such thing as enough."
7:30: I get to the apartment. Hate is not there. GoldenBoy thought he
was with me. I thought he was with him. Uh oh. GoldenBoy calls Hate.
Hate "I'm not going to lie to you, I am lit up."
GoldenBoy "Where are you?"
Hate "I'm not sure. These guys gave me a ride in the back of their
truck with their dogs, but they dropped me off on campus. Weren't you
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a SigEp at UVa? I think that's where I am."
7:45: We get to the SigEp house. Hate is asleep in a chair in the living
room. No one else is there. I tell Hate to wake up and find his dignity.
7:46: Hate stumbles out the front door of the fraternity, "HAS ANYBODY
SEEN MY GODDAMN DIGNITY?"
8:00: We go to a bar. The Biltmore. It is crowded. Hate decides that
the service sucks and that as a result he is going to stand on our table
and yell at people, "SOMEONE GET ME A GODDAMN BEER!"
8:32: Hate does not have good balance when he is drunk, and proceeds
to tumble off the table, in the process crashing it into another
table and flinging all the drinks on a guy sitting there quietly with his
girlfriend.
8:33: The couple is completely covered in beer and vodka. I prepare
myself to fight, but the guy just sits there. I ask "Are you not going to
whip his ass?" He just sits there. His girlfriend gets pissed and storms
off. Then he gets pissed at Hate. I point out the obvious, "No reason to
fight now, your bitch already left."
10:30: GoldenBoy decides he'd rather be at home with the woman he
loves rather than drinking his 20th beer of the day with his drunk,
obnoxious friends. Pussy.
10:45: The line to piss is way too long. I walk outside and pee on the
wall.
10:46: A cop walks up.
Cop "Son, you need to stop that and come over here."
Tucker "I can't stop; it'll burn. I have to finish."
10:4 7: As the cop pulls out his handcuffs he sees a fight break out 20
yards away. He runs off. Tonight, the Drinking Gods are on my side.
Well, sort of.
10:48: As I zip up my pants, I run to another bar. Just in case.
10:55: At the new bar, I get a drink. Uncoordinated from my inebriation
I spill the drink on myself. I get mad at it, "You naughty liquor, you
drunken me."
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10:56: Much to my surprise, my drink starts talking back to me. It tells
me not to blame it, that I am a clumsy drunk. I believe I may have discovered
a new level of drunkenness beyond 'Tucker Max Drunk'. It is
called 'When Inanimate Objects Talk To You Drunk.'
11:15: I see a girl standing in line for the bathroom. I'm not sure why,
but I am drawn to her.
11:16: I approach her. I tell her not to be sad. She tells me that she
failed the bar. I tell her that's OK, she'll pass next time. She tells me
that I am nice. 16 hours of continuous drinking and my Lonely Slut
Radar is still sharp.
1:30am: Many drinks and lots of flirting later, we go to her place.
1:35: She is trying to convince me that she never does this and is not
that type of girl. It was difficult for me to understand. Her enunciation
isn't very good with my dick in her mouth. This thought is my last clear
memory.
11:OOam:I wake up in,GoldenWife's apartment. Hate is passed out on
the sofa. I reek of vomit and stale sweat. I am confused as to how I got
there.
11:01am: GoldenBoy hands me his phone, and tells me to listen to the
voice message. It is my voice, recorded around 2:45am. I am out of
breath, and sound like I am running:
"GoldenBoy, what is your address? Where are you? I just fucked
some random chick I met outside The Biltmore. Apparently she didn't
pass the Bar, so she liked me. The condom broke and I got the fuck
out of there as soon as I could. I'm fucked. My illegitimate kids are
going to be ugly and stupid. HELP!!"
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THE AUSTIN ROAD TRIP
Occurred-October 2000
Written-September 2003
The Steak & Shake Bond
Early in my third year of law school, I was sitting in the library with my
crew of friends, skipping class and trading stories about our summers.
At first, I was the center of attention, having just come off the summer
of The Infamous Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle, but PWJ quickly
trumped me.
He told us a story about a gentlemens' club he frequented in Dallas, a
place far different than the common strip club:
"The first time I got a lap dance there, I was kinda reticent about touching
her, but the stripper grabbed my hands and put them on her tits.
During the second dance, she turned around and basically dry
humped me for the entire song. I didn't get a third dance, but if I did, I
could have all but have had sex with the girl. She was SMOKING HOT
and wasn't even close to being the best one there. And the very best
part: $5 cover charge and $2 bottles and wells."
After we initially called bullshit, PWJ finally convinced us that this Lost
City of Cibola did exist. We were greatly excited. Jon Benet summed it
up, "And I used to think there was a bright line between a gentleman's
club and a brothel. Now you're telling me it's just gray ... "
This place was called Baby Dolls, and it became our Holy Grail. We
immediately planned a trip to Dallas. At the outset, all ten of us were in.
But as the departure date loomed closer, various friends started taking
dives .
• GoldenBoy bailed because he had just returned from a week long
trip to Russia and didn't want to be apart from his fiancee for so
much time. I won't say anything bad about this, because he married
her, and I really like her, so I guess this turned out to be a good decision.
If you're into the "responsibility" and "love" things.
• Hate decided to go on an interview. Unlike me, he was upset about
not having a job.
• Brownhole is basically a pussy and a sycophant and was afraid that
being arrested with us would ruin his political career. None of us are
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sure how he even got in the group.
• Credit was dating a girl who SlingBlade once referred to as "The
most evil demon-slut in the long history of female chicanery and
deception." Credit is a spineless coward and wanted to keep dating
her, so he begged off the trip.
• JoJo made the same decision he makes whenever he sees a
bunch of crazy white boys run off to get in trouble-he went the opposite
way.
• Jon Benet had the most ridiculous excuse. Instead of going on the
trip, he flew to Boston with his girlfriend, a friend of Credit's evil
demon-slut girlfriend, to look at apartments. TO LOOK AT
APARTMENTS... not withstanding the fact that he wasn't moving there
FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. There is a reason he is now out of the
group.
That left only four travelers:
• Because he was on law review, PWJ had lots of important and uppity
legal talkin' to do. Luckily, he follows his penis around like a divining
rod, so he promptly cleared his schedule.
• Sling Blade's busy schedule included drinking alone in the dark and
jacking off to his Star Trek Limited Edition Seven of Nine poster. He
was solidly in.
• EI Bingeroso had already planned a trip to visit a friend in Austin so
he combined his trip with ours, and then got his fiancee some sort
of shiny trinket to distract her from his new plans.
• I was able to squeeze the trip in between outings to Chapel Hill
involving sex and drinking, interspersed with some drinking and sex.
On a crisp Thursday night in early October, SlingBlade, PWJ, EI
Bingeroso and I began our journey to Dallas. We would soon become
known to the State of Texas by our biblical names: Pestilence, Plague,
Hunger, and Death.
Our first stop was a Steak & Shake somewhere outside of Charlotte,
where we bonded with each other by recounting tales of our fucked up
youths. I recalled a childhood colored by parental instability, multiple
divorces, re-marriages (seven between my two biological parents),
step-parents, constant relocation, loneliness and emotional pain. No
one cared about my problems, because they had already read about
my father's most recent divorce (it was in Time magazine), and didn't
need any more details to know I was fucked up.
PWJ told us of an awkward youth being the son of an Army Colonel,
where his Styx jean jacket and obsession with all things vehicular
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could not make the Kansas yokels overlook his abnormally misshapen
egghead and triple digit IQ. Popular he was not, but since none of us
are his normal dim-witted native teenage girl prey, we didn't care.
While his age (3 years older than us) gave him a wisdom and maturity
that none of us yet possessed, under this composed and compassionate
exterior, PWJ could be the biggest snake of the group. The fact
that he grew up smart, but a social outsider, forced him to learn game
the hard way and also planted a retributive mean streak. Even though
he is more often than not the voice of reason in the group, he is also
the one who will manipulate an innocent eighteen-year-old into sex
with lies and deception (whereas the rest of us just find the slutty girls
and let them do what comes natural).
Sling Blade regaled us with tales of his emotionally distant, risk-averse
and over-protective parents, who split time yelling at him and cloistering
him in his room. His was a youth spent with action figures as his
friends and a Nintendo as his baby-sitter. He also told us perhaps the
most defining story of his life: He and his high school girlfriend, the love
of his life, went to different undergrads. He spent the first semester of
college passing up on sex with every girl who approached him (and
there were many), because he was naïve and in love and didn't want
to cheat on his girlfriend. She did not possess the same integrity, so she
cheated on him. A lot. And didn't tell him until he went down to visit her
and noticed that guys kept coming by her room, asking what she was up
to later that night. SlingBlade does not deal well with emotional pain,
and as such he is now bitter and imputes her cuckoldry on all women.
But it was EI Bingeroso who stole the show. He grew up in a very small
town in Nebraska, with about 700 people, one Dairy Queen and one
gas station. He remembered his father making his brother and him run
timed 100-meter races against each other. At age 6. When he got to
elementary school he was fat and would constantly eat paste, so the
teachers just assumed he was retarded and put him in the Special Ed
class. He was in the Special Education program until age 8 when they
finally gave him an IQ test, realized he was a genius, and moved him
to the gifted class. He was actually upset about leaving the sped class,
because he liked the coloring and frequent snack times. He also told
us about the time he and his brother, then aged 9 and 11, watched
from the locked car while their dad beat up a mugger, nearly killing him
by repeatedly smashing his head into the hood and fender, spraying
blood all over the car [I have subsequently met EI Bingeroso's father,
and believe me-he is not a man to cross. I have a robust fear of him].
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But what really distinguished him from the rest of us was that he was
truly in love and actually had a stable life. Even though he was a
partier like the rest of us, he loved his fiancee, was totally committed to
her, and was very excited that he had finally convinced her to wear a
French maid outfit to the Duke Law Halloween party.
Day One: Baby Dolls
We arrived in Dallas on Friday afternoon. After a quick nap, we went to
an early dinner at some Mexican place in Deep Ellum, then across the
street to a roadhouse-type bar designed for yuppies. Both Pabst and
Guinness on tap. Metrosexuals dressed in brown Lycra as far as the
eye could see. I immediately hated everyone.
We get two pitchers and decide to play table shuffleboard. Barely into
our first pitcher, I notice two girls checking us out. A hot blonde
[Blonde] and a decent red-head [Redhead]. They stare at us for about
ten minutes. I want to have sex with the blonde, so I start things off:
"You gonna come talk to us or just stand there and stare?"
They accept my invitation. I stare at the tits on the blonde. They are
nearly flawless, and quite seductively exposed. The girl knows what
she's doing. Despite my nearly forensic examination (she doesn't notice-
I am a pro at this), I keep the conversation moving along nicely
until dumbass EI Bingeroso decides to fuck everything up:
Blonde "So, what brings you guys to Dallas?"
EI Bingeroso "We came to go to a strip club." EI Bingeroso is an
engaged cock-blocking jerk. Thanks asshole, I didn't want to fuck her or
anything. Redhead [kinda pulling me aside as EI Bingeroso keeps talking
to Blonde] "Did you really come to Dallas to go to a strip club?"
Tucker "No, no. We had a week off from law school, so we came to visit
some friends, hang out, that sort of thing. EI Bingeroso just wants to go
to a strip club he heard about."
Redhead "Do you like strip clubs? Those places are gross."
Tucker "Yeah, they are kinda gross. But my friends really want to go, so
what can I do? I don't know anyone in Dallas. Besides, I like naked
breasts".
Redhead "You can stay here ... hang out with me."
Tucker "Yeah, maybe." And maybe I'll watch reruns of Alf on Telemundo.
EI Bingeroso tugs on me, "Dude, you might want to get in on this." [He
turns back to the blonde] "So, you think you want to come to Baby
Dolls with us?"
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Blonde "I'll come to the strip club with you guys; I want to see some big
titties."
Tucker "Have you ever been to Baby Dolls before?"
Blonde "Yeah, I auditioned there once."
DING DING DING DING!!! JACKPOT!!! Call the pit boss, we have a
big winner!
EI Bing "Do you like girls?"
Blonde "Of course."
Excellent. All we need is 70's music to start playing and we've got a
porno in the making.
I glance at the other end of the table. It's our turn, but EI Bingeroso and
I haven't thrown the pucks for ten minutes. SlingBlade is glaring at me
with his standard half-bored, half-disdainful, "Another whore?"
expression that he always gives me when I start talking to random girls. I
motion for him to come down to our end of the table ... and then I see
PWJ.
Great Holy Jesus-it looks like he fell into Kentucky Fried Movie. He is
talking to a woman with a leopard cowboy hat on over platinum bouffant
hair. Her make-up looks like it was applied with a shotgun. She
has on tight orange hot-pants, which she obviously brought from her
last job at Hooters. Around her waist is a belt, and there appears to be
a toy gun holstered to it. She was probably very attractive in, say,
1986. Now, she's in the death throes of a losing battle against time
and fashion irrelevance.
Tucker "Dude, what is PWJ talking to?"
SlingBlade "I don't know ... some whore. She squirted him with her
water gun, and off he went. She has big tits ... Cupid has spoken."
Fifteen more minutes of bullshitting, and the Blonde is sealed up.
Unfortunately, she wants Redhead to come with us, who is not at all
enthused at the prospect of going to "one of those places." I am
presented with a logistical nightmare: I want to fuck Blonde, who is
throwing her cooch at EI Bingeroso. The only way she is going to Baby
Dolls is if Redhead comes. Redhead is in love with me, but does not
want to come to Baby Dolls. EI Bingeroso is drunk and no help. So what
do I do?
Here is where taking econ classes at the University of Chicago helps
out with real-life game. This is a classic example of the Prisoner's
Dilemma; if I keep paying attention to the Blonde and try to capture my
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small chance to fuck her, I will probably fail and then I get no pussy,
and the group gets no lesbian action at the strip club, because neither
will come with us. Everyone loses. But, if I take one for the team, ignore
the Blonde and instead seal up the Redhead, I can get both to
come with us to Baby Dolls. This means that I probably won't fuck the
Blonde, which decreases my chance at personal happiness, but I will
give the group the best chance to maximize the situation, by getting
two girls to come to a strip club with us. See-even Tucker Max can be
altruistic. If it benefits him.
Tucker "Redhead, come on, let's all go to the strip club. It'll be a good
time."
Redhead "Don't go to a strip club. You know those girls don't care
about you."
SlingBlade "That's not true. They sit on my lap and tell me they love
me." SlingBlade usually chooses the funny joke over the smart play.
And this, folks, is why he gets no pussy. Well ... that, and he has no
confidence, and is scared of emotional commitment to a woman because
he thinks they are all cheating sluts.
Tucker "Thanks asshole. Why don't you go watch Deep Space Nine
and leave this to me. Dick."
I pull Redhead away from Captain No Pussy, "Come on sweetie. It'll
be fun. Your friend wants to go."
Redhead "I don't want to go to that place. It's gross."
Tucker "Yeah, I know. But I'll be there, we can hang outtogether. We'll
let them," waving dismissively at my friends, "look at naked women,
and you and I can just hang out. Together." I actually reach out and put
her hands in mine.
Redhead "Why don't you just stay here. With me?"
Tucker "Yes, let's stay together ... at the club."
Redhead "But I don't want to go to a strip club."
Tucker "But I want to go. With you ... us ... together."
Redhead "I don't like it there."
Tucker "Have you ever been?"
Redhead "No ... "
Tucker "I tell you what: If you and Blonde come with us, I promise that
you and I can sit in a corner somewhere and stare into each other's
eyes, completely ignoring everything around us. It'll be romantic. We'll
be so busy staring into each other's eyes, we won't even see what's
going on. "Hearing these words, I nearly threw up in my mouth. She
paused and contemplated.
Redhead "No ... 1don't want to go to a strip club. I ... I just can't."
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This is just fucking great. Even I have my limit, and that 'staring into
each others eyes' bullshit was it. Sling Blade and EI Bingeroso tire of
this, go fetch PWJ away from his water-pistol packing cow-whore, and
start to leave. Redhead is trying to convince me to stay at the bar with
her. She is almost pleading with me. Before I know it, my friends are
already walking out the door.
I make my way to the door, Redhead still attached to my arm like a
lamprey. I try to make a cost benefit analysis: Probable hook-up and
possible sexual activity with Redhead, or definite nakedness but little
chance of a hook-up at Baby Dolls. I need to pin Redhead down on our
late-night activities.
Tucker "Are you going to hang out with me later tonight. I mean, are
we going to hang out after we leave here, like at your place?" My tone
of voice is not subtle.
Redhead "I don't know if I can; I have to be up at lam."
Tucker "lam? For what?"
Redhead "A Young Life meeting."
Tucker "I have to go catch up with my friends."
I streak out of the bar before she can even change her facial expression.
[Aside: Young Life is a fundamentalist Christian youth group that
preaches abstinence and all sorts of other ridiculous pablum. I got
blue-balls so many times in middle and high school dealing with those
girls-NEVER AGAIN.]
In the car on the way to Baby Dolls, PWJ explains his little adventure:
Tucker "Dude, who the fuck was that woman you were talking to, and
where did she get her uniform, at a Whores-R-Us closeout sale?"
PWJ "I don't know. She works there. She had a toy water pistol in her
belt ... is it wrong that that turned me on?"
Tucker "She WORKS there? I guess no one cares if she spends thirty
minutes talking to you. Apparently her job is to degrade herself and
chat up pasty thimble-headed geeks."
PWJ "You don't understand ... that's not the best part. I learned her
philosophy of dating: 'Don't fish off the company pier, and don't fuck
your friends. I've tried both plenty of times and it never works' ... OH
YEAH ... I nearly spat out my drink when she told me that she has
cats rather than kids because, and I quote, 'you don't go to jail when
you get your cats high.'''
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We decide that we are starting to like Texas. Baby Dolls does nothing
to derail our crazy train.
Baby Dolls should be the model from which all strip clubs are cast.
The neon glow from its trim-molding and signage can be seen from
miles away. A huge pink one-story stand-alone building rising out of a
sea of asphalt with pictures of nearly naked girls on the 4-story billboard
looming over it from the parking lot. The entrance is two huge
wooden doors adorned with brass fixtures and two NFL linebackersized
bouncers. It is covered by a pink awning that extends up the
walk about ten feet. The huge oval main stage is flanked by an enfilade
of four smaller side stages, each with a brass pole reaching from
floor to ceiling. Mirrors cover every wall and extend to every ceiling.
Two full bars, and two beer bars are staffed by a phalanx of female
bartenders and cocktail waitresses. And MOST importantly: it's all
nude. No pasties. No g-strings. No crotch tape. Nothing between you
and the naked, nubile flesh of attractive women ... except dollar bills.
The girls were hot beyond hot. Dozens of incredibly beautiful and sexy
women, each giving smiles that convey the sincerity of a single mother
with rent due.
At age 24, this was my Elysium.
Two dancers come over almost immediately after we sit down. The hot
one is at least 5'10", blonde bobbed hair, smooth, almost creamy skin,
and gorgeous fake breasts. Perfectly round and sitting high on her
chest. She sits on PWJ's lap.
Stripper "So what do you do?"
PWJ "I'm a law student."
Stripper "Wow ... so do you go to SMU?"
PWJ "Not exactly ... I go to Duke."
She gives him a blank stare. A few seconds later, one can almost see
the flicker of candlelight in the thought bubble above her head.
Stripper "You mean Duke Duke?"
PWJ pauses and chuckles, "Yeah, Duke Duke."
She gives him a doubtful face, "Oh, like I've never heard this one before.
Let me guess, you went to Harvard for college."
PWJ "Well, no, not exactly ... "
PWJ went to Princeton for undergrad. I stop paying attention because
as much as I love beauty, I hate stupidity, and seeing the two combined
pisses me off. Plus, I need to start drinking and her nipples
aren't spouting vodka.
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I find a cocktail waitress and begin drinking. Combatively. I've driven
16 hours for the specific purpose of going to this strip club, and I'll be
damned if I get here and nothing happens. To help achieve this end
getting drunk and making something happen-I make friends with our
cocktail waitress, Liz. Gentle readers, let me explain something to you:
It is an almost universal rule of gentlemen's clubs that the cocktail
waitresses are more fun to talk to, and more apt to fuck customers,
than the strippers. They are not as pressed for time, so they will banter
more. The limp-dicks that overtip the strippers usually don't tip the
cocktail waitresses at all, so attention to a cocktail waitress will get you
much further than attention to a stripper. Plus, they tend not to be high
or drunk on duty, whereas strippers are almost always in some altered
state, so conversation with them can actually accomplish something.
The funniest thing is that they always think they are better than the
strippers; in their mind there is a bright line separating them from the
women who actually take their clothes off, thus it is usually much easier
to get a cocktail waitress to go home with you. Strippers are jaded,
abused, used-up; they hate men, and usually for good reason. The
cocktail waitresses are far less defensive. They are so used to being
ignored or looked through, that when you do pay attention to them,
they respond to it. Some innocuous flirting and a good first tip to Liz
gets my friends and me a constant, uninterrupted stream of drinks and
a flirtatious hottie hanging around us. Read and learn fellas. Back to
the action:
SlingBlade gets one of the hottest girls in the club to give him a dance.
Before she takes his money, she tries to talk to him, and actually
seems genuinely interested, not just stripper interested. This probably
has something to do with the happy confluence of his sarcastic,
standoffish sense of humor and the inability of her step-father to show
her any affection growing up. So what does SlingBlade do? Does he flirt
with her? Does he at least try to exploit this situation? Of course not.
He places his finger on her lips, patiently explains that he, "would
rather mainline Drano" than listen to her for another second, and
commands, "Less talkie, more boobie." The kid has problems.
Apparently, something about PWJ just says "sucker," because another
stripper comes up and puts her hands over PWJ's eyes, coyly whispering
something erotic in his ear. She is UGLY. Her face looks like it
lost a frantic battle with a Roto-Tiller. The woman is literally missing
some teeth. I can't tell for sure, but I think she has a tattoo tear on her
left eye. I motion to him by making a cutting gesture across my throat
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and yelling,
"Dude-she is unattractive. Bottom of the barrel. Needs to put her
clothes on and learn how to type. Don't do it! YOU'RE A YOUNG
MAN!"
He doesn't get my warnings in time. She sits on his lap. PWJ tells her
he doesn't want a dance, but she says it's okay, and remains on his
lap talking to him. I wonder, out loud for everyone to hear, if the zoo
knows they are missing their three-toed sloth. She is not pleased.
Fuck her, it's not my fault she looks like Adrian Brody with saggy tits.
PWJ ignores me and continues engaging her in conversation. When I
hear her say, "Yeah, I had two hearts tattooed on my hips, but then I got
pregnant and carried my son on my left side. Now this one looks like a
tomato," I get up. I'd rather rip my penis out by the root than listen to
another minute of her stripper-ramble.
I saunter around flirting with waitresses and bartenders and strippers,
double-fisting vodka and sodas ... and then it happens: I see EI
Bingeroso's future wife. It's not actually her; THAT would be a story,
but she looks exactly like EI Bingeroso's fiancée. It's spooky. I
immediately walk over to where she is and stand there, waiting for her to
finish the dance she's giving to some random guy. He's less than
pleased. Whatever buddy, you're wearing a Detroit Red Wings jersey
to a strip club, you obviously suck.
I give her enough to pay for two dances for EI Bingeroso, and then an
additional ten dollars. I tell her that she has to tell him her name is
"Kristy" [his fiancee's name], and to answer to nothing else. I point him
out, and she walks over, and introduces herself.
"Hi, I'm Kristy. Dinner is on the stove, baby."
After what seems like only ten minutes, I glance over, and she's just
sitting there talking to him. Fine, maybe she's just warming him up. A
few more minutes, same scene. I'll be damned if EI Bingeroso doesn't
get my money's worth. He's the type that would pay her more not to
dance, thinking it would violate his relationship or some such bullshit. I
walk over and interrupt EI Bingeroso in the middle of a story I had
heard the day before:
EI Bingeroso "Yeah, I was fat when I was a kid. You know how kids
jeans at K-Mart came in three different sizes, Small, Medium, and
'Husky'? I had to buy Husky."
Tucker "EI Bingeroso, what the fuck? Is stripper-fiancée going to
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dance for you?
EI Bingeroso looks confused. "What are you talking about? Dude, she
already did both dances, she's just hanging out now."
Maybe I'm drunker than I realize.
I find Liz and ask her how many drinks I've had. She looks at me with
the same look EI Bingeroso gave me, "Tucker sweetie, what are you
saying? I can't understand you."
I guess I am fucked up.
I try to stagger back to my seat when a very hot, voluptuous stripper
grabs me by the belt loops and pulls me towards her. She has a skin
tight tiger-stripe body suit that is virtually painted on her. To say that her
breasts were spilling out would be to imply that this outfit covered them
at some point. Her J-Lo booty smiles at me, and I smile back. It takes me
a few seconds to find her eyes. I have to shade my eyes, because the
gobs of silver glitter eye shadow smeared on her face are reflecting an
inordinate amount of light. She says something to me, but I don't
understand it. I pretend to listen for about 3 minutes, then I interrupt her:
"If I were dating you, I'd never leave the house. I'd never even leave
your general vaginal area. Unless it were to cum on your face."
She thinks I am funny. She really wants to give me a dance. I tell her I
am a starving lawyer, and can't afford one. But there is something
about her. Maybe it's the lighting, maybe it's her aggressive attitude,
maybe it's her ghetto booty, maybe it's her 36 DO fake breasts pressing
against me ... maybe it's the 3 margaritas, 6 beers and 15 vodka
clubs, but she just strikes me in that right way.
I guess she saw the acquiescence in my eyes, because without any
further deliberation, at least that I can remember, she drags me back
to a secluded booth in the rear of the club and starts dancing. By this
time, I'm so drunk I even know I'm drunk.
Another great feature of Baby Dolls: The strippers encourage you to
touch their boobies. I exploit this privilege ruthlessly. I grabbed both
her beautifully fake breasts full on. I was kneading her tits so hard alii
needed was a little water and some active dry yeast and I could have
made bread. Towards the end of the dance, I was actually trying to
pop the saline implants. Those things are pretty durable.
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Finished, she snuggles herself up against me, breasts right under my
chin,
Big Tits "Do you want to go somewhere ... more private?"
Tucker "Yeah ... sure ... for what ... ?"
Big Tits "If we get a champagne room, we can do anything we want."
Tucker "Anything?"
Big Tits "Anything."
Tucker "OK."
Big Tits "It's 300 for the room, plus usually about 100 dollars more.
Depending but you're cute."
Tucker "So 400 total?"
Big Tits "Uh huh."
I pause and contemplate. I can vaguely recall a moral dilemma I might
have had with this situation milling somewhere around my frontal
lobes ... provided I were sober enough to recall what exactly the
tenets of my ethical system were. Or even what an ethical system
was.
This drunk, I could only consider price. Thank you, University of
Chicago economics classes.
Tucker "I'll give you 20 dollars."
Big Tits laughed. "No. It's 400, baby."
Tucker "Okay ... 22 dollars."
Big Tits "Well, you're cute and funny; I'll do it for 350."
Tucker "25."
Big Tits "325?"
Tucker "No, just 25."
Big Tits "I have to give the club 100 to get the room for an hour."
Tucker "I can't last an hour ... I'll give you 28."
This went on for at least 10 more minutes before we finally settled on
a price.
$55. For a half hour.
I could write a book on negotiation. And as drunk as I was, you can
believe she earned her $5.
When I found my friends, two hours and $55 wisely spent dollars later,
they were out in the parking lot eating sloppy joe's they bought from a
guy selling them out of the back of his Chevette. Needless to say, they
were aghast. But in my vodka-addled brain, I had a defensible position:
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"Dude, I had to. How could I pass up a bargain like that? IT'S A MATTER
OF PRINCIPLE!"
Day Two: The Texas State Fair andThe Embassy Suites Story
The next day we woke up scattered across our hotel room, still clothed
and reeking of hairspray and bar smoke. We pack up and head to
Austin. On the way there, we see a huge sign on the road:
"This way to the Texas State Fair!"
EI Bingeroso nearly has a fucking aneurysm, "OH OH OH OH!!! WE
HAVE TO GO, WE HAVE TO GO! Guys, The TEXAS-STATE-FAIR!!!"
It is the most insane morass of trucks and red necks and cheap carnival
trinkets I have ever seen. Sling Blade gets a funnel cake, I get a
Slushee, PWJ falls in love with the "classic" (read: penis) cars, but it
was EI Bingeroso who really tapped into the essence of the Texas
State Fair. He made friends with a fat, brown-toothed teenage redneck
wearing a WWF Mankind t-shirt covered in mustard stains. The poor
kid looked like he had the cultural I.Q. of someone who just staggered
out of a sheep orgy. We see them standing over by some video game
thing, and he waves us over.
EI Bing "Guys, you see this thing? [pointing to the game] It is called
'The Shocker.' You hold these metal handles here, and it sends an
ever increasing charge of electricity through you. As the wattage
increases, so does your score, and if you can hold it all the way to the
end, you win ... something. And this guy, [Jethro], thinks he can do it."
Tucker "What do you win?"
SlingBlade "A free electroshock treatment, apparently."
PWJ "You can't hold that for more than a few seconds."
Jethro "Fuck dat; ike'an duit."
EI Bing "OK man, give it your best shot. Here, we'll even put the
money in."
As PWJ put the dollar in the machine and the redneck rubbed his
hands together and mentally prepared himself, I pulled EI Bingeroso
aside. He was giggling like a Japanese schoolgirl in a Hello Kitty store.
Tucker "Dude, who is this kid? What the hell is going on?"
EI Bing "I saw him staring at this thing and I bet him he couldn't do it.
He got all worked up. Dude-I've seen this thing knock out 250 pound
guys before. They were outlawed in the state of Nebraska! THIS IS
AWESOME!"
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The young redneck firmly planted his feet, rubbed his face, spit into his
hands, rubbed them together and wiped them on his shirt. We started
cheering him on:
EI Bingeroso "YEAAAAHHHH!"
Tucker "Eye of the tiger!"
PWJ "What does not kill you makes you stronger!"
Sling Blade "There is no spoon!"
He muttered some inspirational phrases to himself, pressed the start
button and grabbed the two metal handles. For the first few seconds
he was fine ...
Then his arms started shaking.
Then his shoulders.
Then his torso.
Then his head.
Then his mouth began frothing and spitting saliva everywhere.
Then this strange, guttural, animalistic groan emerged from him. Still
gripping the handles, his whole body was in violent convulsions when
an older woman pulled him off of the machine. He fell to the ground
and she yelled at him,
"Jethro, git away from that'n thang. Thar makin funna YEW!"
I don't know if I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I was laying on
the hot asphalt of the Texas State Fair, curled up in a ball, tears
streaming down my face as I held my stomach muscles and convulsed
with laughter. I was able to look up and see the confused, blank look
on Jethro's face as his mother led him off, wiping the spit off of his
face, his arms still twitching slightly.
I really hope that God has the capacity for forgiveness that Christians
claim, because I am going to test the absolute outer limits.
We get to Austin and check in at The Embassy Suites. After a nap, EI
Bingeroso calls his friends, and we all meet up at a place called Cheers
Shot Bar on 6th street. It was me, PWJ, SlingBlade, EI Bingeroso, and
three of his college friends, "Thomas" (from the story The Night We
Almost Died), "Dirty," and "Mermaid."
It was around 8pm when we rolled in there, and the bar was nearly
empty. Not a problem, this crew can make its own party. Mermaid told
the bartender, "Seven Flaming Dr. Peppers."
At the time, I had no idea what a Flaming Dr Pepper was. The bartender
set up 7 pint glasses, each about half full with light beer, in a
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sort of pyramid formation on the bar. He filled 7 shot glasses about
90%full with Amaretto, then topped off each with Bacardi 151, and set
them on the lips of the pint glasses. He then took a huge swig of
Bacardi 151, put a lighter up to his face, and blew the alcohol in his
mouth through the flame, sending a massive fireball over the shot
glasses, each catching fire. While they were still on fire, he hit one of
the shot glasses, starting a domino effect, each shot glass falling into
a pint glass, putting out the flames and fizzing the beer up. We each
grabbed a glass and chugged it, and I'll be damned if it didn't taste
exactly like Dr Pepper.
It was the coolest thing involving alcohol I had ever seen. Being OCD,
I had to see it again. And again. And again. 6 rounds of Flaming Dr
Peppers later, I was fucked up, and we had nearly set the bar on fire.
People, heed my warning: That stuff is Special Olympics in a pint
glass. You think they are harmless and not very strong, and the next
thing you know it is an hour later and you are in the bathroom of the
bar with your pants off, surrounded by five girls, giving your boxers to
a bachlorette party because one of the girls is cute and told you that
you had a nice butt. Be forewarned.
After that little fiasco, we head across the street to a dueling piano bar.
We discover that one of the two piano players is blind. We are basically
jackals who walk on two legs, so true to our nature, we focus on
The weak one.
We must have given him about 20 notes with song titles on them.
Finally, the blind piano player stopped his music and said, "HEY IDIOTS!
Stop giving me written song suggestions. I AM BLIND! BLIND! I
CAN'TREAD THEM!"
One of the helpers came over and took the song suggestions over to
the piano player who could see, and he broke out laughing so hard he
couldn't even keep playing. He kinda stopped the music and said into
his mike,
"Well, I would love to play these songs, but unfortunately I don't know
any of them. Let's see if you know them Phil. They are:
• Please Kill Yourself
• Isn't Ray Charles supposed to be black?
• I'm gonna steal your wallet because you can't see who I am
• Have you ever fucked a goat by accident?
• You are blind because you masturbated too much as a child
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• I'm gonna set your hair on fire
• Come to the bathroom so I can fellate you
• I bet you fuck ugly girls because you can't see their faces
• I pissed on your shoes when you were at the urinal
And so on. Phil, you know any of these? I'm stumped."
It was awesome. The irony was that while most of the crowd was
aghast, the blind guy was laughing his ass off right along with us. I
guess crippled people can be useful sometimes.
After a few more beers, we went on to another bar, and another bar,
and another bar, ad infinitum. The night was very funny ... for us ...
because we are not nice people. Here are some selections of our
behavior at the various bars on 6th street that night:
At one point, I went up to some deaf people who were signing to each
other and began signing with them. I actually know ASL because I took
sign language for my foreign language requirement at the University of
Chicago, and as I was asking them where the hot sluts are, in sign
language, PWJ comes up to me and says, "Tucker, I didn't know you
spoke deaf."
• While traveling from one bar to the next, PWJ saw a low rider EI
Camino with hydraulics that was bouncing up and down on 6th
street. He ran next to the car and started jumping up and down with
the car and yells at the driver, "NICE CAR MAN!," to which the driver,
a male of obvious Hispanic descent, gives him a look of disgust and
yells back, "Get away from my car, ese, or I'll fucking bust a cap in
you mane."
• Of course, there were women. Countless women, thousands it
seemed like, most of them were hot, and all of them drunk. Some of
the interactions I caught on my voice recorder:
Tucker "Hey, what's your name?"
Girl "My name is Pocahontas."
Tucker "Right bitch, and my fucking name is John Smith."
SlingBlade [In a bar whisper] "Tucker, that's not good game."
Tucker "Are you married?"
Girl "Yes."
Tucker "How good is the marriage?"
Girl "Very good."
Tucker "So there is no chance of us hooking up?"
Girl "No."
Tucker "Well, do you have any hot friends who aren't fucking
prudes? Hey-where are you going? I was only kidding! I respect
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the sanctity of the monogamous relationship! WHORE!"
• PWJ made me be his wingman at one point, but the friend was a
hideously ugly fat girl. I tried to end it quickly with this, "You don't
want to talk to me, I have festering sores on my scrotum." She
thought I was hilarious, so I had to bring out the heavy artillery, "So
that spare tire you're carrying, is it for a car or a truck?" I plead ignorance
when PWJ asked me what happened, "I don't know man, I
was trying to help you out, she just wasn't into me. What can I do,
not all girls like me."
• Dirty took a picture of me and some girl, and then said to her, "You
can see these pictures of yourself on Poopsex.com." She quickly
scurried away.
• Sling Blade was his usual charming gin-drunk self. His lines that
night ran the gamut from awful to patently offensive to nearly criminal.
His standard pick-up line that night was-I swear to Christ"
Pursuant to Megan's Law, I am obligated to tell you that I am a
convicted sex offender. What's your name?" After I made him stop
talking about molesting children, he moved on to these gems, "Oh
good, you smoke. When you're done sucking down that death stick
I want your advice on which brand of vodka to chase my Percocet
with," or this one, "Hi, can we just skip the pleasantries and go
straight to the part where you call me Captain Kirk and give me a
handjob in the backseat of my car?" Quite the wingman he was.
• This was my personal favorite interaction of the night:
Tucker "Do you mind if I flirt with you for a while?"
Girl "Please zip up your pants first. Thank you."
Tucker "Oh, sorry. So, what's your name?"
Girl "[Blah, blah, blah .... j"
Tucker "You have an underbite! Wait ... COME BACK HERE,
THINK THAT'S SEXY!"
• Sling Blade somehow managed to get a hot girl that he didn't think
was a whore interested in him. Fascinated by this rare event, I talk
to her and immediately discover the reason: The girl was not a day
over 16. Well, maybe 17. He whispered to me, "This is what lawyers
in Texas call, 'the age of consent.' " There was only one barrier to
Sling Blade sealing the deal-She didn't believe that he went to
Austin High with her. She asked him what the mascot was. He accused
her of not knowing herself, and trying to steal that information
from him. I came upon a plan that could solve this dilemma: I
told him to whisper his answer to me, and then she can tell me what
the mascot is, and I'll tell her if he got it right. She agrees. He pretends
to whisper something in my ear, and I tell her, "Unless the
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mascot is 'I'm going to knock this girl unconscious and anally-fist
her,' he didn't go to Austin High." He still hasn't forgiven me.
• PWJ and I were talking to some girls, and PWJ seemed to be doing
well with the ring leader, when she saw through his bullshit,
Girl "Do you remember what my name is?"
PWJ "No."
Girl "That's attractive."
PWJ [Turning to me] "Tucker, these girls are sleeping with us on the
7th of never. Time to move on."
These fun little games were all well and good, but it was getting near
closing time and we had no prospects, so Tucker had to get serious
and do what Tucker does best: Pick up some women. By this time we
had gotten separated, and it was only me, SlingBlade and PWJ. I
found a group of three girls, bought all of us a round of shots, made a
few jokes, and the crew was set. The way it worked out, I got the hot
one, Sling Blade got the good-looking one, and PWJ got the fat one. I
assigned the plump one to him because big tits are his kryptonite, and
hers were individually each as large as his planet-sized cranium.
When he gets a few beers in him, large breasts block out any other
physical consideration: fatness, facial features, lack of personal hygiene,
etc.
After a round or two, they agree to come with us to get some food at
Kerbey Lane, a late night diner. As we walk to the car, we see about a
dozen cops, some of them on horseback, chasing after some random
drunk guy, beating him senseless with batons and what not. I laugh at
this scene. The girls gasp in horror. Sling Blade offers to help the police
beat him. What does PWJ do? He runs after the cops yelling-and I
am quoting him VERBATIM:
"I'M A LAWYER, AND I SWEAR TO GOD THAT I WILL FILE A
SECTION
1983 SUIT VINDICATING THE 4TH AMENDMENT RIGHTS OF
THAT MAN!!!"
Yeah, my friend is a closet dork. Except without the closet.
It ended up working out well, because I convinced the girls that PWJ
was a big time criminal defense lawyer, and we had gone to law
school with him. I save my friends more than Goose Gossage.
Anyway, we get into the car, and on the way to Kerbey Lane I look in
the rear view mirror and see PWJ doing his best to eat the face of the
fat girl. Then I make the unfortunate mistake of looking down, and I
see his hand in her crotch. When I say "in her crotch" I mean it. I couldn't
see anything below the elbow. It was almost enough to make me lose
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my appetite.
In spite of that scene, I am still starving when we get to the restaurant.
I know the hot one is going to fuck me, so I want to hurry up and eat so
I can get this pony in his stable. I take the hot girl by the hand and
kinda pull her towards the entrance as I power walk there. She has her
head turned and is yelling something back to one of her friends behind
us as I walk by a light post, hear a dull thud, then a scream, "OW! MY
FACE!"
I turn to see the hot girl crumpled in a ball on the ground, holding her
face and moaning in agony. I accidentally walked her face-first right
into a light pole. As her friends ran up to see if she was OK, I just stood
there, watching my best shot of the night evaporate, said, "Well, I
guess I'm not getting laid," and walked into the restaurant.
I hope my daughters date guys like me.
After this, of course I'm the bad guy. All the girls at the table are scowling
at me. SlingBlade is not happy either; apparently the girl he was
assigned has had sex with another guy at some point in her life, so he
thinks she is a shameless prostitute. He has issues with women. PWJ
is drunker than all of us and happier than a pig in shit. I glance at
Sling Blade. He and I have been picking up women together so long
that we don't even have to speak-he has found these girls to be
wholly worthless and wants to leave now without even acknowledging
them. I do too, but I have to make sure my other friend is taken care of,
Tucker "PWJ, I'm going to piss, you want to come with me?"
PWJ "No dude, I'm fine."
I kick him several times very hard and in rapid succession until he gets
the picture. Once in the bathroom, I lay it out for him,
Tucker "Dude, SlingBlade and I are leaving. You want to come with us
or you want to fuck the girl you're with?"
PWJ "I don't know man; she's kinda fat. What do you think I should do?"
PWJ is so drunk his eyes are crossed and he is swaying in his place.
Whatever I tell him to do, he'll do ... so of course I throw him under
the bus. Literally:
Tucker "Dude-You should TOTALLY go home with her. She's not that
fat. She has huge tits. Shit-I'd fuck her."
PWJ "Yeah, she does have big tits, doesn't she? I love big tits. OK,
OK, I'm going with her. Thanks man ... you're a good friend."
We go back out to the table, I sit down for about 30 seconds, catch
Sling Blade's eye, and we both simultaneously rise and head for the
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door. The hot girl says, "Where are you two going." I call back to her,
"The bathroom," to which she yells out, as we leave the restaurant, "The
bathroom is the opposite direction!"
I hadn't realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled
into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you
forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that
stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when Sling Blade snaked
past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar
clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I
wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the
door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn't
get out of there.
A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says,
"That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet
into therapy."
I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet
is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom
floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.
THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET!
Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to
accommodate repeated elephant-sized dumps, and their ram-jet engine
flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet
skinny-ass, 165-pound Sling Blade completely killed ours.
I nearly panic. I let loose a flurry of unintelligible curse words at
SlingBlade, punctuated by a "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH
YOU?!," and knock over the lamp in my dash out of the room. The turtle
is sticking his head out, and he is coming whether I am on a toilet or not.
I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I
shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can't
seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to
the front desk, which doesn't face the lobby. It's about 4am, and no
one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute-CLANG
CLANG - CLANG - CLANG - CLANG - CLANG - CLANG until some poor
lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the
bathroom is in the corner of the lobby. It is hard to describe, so let me
give you an aerial picture of what the lobby looks like:
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I turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don't
know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don't
have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of
the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling?
Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent
myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. I am literally pressing
my ass cheeks together with my hands. One of the prouder moments
of my life.
I nearly bust the door off its hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud,
"AYYYY!!," that almost literally scares the shit out of me. I jump back to
see that this is a janitor's closet, complete with a small Mexican lady
janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitor's
bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of
said female janitor.
I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to
crap my pants:
Tucker "WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?"
Janitor "No, no hablo Ingles."
Tucker "WHAT?!? Huh, uh ... DONDE ESTA FUCKING BANO?"
Janitor "AYA, AYA!"
She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing,
at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have
a large "Restroom" sign over them. Right where the front desk lady
said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.
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I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either
sprint and hope I make it there before I shit in my boxers, or I can stick
my thumb up into my ass and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom.
The decision is simple: I break into a full-on sprint.
I played football, baseball and basketball in high school, and I stay in
good shape. I have run from cops before, I have run from guard dogs,
from a legitimate drive-by shooting once while in Kentucky, but I don't
think I have ever run that fast in my life. Nothing motivates like the
prospect of being covered in human excrement.
Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:
• 20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
• 30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my ass crack and legs
get noticeably wet.
• 40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid thigh. I am
struggling to keep it together.
• 50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs
of something hitting the back of my head and ears.
By the time I get to the bathroom door, the end of the 60 yards, I have
completely lost it. I am shitting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap
boxers.
I crash through the door as I step out of my boxers, shit already puddled
in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break
the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slip
off, because my ass is covered in slimy, runny feces. All the while, my
butt hole is spouting forth waste. I finally get situated on the toilet and
lose perhaps 20 pounds in the next 2 minutes.
During a short respite in my nearly superhuman flow of crap, I notice
that the toilet is almost completely full of shit, so I flush. Predictably,
the toilet overflows. Great. I move to the next stall, and continue my little
adventure, except this time I courtesy flush every few seconds.
By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated,
and my eyes are tearing up from shitting so hard. I laugh at the
inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and see
that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of shit that my
heels
kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the
shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. A thick black streak leads
from the top of the mirror down to my pink Gap boxers, which are
crumpled in a ball on the sink countertop. This is their final resting place.
Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle. At this
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point if I don't laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the
lobby, I think to myself, "Who else on earth could be having a worse
night than me?"
My question is immediately answered.
I see a trail of shit, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively
smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than
the small Mexican lady janitor. Her eyes met mine. We may have been
separated by numerous religious, linguistic, cultural and socioeconomic
barriers, but the expression on her face crosses all boundaries.
Now really-picture this scene: I am butt-ass naked, crap plastered all
over my ass, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from
a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid shit leading from her directly
to me. What would you do? I don't think there is any established etiquette
for this situation.
I shrug my shoulders, say, "Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh ... 10siento. Good
night. Buenos noche ... or whatever," and calmly walk to the elevator.
From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her openly weeping.
The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked shit up
on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop
all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.
Whoops. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as
shit isn't going to be me.
When I get back to the room, Sling Blade is already in bed. He rolls
over, takes one look at me and, never one for sympathy, begins laughing
uncontrollably. He literally has to stop laughing because he strains
his abdominal muscle. It takes him five full minutes before he can get
the words out: SlingBlade "Where ... where the fuck are your pants?"
Tucker "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. This is all your fault, Mr. Rhino Dump.
If you hadn't had that miscarriage in our toilet I wouldn't be COVERED
IN SHIH'
He couldn't stop laughing long enough to respond. I took what remained
of my dignity and got in the shower. He was still laughing when
I got out, and in between giggle fits, managed to get this out:
"This is clear proof that there is a God, and that he is just!"
Day Three: The Yellow Rose and The Arrest
I awoke the next day to PWJ coming back into the room around 10am.
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I recounted my shit-in-the-Iobby story, and after he collected himself,
he told us about his night:
PWJ "Yeah, thanks a lot Tucker, you fucking asshole."
Tucker "Hey, it's not my fault that you are into manatees."
SlingBlade "Did she give a whale call when you were tubing her?"
PWJ "Fuck you."
Tucker "So, did you actually fuck her?"
PWJ "Yeah."
Tucker "I can't wait until one day The Manatee shows up with fat genius
children with thimble heads and claims they're yours."
SlingBlade "WAIT-You fucked her? What about her promise ring?"
PWJ "She had a promise ring?"
SlingBlade "What a whore."
Of course, this sent us into eruptions of laughter. Apparently, The
Manatee had told SlingBlade (but not PWJ) that she was nearly engaged
to her boyfriend, who was out of town that weekend. It turns out
Sling Blade is right for once: This one really is a cheating slut. PWJ
went on, PWJ "Now I know why she made me fuck her on the floor-her
bed creaks and she didn't want her roommates to know she was
cheating on her boyfriend."
SlingBlade "I hate women."
PWJ "You should have been there this morning when she dropped me
off. She pulled up to the hotel and said, 'Thanks. It was nice to meet
you.' I said, 'Yes it was,' got out and came up here. That was it."
Tucker "You mean you didn't take her to breakfast?"
PWJ "Fuck you."
SlingBlade "He can't afford it. He's on financial aid as it is."
I made Sling Blade call down to the front desk to get our toilet unclogged.
About 30 minutes later, the door flung open and a woman
who could have been Pootie Tang's mother started to scream at us:
Maid "Who kilt my toilet?"
Sling Blade "That was me. I'm sorry; I'll have a written apology to you
in the morning."
Maid "Iz aight. At least it didn' flood the seelin so's da people down
stairs'all 'Why da hell shit comin' down from ma seelin'?'"
She quickly and efficiently went to work, every few minutes yelling
something barely intelligible out of the bathroom, "DAMN BOY,
what'chu been eatin'? You be needin some Mylanta. Hehehehe."
We spent the day resting up, and eventually met up with the rest of the
crew at Mermaid's apartment. We pre-partied there for a few hours,
and went back out in Austin, except this time we went out on 4th
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street, which is less of a college crowd and more of a young professional
crowd. We started at a place called Lavaca Street because they
had table shuffleboard, and EI Bingeroso is addicted to that game.
Dirty and I played EI Bingeroso and Mermaid, and we spent the next 2
hours beating them like Gitmo detainees. This absolutely incensed EI
Bingeroso. He is very proud of his ability at table shuffleboard, so me
beating him was beyond the pale for his ego.
He started drinking ... but not happy drinking. It was like he was trying
to douse his anger with alcohol. Every game we won would make him
drink faster. After 2 hours of losing, he was fuming mad and very
drunk. Being a good friend, I was a gracious winner:
Tucker "I thought you were good at this game? You are a failure. Dirty
and I aren't even trying anymore. Beating you is like teasing fat people;
it's just too easy. You aren't even a man. Did Kristy forget to let
you bring your sack with you on this trip?"
EI Bing "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. I'LL BEAT YOUR ASS."
Tucker "You can't even beat me at table shuffleboard. Do you have
fucking palsy or something? Why can't you throw the puck straight?
I'm shit-faced and I'm better than you. You are fucked up ... you can't
even out drink me."
EI Bing "WHAT? YOU ARE THE WORST DRINKER I HAVE EVER
SEEN. YOU DRINK LIKE A FUCKING SEVEN YEAR OLD." Then EI
Bingeroso made the bet that would cause a Butterfly Effect on both
our lives, "MOTHERFUCKER, I'LL OUT DRINK YOU THREE-TOONE.
ANYTHING! YOU PICK IT, I'LL DO THREE FOR EVERY ONE
YOU DO, YOU FUCKING KINDERGARTEN DRINKER!"
I'd done it now ... I'd finally pushed EI Bingeroso too far. Almost
immediately, Mermaid appeared with four shots of tequila. Mr. Tequila
does not get along with Tucker. In fact, Mr. Tequila turns Tucker
from normal-happy-drunk Tucker into violently-hurl-all-over-everything
Tucker.
Tucker "I'd rather eat out a bull's ass than take a shot of tequila."
Mermaid [Sniff, sniff] "I smell a pussy."
I throw my shot back, and barely keep myself from throwing up. Isn't
alcohol fun? This is one of the few times I can remember where
someone successfully manipulated me into something.
EI Bingeroso gets through the first three shots relatively easy.
Mermaid shows up five minutes later with four more shots. EI
Bingeroso and I stare at each other. Even though we are holding it
together, we both know that if we do these shots, it's over. I know I'm
going to vomit, and he knows he's going to go into a drunken violent
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rage and black out. But come on, we're 24-year-old guys, do you really
think either of us are going to back down?
I do my shot first because I figure that I have less to lose, as I am not
engaged, nor do I even like myself very much. EI Bingeroso does two
of his shots. I run to the trash can and vomit my guts out.
Of course, EI Bingeroso leads the rest of the bar in merciless taunts. I
deserve it, as I have just vomited from two tequila shots (and the 15 or
so beers I already had in my stomach). My only solace came when I
saw EI Bingeroso do his sixth and final tequila shot. It was like watching
one of those NFL's Greatest Hits videos where they show the moment
of impact in slow motion, and you can actually watch the receiver
go from conscious to unconsciousness or see the quarterback's leg
bones penetrate his sock as they compound fracture. I could see EI
Bingeroso go over the edge. His eyes started moving independently
like a chameleon's, his knees buckled, and he had to catch himself on
the table. His fate was sealed. He quickly recovered and stood up
straight again, but I've been drinking with him enough to know the result
of that little sequence: He's going to jail.
SlingBlade goes to the bar to get us a round of beers. While there, he
starts up a conversation with an older lady who was sitting on a bar
stool by herself with a poodle in her lap:
Woman "I wish I were young again, and full of piss and vinegar like
you guys."
Sling Blade "We're just full of alcohol and Mexican food. You could do
that."
Woman "Oh my! You are funny."
As Sling Blade chatted her up, he surreptitiously fed her dog beer.
When she discovered this, it did not please her.
Woman "WHAT ARE YOU DOING! Oh my goodness, Pookie, are you
OK?"
SlingBlade "Your dog has a drinking problem, you might want to look
into that. Take him to doggie AA or something."
Woman "WHY DID YOU GIVE BEER TO MY DOG!"
SlingBlade "Your dog drank my beer. There is a difference."
The bartender stepped in.
Bartender "You and your friends are cut off."
SlingBlade "WHAT? I am 165 pounds of pure athleticism. I can recycle
alcohol with impunity. Bring me more beer woman, and be quick about
it." Bartender "Don't make me call the police."
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That was pretty much it for us. Mermaid took us to some other bar that
was located in an alley, and before any of us even knew what was
happening, EI Bingeroso was tossing trash cans around, knocking
over dumpsters and kicking doors down. He was in full-on EI
Bingeroso Destroy Mode. He's the type of drunk that makes you wonder
why alcohol is classified as a depressant.
It was clear we had to get him off the street. While deciding what to do,
we came across one of the numerous street musicians that swarm 6th
street. Some guy was playing "Friends in Low Places" on his guitar,
and next thing we know, EI Bingeroso has his arm around him, crooning
at the top of his lungs:
EI Bing "CAUUUUSE I GOT FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES, WHERE
THE WHISKEY DROWNS AND THE BEER CHASES ... MY BLUES
AWAY ... AND TUCKER IS GAY ... "
The guitar guy stops playing, and tries to help EI Bingeroso out:
Guy "Man, you need to put that beer down, there are open container
laws in Texas."
EI Bing "YOU WANNA GO?"
Tucker "EL BINGEROSO, STOP IT-he's trying to help you."
EI Bing "YOU WANNA FIGHT TOO? Come on jackass, gimme some
more Garth before I kick your teeth in. I'LL DO IT!"
Guy "You need to get your friend away from me."
If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that said about me or my
friends, I'd be driving a Bugatti.
While this went down, SlingBlade was making friends with one of the
numerous homeless denizens of Austin. One beggar sparked this
exchange:
Beggar "Hey man, do you like, have any change man?"
SlingBlade "Hahahhahahaha. He talks like you, EI Bingeroso! I bet he
was a promising law student once, before the huff-huff and all. Come
here EI Bingeroso, take a look into your future!"
Beggar "Do I get some change, man?"
SlingBlade "Tell you what-I will give you all my change if you give me
that can of beer in your pocket."
Beggar "But ... it's alii have. I live on the streets, man."
SlingBlade "IT ACCEPTS THE DEAL OR IT DOESN'T GET MY
CHANGE."
Beggar "OK, man, OK. Here you go."
SlingBlade "Very nice. I don't have any change, but thanks for the
beer."
Beggar "But ... but ... man, that beer was all I had. I live on the
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streets, man."
Sling Blade "And do you think that perhaps your poor negotiation skills
had something to do with this? Hmmm?"
Beggar "No man, my ex-wife kicked me out man, I got nowhere to go."
SlingBlade "You just said the magic words. Here's your beer back."
Beggar "How about some change?"
SlingBlade "Don't push it. You're lucky I haven't knocked out your
tooth."
We decide to go to a strip club, The Yellow Rose. To this day, I still
laugh recalling our thought process: EI Bingeroso is too drunk and
violent to walk around the streets, so let's take him to a place with naked
women and large angry bouncers! Sounds great! It'll be all sunshine
and kittens from there!
There are six of us, so we split into two cabs. Cab 1 is me, Mermaid
and Dirty. Cab 2 is PWJ, SlingBlade and EI Bingeroso. It's only like ten
minutes to the Rose, and Cab 1 arrives with no problem. The three of
us go inside, and immediately Mermaid says to me, "We are in
Gomorrah."
If you go out a lot, you know that you can never try too hard to make a
party; you just have to kinda see where the night takes you. You do
that enough, and every now and then you stumble into one of those
absolutely perfect situations, where it seems like everything just falls
into place. It was that kind of night at the Yellow Rose.
It was a Sunday night, so the place was not crowded, but for some
reason there were lots of dancers on shift. We were dressed well, had
lots of cash on us, and all three of us have good game, so before we
realized it there were about 5 or 6 girls hanging with us at our table.
Dirty assesses the situation, looks up at me, gives his devious smile
and then pulls a classic Dirty maneuver, "Ladies, do you know who
that guy is?" He points to me. "That is Tucker Max. He looks like a
humble guy, but in reality he is one of the creators of, and the fourth
largest stockholder in, Yahoo. I'm sure I don't need to tell you ladies
what Yahoo is, do I?" Of course, two of them did require explanation,
but the other four knew what it was, and one said she owned stock in
Yahoo.
Now, obviously this is not even remotely true. I was dirt poor and didn't
even own the car I drove. But Dirty went to the PT Barnum School of
Marketing, and learned the most important lesson very well: The bigger
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the lie, the more likely people are to believe it.
I pretended to be unassuming and nonchalant as he kept talking me
up. All six couldn't have been hooked more if we'd landed them with
tackle and a line. The best part was the dancer who owned stock in
Yahoo seemed to know a little bit about the stock market, and tested
me by asking who the CEO was. I had worked for Fenwick & West that
summer, and one of their main clients was Yahoo, so I knew quite a bit
about them. The look on her face when I said, "Are you kidding? I
helped hire Tim Koogle," was fucking priceless. 1thought she might go
down on me right there at the table.
Playing the part, I ordered bottle service for the table, and before we
knew it, there was free lap dances and gratuitous groping all around. It
was great. One of the strippers had done some porn before, so I
asked her about something I had always wondered about:
Tucker "I understand how female porn stars are selected, but if you
are a guy, and you don't have a huge cock or shoot 8-ropers, how do
you get into the porn industry?"
Mermaid "Networking, dude, networking."
Stripper "I don't know. I just fucked whoever they told me to. It paid
good."
Tucker "Well isn't that pleasant? I bet your parents are beaming with
pride."
We had all six convinced to come back to our hotel with us, when all of
the sudden Mermaid looks up at us and goes, "Where the fuck is EI
Bingeroso?"
In our eagerness to exploit strippers, we had totally forgotten about
the other three guys. I checked my phone-4 missed calls, all from
PWJ. I wondered what was vibrating in my pocket.
Mermaid grabbed my phone and went outside to make some calls. He
came back five minutes later with a look of complete exasperation on
his face, "Dudes-EI Bingeroso is in jail. We need to get out of here."
Leaving the strippers and what should have been a night of carnal
ecstasy that would have made Caligula blush, we return to Embassy
Suites. PWJ fills us in on the story of Cab 2:
As soon as they got in the cab, PWJ and SlingBlade realized that EI
Bingeroso was in trouble. He was passed the Violent Drunk Stage,
and was now barreling towards the Comatose Drunk Stage. In order
to keep him awake, they asked him questions.
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PWJ "So, EI Bingeroso, how did you meet Kristy [his fiancee]?"
EI Bingeroso "Dude, I met her in a bar, man. It was in college. I worked
there."
PWJ "Was she in a sorority?"
EI Bingeroso "Yeah man, I met her in a bar."
PWJ "I know this, you already told me that. What did you do on your
first date? Something special?"
EI Bingeroso "I met her in a bar, man. I met her in a bar."
It went on like this until he basically collapsed in Sling Blade's lap.
About two minutes later, and only about 3 blocks from the strip club, EI
Bingeroso shoots upright and says, "We need to pull over!"
Assuming that he is going to throw up, the cab immediately pulls over
into the parking lot of a convenience store. EI Bingeroso gets out,
stumbles around for a second, unzips his pants, drops them to his
feet, and starts pissing. Right in the middle of the parking lot.
He is still weaving, and PWJ doesn't want him to piss on his pants, so
he gets behind EI Bingeroso, wraps his arms around his chest, and holds
him up while he pisses.
Now picture this scene in your mind: It's Texas, midnight on a Sunday,
and in the middle of a convenience store parking lot is a guy with his
pants around his ankles, and another guy behind him with his arms
wrapped around his chest. What would you think?
Me too. And that is exactly what the cop that drove by at that moment
thought.
PWJ said all he heard was the screeching of tires before he looked up
and saw a large Austin City Police officer hop out of his car and yell (in
a good-ol-boy Texas accent):
"WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YEW TWO DOIN'?!?"
SlingBlade tried to get out of the cab to explain, but the cop put his
hand on his gun and barked, "GET BACK IN THE CAB!" SlingBlade
immediately complied, because this is what a childhood of risk aversion
does to a man.
PWJ stepped in front of EI Bingeroso, "Officer, I'm sorry, please let me
explain. My friend got very drunk tonight, and we pulled over because
we thought he was going to vomit, but he started to pee, so I got behind
him to hold him up. He is very drunk, he just needs to go back to
the hotel and lay down."
The cop was the stereotypical idiot meathead Austin Cop, "So you
think you can just piss here, right on the road, right here in this parking
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lot? There's a hospital two blocks away, we're trying to keep this
neighborhood pristine, and you're over here pissing all over the place."
PWJ is money under pressure, and for once being the son of a
domineering military officer paid off-he stayed calm, and after about 5
minutes of very lucid, reasoned and submissive explanation, he
reassured the cop that everything was OK and got the situation under
control.
It looked like he was going to get EI Bingeroso off the hook.
Then a second cop car pulled up, and the second cop pulled EI
Bingeroso aside and talked to him separately. PWJ said he looked
over about 2 minutes later, saw EI Bingeroso gesticulating wildly and
pointing in the cop's face, heard him yell something about "Mr. Plastic
Badge," and then watched him get thrown on the hood of the cop car,
hand-cuffed, and taken away, kicking the rear windows as it pulled off.
This is when the phone calls started.
Now back to the hotel room. We decide to send PWJ and Mermaid to
bailout EI Bingeroso, and the rest of us go to sleep. It's about 3am at
this point. I wake up at 8am, and PWJ, Mermaid and EI Bingeroso still
aren't in. I realize that my phone was turned off, so I turn it on, and see
that I have 3 new messages. I listen to them, break down laughing,
and wake up everyone else to listen to them also. Here they are, copied
absolutely fucking verbatim off my voicemail:
Message # 1, 1:32am: "Jackass, I am in jail ... um, I am in, uh, jail
dude. I am in Austin County Jail. Umm ... you need to call me man.
You need to fucking come bail me out. I'm in jail dude, it's not cool."
Message # 2, 2:44am: "Hey dude man, I'm in jail. This is EI Bingeroso.
You need to come get me. Uhhh ... PWJ called ... it's not cool man.
Come get me."
Message # 3, 7:48am: "Tucker, this is EI Bingeroso man. I'm at the police
headquarters in Austin. And I just got out of jail. I don't know who
posted bond, but you know, whatever. Like, uhhh, I'm looking for a
ride, so hopefully I'll run into you guys, and uhh, get a ride. If I don't,
have a good time in Dallas."
As EI Bingeroso was making that last call, PWJ and Mermaid were
waiting for him outside on the steps of the Austin County Courthouse.
He was finally released a few hours later:
EI Bingeroso "PWJ, let me ask you one question: What did I do to get
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thrown in jail?"
They bring EI Bingeroso to the hotel, and he is in bad shape. He looks
like a Johnny Cash song. In addition to his rank smell and disgusting
clothes, he has a huge shiner above his right eye.
Mermaid "EI Bingeroso, dude, what's wrong with your eye? Did the
cop hit you?"
EI Bingeroso "Probably."
Mermaid "Why did he hit you?"
EI Bingeroso "I said horrible things about his grandma in Spanish ...
apparently he spoke it."
Mermaid "What was going on? How did it happen?"
EI Bingeroso "I was in a cell with all these Mexican guys, and you
know, I was pissed, so I was organizing a prison riot with the bendejos,
when all of the sudden the door opened and WHACK. It is not fun waking
up on the floor of the drunk tank, covered in vomit and piss."
Mermaid "Are you OK?"
EI Bingeroso "Yeah, I guess ... Guys, seriously, how did I end up in
jail?"
We recounted the entire night to him. He lost memory somewhere
around the 6th tequila shot. After we finished telling him the story, he
was quiet for second, then looked at us with the most pitiful expression
I have ever seen on his face,
"Dude ... I am not a good drunk."
Day Four: The Trip Home
This was not the end of EI Bingeroso's problems. He made the
catastrophic mistake of calling his fiancee while in the drunk tank, waking
her up at 3am, and then calling her parents. Let me reiterate: HE
CALLED HER PARENTS FROM JAIL. He was in quite the shit storm
of trouble with her, plus he had a drunk and disorderly charge to deal
with, so he had to stay in Austin a few more days.
The other three of us decided to head back to Dallas, and then
Durham. I believe I put it as such, "We might as well go back to Dallas;
there is nothing left to do in Austin. What else could we do that would
top the last two nights? Burn down the city? Kill the governor?"
As I am checking out of the Embassy Suites, the manager comes out
of the office and asks to speak to me. "Mr. Max, were you the one who
had, ahem, 'an accident,' in the lobby two nights ago?" I told her it was
me indeed, and that I was sorry, that 1was not accustomed to the effects
of the drink and I would seek help as soon as I returned to
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Durham. She did not smile. "I have to inform you that you will no
longer be able to stay at this, or any other Embassy Suites, ever
again."
What?
"Sir, we have a national 'Do not accommodate' database that your
name has been added to. After your incident, we would prefer you not
stay at any of our hotels again."
I was permanently banned from ALL Embassy Suites. Forever.
Well ... I guess sometimes actions do have consequences.
When we got to Dallas, we checked back into the same Radisson, and
slept until dinner time, then went out in Deep Ellum.
Fast forward to the next morning. I had been up all night drinking and
fornicating with some girl when I walk into the hotel room at 8am and find
vomit all over the floor. Apparently the Reuben sandwich SlingBlade
ordered last night at the bar wasn't the best of ideas. He was in full-on
SlingBlade time-to-go-to-the-ER mode. The kid has the constitution of
a six-year-old lupus victim, and after four nights of raucous drinking
and corporeal abuse, his frail Bubble-boy immune system had shut
down.
He crawled into the backseat of his eggplant purple Saturn, curled up
into the fetal position and let out moans every few minutes, as PWJ
and I drove back to Durham. We were somewhere in Arkansas when
SlingBlade shot up and started hitting the back of my seat. I freaked
out, swerved all over the road, but before I could get to the shoulder I
heard it come loose,
"BLAAAAHHHHHH."
Sling Blade opened the door, leaned halfway out and just let loose,
vomiting all over his own car. He eventually got out of the car and
started vomiting again in the grass.
After a good solid five minute puke-session, he crawled back in the car
and we took off. Not even a minute later, he starts slapping at his legs
and yelling in pain. The idiot stepped in a red ant nest while vomiting,
then tracked a bunch of them into the car. Before we knew it, all three
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of us where swatting angry red ants off of us. We had to pull off at the
next exit.
SlingBlade found himself at some redneck roadside gas station in
Arkansas, cleaning vomit and red ants out of his car ... using newspaper,
because this gas station didn't have a vacuum.
He nearly lost it, "This is pretty much the worst day of my life, and I
have only been awake for three hours. I refuse to believe this is
happening."
The rest of the trip was rather uneventful; while PWJ and I discussed
all order of semantics and philosophy and other nerd topics, SlingBlade
slept and moaned and cried. Somewhere around Chattanooga, he woke
up, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, handed it to us, and passed
back out. It read:
"Please kill me."
The Epilogue
Texas hasn't been the same since that October. Unfortunately, the
Baby Dolls that I wrote about no longer exists. Dallas zoning laws have
changed the club, and though it still stands, it's no longer the bastion
of debauchery it once was.
A few weeks after we were on 6th street, Cheers Shot Bar caught fire
from Flaming Dr Peppers and though it was fine, the drink was banned
after that in Austin. You can still get them at some bars, but officially
they are illegal.
And much to my dismay, I have heard that The Shocker is now banned
in Texas.
As far as I know, I am still banned from all Embassy Suites. I had
forgotten about this until about two years later when I tried to register at
an Embassy Suites in Atlanta. Lo and behold, my name was still in the
database and 'Tucker Max" was not allowed to register as a guest. A
small price to pay for what is probably the funniest story of my life.
For the four Duke Law School friends who went on the trip, things
were also never the same.
For EI Bingeroso, it marked the last true balls-out drink-and-destroy
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weekend he had as a (nearly) single man. After waking up in the
Austin City Jail covered in piss and vomit with a huge black eye, he
really had to check himself, realize that he is engaged and in love and
needs to stop acting like Colin Farrell. He married Kristy that next
summer. He still drinks, sometimes to excess, but the EI Bingeroso we
saw that night is dead. He wasn't even like that during his bachelor
party when we hired a bunch of strippers and a midget.
The reforms that EI Bingeroso implemented began at the Duke Law
Halloween Party. Before he left for the road trip, he had convinced
Kristy to wear a French maid outfit to the party. He even bought it a
month ahead of time he was so excited. Kristy was predictably unhappy
about EI Bingeroso's antics in Austin, and as his first public act
of contrition, he wore her French maid outfit to the Halloween party,
while she wore an orange prison jumpsuit. Quite the couple they
were ... and still are.
For SlingBlade and PWJ, pretty much nothing changed because they
never grow as people. Sling Blade is still bitter, utterly lonely, risk averse
and continues to have issues with women. PWJ is still a bad
person who is unable to resist any girl with big tits.
Much to our amusement, his dealings with The Manatee did not end
that night. She never told PWJ her name or address, yet she knew his
name, found out his address, and a few weeks later sent him a thank you
note, with no return address, along with a check for her share of
the cab fare from 6th street to her apartment. The check was for $3.64 .
It was a Muppet Show check.
In true Chinese Zen flow of life style, from the ashes of EI Bingeroso
rose the phoenix that you know as Tucker Max. I'd done plenty of
crazy and out of control shit in my life, but that was the first weekend I
consciously took a voice recorder out with me, and that was the first
weekend I ever really understood how truly insane and funny my life
is. I returned to Durham with 10 pages of quotes and thought to myself,
''This would make a great movie." It was the flap of the butterfly
wings at the exact right place at the exact right time that eventually led
to Hurricane Max. I didn't realize it then, and I fought it for another
three years, but after that weekend my life arc was irreversibly redirected
away from law and towards writing.
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MY KEY WEST TRIP
Occurred-July 2001
Written-February 2005
When I lived in Boca, I was seeing a girl who had more money than
she knew what to do with. Daddy was a big real estate developer in
South Florida and loved his little girl, and Tucker loved his little girl's
fake tits and black AMEX [for the poor people: A black Centurion
American Express card is reserved for those who spend more than
$150,000 a year on other AMEX cards].
One day I told her that I had never been to Key West. The next day we
were on a chartered jet from West Palm Beach to Key West, had a
limo meet us at the airport and take us to a really nice hotel on Duval
Street. The plane, the limo and the hotel room all had bars in them, so
by the time we got settled in our room, like 11pm, we were pretty
tanked. I can get used to this.
Now, even though Daddy'sGirl had lots of money, sadly she couldn't
seem to afford any brains. She was 18 and had left Florida State two
months into her freshman year because it was too difficult. Seriously
that's not "too difficult" as a euphemism for "sucked 100 dicks in a
month;" she was literally just too stupid for Florida State. TOO STUPID
FOR FREE SHOE UNIVERSITY! If this seems hard to believe, it's
because you don't know any Florida girls. After a year there, you stop
being shocked at these things.
Daddy'sGirl wanted to go to some bars, but she neglected to bring her
fake 10 ... or even realize that she NEEDED A FAKE 10 TO GET
INTOABAR.
Tucker "How do you get into bars?"
Daddy'sGirl "I don't know. In Palm Beach they just let us in. Everyone
knows my daddy. Or we drink at The Breakers or one of the other
country clubs. No one has ever asked me for an ID."
Tucker "Did it occur to you that we aren't in Palm Beach anymore?"
Daddy'sGirl "But I thought EVERYBODY knew my daddy!"
Tucker [blank stare]
Daddy'sGirl "This is so unfair!"
Tucker "It's a good thing you are rich, otherwise you'd have already
have been spit out the bottom of the porn industry."
Daddy'sGirl "What? I told you that I don't like porn. It's gross."
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I just walked off.
We get back to the hotel and decide to order champagne and
strawberries and go down to the hot tub. Cliche, I know, but look at the
girl I was working with. You can't make chardonnay out of shit.
I know that Cristal gets all the press because rappers have discovered
it, but let me tell you something: Cristal is overrated and rappers are
stupid. If I want to slang dope or steal a car, I am going straight to DMX
to get advice, but for insanely expensive limited edition vintage alcohols,
I think I'll get my counsel elsewhere, thank you.
I made the mistake of asking Daddy'sGirl what she wanted:
Daddy'sGirl "Ohh-Iet's get Crista!!"
Tucker "What's your favorite TV show?"
Daddy'sGirl "I don't know. I guess TRL. Or The Real World."
Tucker "Let's leave the ordering to me."
The hotel had a great selection, so I got us a bottle of 90 Bollinger
Grande Annee. I think it was $450. It's not every day I have access to
an unlimited credit line.
We head down to the hot tub, and it is a really nice set up. Half hidden
from the rest of the pool area by foliage, super hot water with lots of
shallow places to sit. It took a glass and a half of champagne for her to
loosen up, but after that, it was easy. Top off, panties off ... full-on sex
in the hot tub, here we come.
We finished off and put our robes on. As we walked back toward the
lobby, I glanced up at the balcony overlooking the pool area and noticed
this guy staring at us. He was zipping up his pants, breathing
heavily and sweating. He muttered:
"Thanks. You just saved me $9.95."
Daddy'sGirl looks up, and even though she is dumber than a burlap
sack, she is not stupid enough to miss this. She immediately busts out
in tears, "OH MY GOD!!! AHHHHHHH!!!," and runs back into the hotel.
I just start laughing.
Tucker "No problem. We've all been there."
I don't know why I said that. I have never in my life jacked off while
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watching other people fuck. Well, not in person. Of course I jack off to
porn all the time, but come on, porn stars are only objects for our sexual
gratification, not real people.
Daddy'sGirl was so shook up and upset about this she took two
Valium to sleep and made us leave at like 6am the next day, insisting
that we go out the back door.
Daddy'sGirl "WHAT IF WE SEE HIM AGAIN??!"
Tucker "I don't know. Charge him for the show this time."
When we got back to Palm Beach, she didn't call me for like three
days. I called her, and she was not happy to hear from me.
Tucker "What is wrong with you?"
Daddy'sGirl "Well, TUCKER, you gave me an STD!"
Tucker "What? Which one?"
Daddy'sGirl "A urinary tract infection! I can't believe it!!"
I couldn't stop laughing. For like two minutes, she was screaming at
me on the phone as I teared up with laughter. I tried to make her
understand that UTI's aren't really STD's and that she got the UTI from
the bacteria in the hot tub and not from me, but that concept was far
too hard for her to wrap her head around. She hung up on me.
In a fun turn of events, about 4 months later I got this voicemail from
her: "Hey Tucker ... uh, I am sorry ... I guess you didn't give me an STD.
I had sex last week with my boyfriend in my parents' hot tub, and the
same thing happened he got tested and didn't have a UTI ... so I
guess you were right anyway, I broke up with him before he found
out and now he won't call me anymore ... what are you doing this
weekend?"
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GIRL BEATS TUCKER AT HIS
OWN GAME
Occurred-October 2001
Written-June 2004
I met Rachel at some ill-conceived fundraiser for infant amputees with
swollen spinal cords. It was thrown by the Junior League or some sort
of similar organization dedicated to finding rich husbands for vacuous
single women. She was one of the organizers, very good looking, and
seemed normal, which is very significant in Florida. We talked about
the wine, I pretended to listen to her, she loved that I came from a
"prominent Florida family"-a quote that still sends me into fits of
laughter-so we went on a date later that week.
The first date she only reaffirmed my initial impression: not dumb, but
not bright, not interesting, but not totally repellant. This girl was there
as a human being, but that's about it. There seemed to be nothing
compelling about her aside from her looks. Despite this, and the fact
that she refused to hook up, something about her kept me into the first
date enough to go on a second. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, it
was just a feeling that I got, but there was something there that I
wanted to see more of. Besides, I hadn't had sex in like a week and
she was my best option, so I agreed to a second date.
Date Two started out boring as well, until I figured out why I had a
subconscious interest despite Rachel's inability to hold a conversation. I
made a totally innocuous joke about having to pay more when you
beat up Cuban hookers during sex, and the girl instantly went from
polite-but-distant to c1early-into-me. The conversation turned to sex
and it was like a switch was thrown; everything about her lit up, she
became totally engaged in the conversation and actually became
slightly interesting. At one point, she got a Cheshire cat grin on her
face, her eyes narrowed and she coyly asked me,
Rachel "Are you naughty, Tucker Max?"
Tucker "Who are you talking to? You can't think up anything that I
haven't done already. Twice."
I didn't know it then, but that exchange would soon have a place of
honor in the Couldn't-Have-Been-More-Wrong Hall of Fame.
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Remember when I said she seemed normal? Yeah ... I was quickly
disabused of that notion when we got back to my place and she took
my hands, placed them around her neck and told me:
"I want you to strangle me as you fuck me. Not too hard, don't choke
me and don't leave bruises, but make sure I can feel it."
It was a bit awkward at first. Not really strangling her; there are plenty
of girls I've wanted to choke to death, but more coordinating the act
while also sexually penetrating her. It's not easy to fuck with both your
hands around a girl's neck, especially if you've never done it before.
You're so accustomed to your hands being used for other thingsbalance,
hair-pulling, using the remote-that it takes you awhile to get a
rhythm going. But once I got acclimated, it was kinda fun, choking this
girl as I fucked her.
The next date, we moved from my hands to my belt. Around her neck,
pulling on it as I fucked her from behind. The best part was when she
was putting the belt around her neck, and asked me,
"Do you have a t-shirt or washcloth I can use? I need to put something
soft between the belt and my neck or it'll leave marks."
This girl was straight out of an HBO Real Sex episode (except not
ugly). If it was sexual, she wanted it do it, and she wanted it to include
pain and humiliation. Over the next three weeks, we ran the entire
gamut of sexual deviance:
First was erotic asphyxiation.
Next we added dominance role playing, name calling, and brutally violent
ass sex.
Then we acted out her mock rape fantasies.
Then it just avalanched from there ... tossing my salad, comfy cuffs,
kitchen utensils, whips, chains. Pain. Torture. Everything you can
imagine and worse.
Hmmm ... I wonder if her daddy used to spank her when she was
bad?
At first, I kinda liked it. I got to beat her up during sex, call her whatever
names I wanted, pull her hair, throw her around, fuck any hole I could
get my dick in as hard as I wanted, and basically do anything I could
think of whenever I felt like it; nothing was out of bounds. She was like
my own personal sexual canvas to experiment on. Pain, torture and
humiliation do not turn me on sexually, but I had never really done
anything like this before, especially not to this extreme. The novelty was
exciting.
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But every night some variation of this thought would go through my
head, "Am I really doing this to her? Did I just stick a carrot in her ass
as I fucked her doggy-style?" After about three weeks of this, every
time pushing it further and further, I was at the point where I was doing
shit to this girl that could have literally gotten me thrown in jail. I was
thinking about filming her consenting to this stuff, Tupac style, because
when I dumped her I didn't want the blood on my spatula to be
used as evidence against me in a domestic assault case.
The true irony was that in a way, these sorts of things were almost
more debasing to me than to her. I pride myself on being so outlandish
and outrageous that normal people don't know how to deal with mebut
this girl, without realizing what she was doing, was flipping it on
me. She was beating me at my own game. No matter what I did, she
wanted more. If I spanked her, she wanted to be spanked until her ass
was raw. If I spanked her ass till my hand prints were plastered on her
glutes, she wanted to me to spank her till she bled. If I called her a
"bitch" during sex, she wanted to be called a "whore." If I called her a
"whore," she wanted to be called a "filthy cunt whore." I'm literally a
professional at humiliating and debasing people, but this girl was
absorbing my entire repertoire and then coming back and asking for
seconds.
She was like Tyler Durden in Fight Club, in the scene where he lets the
mobster beat him up after catching them using his bar basement for
weekly fights. Tyler just lets the guy beat his ass. The mobster hits him
and hits him-dropping fist after fist right on his face-but Tyler gets
up, covered in blood, and laughs at him. That is so fucking demoralizing.
When someone takes your absolute best shots and, instead of
retaliating, simply gets back up and asks for more-what the fuck do you
do then? That WAS my best shot!
Even though this girl's appetite for pain and degradation was outstripping
my ability to hurt and humiliate her, I refused to let her beat me. It
wasn't even about the sex or the experimentation anymore (and it was
never about the relationship, because aside from the freaky sex, this
girl was basically worthless). No, for me it was about seeing whose
limits we could reach first. I HAD to get her to blink. Tyler Durden isn't
having Fight Club in MY basement, goddamnit.
I started browsing S&M websites, emailing my friends asking for
suggestions and even consulting dominatrixes for ideas. I was about to
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run out of ideas, when one night it all came to a head.
Like every other time she came over, Rachel showed up ready for
abuse. I met her at the door, pulled her by the hair into my place (she
loved that) and started forcing myself on her (another of her favorites;
believe me, this is not my normal way of greeting people).
As I was ripping her blouse off, I realized I had to drop the kids off at
the pool. I was about to excuse myself to take a dump when it came to
me-something that had to be too much for her.
I took her by the hand into my bathroom, dropped my pants, sat on the
toilet, pointed to my dick and looked up at her: "Start sucking."
Now, this has GOT to be the limit. There is no way this girl is going to
give me head while I drop a fucking deuce. No way. NO girl would do
this. NO FUCKING WAY.
What did she do? Say no? Leave in disgust? Storm out of my apartment
in a rage? Nein, fraulein.
Without a moment's hesitation, she went right to work. Just when I
thought I had won the race to the bottom with this girl, I was proven
wrong. Again.
How absurd is this? Picture yourself in this situation: Sitting on a toilet
in a relatively small residential bathroom, pushing feces out of your
ass, with a girl on her knees in front of you, still fresh from work in her
nice business casual blouse and linen pantsuit, lips wrapped around
your cock, working it like a runaway. What would you do?
I started pushing harder. I didn't care if I popped a blood vessel in my
head and died on the toilet from an aneurysm Elvis-style, I was determined
to get her to quit. I thought to myself, "I bet this will be the only
time in my life where I desperately wish for a disgusting flood of
diarrhea."
The first turd (sadly, it was solid) plopped loudly into the toilet. No
reaction.
Nothing but continued enthusiasm for my cock.
The second turd ... nothing. It was like she was just giving a normal
blowjob. I kinda leaned back in the seat so the odor would have more
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room to waft up into her nostrils.
The third turd ... she started to hit her stride, really working her hand
on the shaft and slurping the head.
The fourth turd ... aren't her knees at least hurting? This is a tile floor.
I pushed and pushed and pushed until I was on the brink of giving myself
hemorrhoids when my colon finally just gave up, completely devoid
of fecal matter ... and Rachel was still going strong. No matter
how bad the smell got, nor how loud I grunted, nor how disgusting the
gas noises my ass made were, she would not stop. Nose full of fart,
mouth full of cock, she never even paused. I don't know how she kept
breathing. I damn near choked from the smell and I was a full two feet
further above the poop than she was.
As I sat there on the uncomfortably warm toilet seat, unwiped, smelling
my own shit, my ass sweating and falling asleep at the same time about
to come because she was so good she could bring me to
orgasm in a coma-I gave up.
Fuck it. If I can beat her, choke her, shove things into her ass and get
incredible head on the toilet, and STILL not find her limits, then she
wins. I can't go any further.
Now, you may be thinking, "Dude, there are tons of things you could
have done worse than that. Why not a Cleveland Steamer?" etc, etc.
That is a legitimate question, but even I have my limits. I'm not Chuck
Berry and I'm not crossing into the world of defecation for sexual
gratification.
I know it turns some people on to take a dump on their partner
or have them drink piss, but I'm sorry, that shit is just out of bounds
for me ... literally.
I mean, I was willing to race her to MY bottom, but not THE bottom. I
was not willing to go beyond things that I was comfortable with. The
fact that she EAGERLY sucked me off on a toilet seat as I took a dump
really drove it home-this girl meant business. It almost makes my
skin crawl thinking about what I would have had to do to hear a "No"
out of her. Yeah, I could have brought a dog in and asked her to fellate
it, but for fuck's sake-what if she said yes? Then what do I do? Watch
her suck off a Dalmatian while I wait my turn? Hit it from behind as she
slobs on Fido's bone? Thank you, but no.
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I honestly thought I was beat. I even got a little depressed, and started
moping around South Florida, unsure what to do next. But in a stroke
of amazing Tucker Luck, I broke her totally by accident, in a way I
never would have imagined. Three days later, she sat me down at dinner
and said, in a very somber serious tone:
"Tucker, you need to get serious with me, or we can't keep seeing
each other. It is humiliating to me that I am seeing a man that my
friends know is also seeing other women."
I didn't even know what to say. I really didn't. I was totally stupefied by
that sentence. Did this girl actually think I would seriously date her? Is
this a joke? It may be a double standard and I may be an asshole, but
how the fuck am I supposed to have any respect for a girl who would
do the things she did? Especially with ME of all people?
At the time, I could only muster one response:
"HAHHAHHHAAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. Wait, wait ....
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA."
She got pissed and stormed out of the restaurant.
I know I should have said something like, "You mean when I
doublepenetrated you with produce, that wasn't humiliating, but what
your friends think about us is?" but I just couldn't.
Though, to be honest, I may have gotten her to blink first, it was a hollow
victory. I was like that Korean boxer who "beat" Roy Jones Jr. in
the '88 Olympics. Yeah, I got the gold medal, but everyone in the world
knows I didn't really win this contest.
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TUCKER TRIES BUTTSEX;
HILARITY DOES NOT ENSUE
Occurred-Summer 1997
Written-June 2003
I spent the summer between my 2nd and 3rd year of college suckling
on the parental teat in South Florida. It was the absolute prime of my
"do anything to get laid" phase. Recently freed from a 4-year
longdistance relationship that began in high school, I wanted nothing
more than to have sex with as many girls as possible.
Most of the things I did that summer are not story-worthy; you can only
tell the same, "I got drunk on Dom and fucked this hottie" story so
many times before it gets annoying. That summer I experienced every
random sex situation that a 20 year old can imagine: fucking on the
beach, getting head from random girls in club bathrooms, sleeping
with two or three different girls in a day, getting so drunk I passed out
during sex, getting arrested for receiving fellatio in the pool at the
Delano, blah, blah, blah ... Jesus. What does it say about how fucked up
my life is that I don't consider these stories to be extraordinary anymore?
Anyway, while most of my stories from that summer may not be
extraordinary for me, there is one very notable exception ....
I was seeing one girl, "Jaime," about twice a week. She was a fresh
arrival to South Beach, having moved there 5 months ago from Maine as
a 19 year old with a modeling contract. We met through a mutual
friend who befriended her while they were modeling. Five weeks and
lots of sex later, she thought we were dating. I knew better, but she
was way too hot to bother correcting her assumption.
The ex-girlfriend of 4 years I previously spoke about was very sexually
conservative. It was missionary in the dark and then straight to sleep,
with maybe a blowjob on the weekends if she'd had a few glasses of
wine with dinner (it was a high school relationship, I didn't know any
better).After four years of this, I was ready to experience all the things
I'd missed out on (when I wasn't cheating on her, of course).
Buttsex, known in the biz as "anal," was one of these unknowns, and I
decided that I wanted to try it. Jaime was the perfect partner: very hot
and very sweet, but more importantly, very na"lve and very open to
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suggestion.
She was reluctant at first, not understanding why we just couldn't keep
having normal sex, so I had to employ my persuasive powers:
Jaime "But ... I've never done it."
Tucker "I've never done it either; it can be ourthing."
Jaime "But ... I don't know if I'll like it."
Tucker "You won't have to worry about getting pregnant."
Jaime "But ... I like normal sex."
Tucker "Everyone's doing anal. It's the 'in' thing."
Jaime "But ... I don't know ... it seems weird."
Tucker "It's the preferred method in Europe. Especially with the runway
models. Don't you want to do runways in Europe?"
After a few weeks of this, she finally consented. Though she agreed to
let me put my penis in her small hole, she extracted a promise in return:
"OK, we can try anal sex, but I want it to be special and romantic. You
have to take me out to a nice place, like The Forge or Tantra, NOT one
of your father's restaurants, and it has to be a weekend night, NOT a
Monday. And you have to keep taking me out on weekends. I'm tired
of being your Monday night girl."
I made reservations for the next Friday at Tantra. Aside from being
insanely expensive, Tantra is famous for having grass floors. Really;
they put in new sod every week. They also advertise their food as
"aphrodisiac cuisine." Yes, at that point in my life, I thought these
things worked.
Thanks to my father's connections, I got us a corner booth in the grass
room. She was quite impressed ..I ordered like it was the Last Supper.
No expense was spared. Two $110 bottles of merlot, veal rack, stone
crabs, the Tantra Love platter-it was lavish and decadent. I was 21,
stupid, and wanted to fuck Jaime in the butt; I wasn't about to let a
$400 tab get in my way.
By the time we left Tantra, this girl had doe eye9 that would have made
Bambi look like a heroin-chic CK model. She could not have been
more in love with me. The entire drive back to my place she was rubbing
my crotch, telling me how badly she wanted me to fuck her, how
hot I made her, etc, etc. We get back to my place and our clothes are
off before we even get in the door. We collapse on the bed and start
fucking. Normal vaginal sex at first, just like always.
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Now, what she did not know, and what I have not told you yet, was that
I had a surprise waiting for her. [Aside: Before I tell you what the surprise
was, let me make this clear: As I stand right now, I am a bad person. At
21, I was possibly the worst person in existence. I had no regard for the
feelings of others, I was narcissistic and self-absorbed to the point of
psychotic delusion, and I saw other people only as a means to my
happiness and not as humans worthy of respect and consideration. I
have no excuse for what I did; it was wrong and I regret it. Even though I
normally revel in my outlandish behavior, sometimes even I cross the
line, and this is one of those situations .... but of course, I'm still going to
write about it.]
This was going to be my first time foraging in the ass forest, and I
wanted to have a reminder of my trip, a memento I could carry with me
the rest of my life ... so I decided to film us.
I planned this beforehand, but I was afraid she would decline, so instead
of being mature and discussing this with Jaime, I just made the
executive decision to get it on camera ... without telling her.
That alone is pretty bad. But instead of just setting up a hidden camera
... I got my friend to hide in my closet and film it.
No really-I know that I will burn in hell. At this point, I'm just hoping
that my life can serve as a warning to others.
I left my door unlocked and we arranged it so that around midnight my
friend would go over to my place and wait until my car pulled in, and
then run into the closet and get the camera ready. The top half of the
closet door was a French shutter, so it was easy to move the slats and
give. him a decent camera shot through the closed door.
By the time Jaime and I got to the bed, I was so drunk I had forgotten
that he was filming this, and of course she had no idea he was there.
After a few minutes of standard sex, she kinda stopped and said, all
serious and in her best seductive soap opera voice, "I'm ready."
I quickly flipped her over and grabbed the brand new bottle of AstroGlide
I had on my bedside table.
A week prior, after Jaime consented to buttsex, I realized that I didn't
have any idea how to do it. How exactly do you fuck a girl in the ass?
Luckily, I had the world's best anal sex informational resource at my
disposal: The gay waiter. I consulted several gay waiters who worked
at one of my father's restaurants about the mechanics of buttsex, and
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each one recommended AstroGlide as the lubricant of choice. Much to
my dismay, I learned that spitting on your dick is not enough lube for
buttsex. Stupid, lying porn movies.
The other important piece of advice I remembered was from Calvin,
"Make sure you use enough, because if this is her first time, she'll be
especially tight, and it might hurt her. Use enough to really loosen her
up and go slow until she gets used to it. Then it's smooth sailing from
there."
Well, since some is good, more is better, right? At 21, this seemed
logical. I opened the cap, crammed the bottle top into her asshole, and
squeezed. I probably emptied half of the 4 ounces of AstroGlide into her.
I have since learned from homosexuals that a 4-ounce bottle usually
lasts them about 6 months. So yeah-I overdid it.
But Tucker Max wasn't done. Oh no, after depositing enough grease
in her to run a Formula One racecar, I dumped half of what remained
onto my cock and balls, really wanting to lube up because I didn't want
her to be uncomfortable.
Really-consider my thought process: I was going to fuck her in the
butt and film it without her consent, yet I was truly concerned about her
personal comfort. Sometimes the contradictions in my personality
even amuse me.
Predictably, I slid in with ease. She was a little tense at first, but with
an Exxon Valdez size load spilled into her poop chute, she quickly
loosened up and got into it. I liked it also; it had a different feel to it. Not
as good as vaginal sex, a little grainy, kinda tight, but still very nice.
Before I knew it I was fucking her like the apocalypse was imminent,
burying it to the hilt with impunity. After a few minutes I was ready to
come. My urgency was expressed in my tempo, and I began really
jackhammering her. As the excitement got the best of me, I pulled out
too far and my dick came out of her ass. I kinda scrambled to grab my
dick and put it back in so I could finish off inside of her, but before I
could even get a hold of it and put it back in her ass, I heard a faint
"psssst" sound andfelt something wet and warm hit my crotch.
It was dark in the room (I was not smart or sober enough to leave the
lights on for the camera), so after I looked down it took me a few
seconds to realize that my dick, balls and groin area were covered in a
viscous black liquid. I stopped moving and stared at my strangely colored
crotch for a good 5 seconds, completely confused, until I realized
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what happened:
"Did you ... did you just ... shit on my dick?"
I reached down to touch the liquid feces, still in complete and utter
disbelief that this girl shot explosive diarrhea on my penis, when, without
warning, the smell hit me.
I have a very sensitive nose, and I have never been more repulsed by
a smell in my life. The combination of synthetic AstroGlide and rancid
stench of raw fecal matter combined to turn my stomach, which was
full of seafood, veal and wine, completely over.
I tried to hold it back. I really did everything I could to stop myself, but
there are certain physical reactions that are beyond conscious control.
Before I knew what I was doing, it just came out:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH HHH"
I vomited all over her ass. Into her crack. Into her asshole. On her ass
cheeks. On the small of her back. Everywhere.
She turned her head, said, 'Tucker, what are you doing?," saw me
vomiting on her, screamed "Oh my God!," and immediately joined me:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH HHH"
Watching her throw up on my bed made me vomit even more. Her
vomiting all over my bed, me vomiting on her ass, the next step was
almost inevitable.
I heard the loud CRASH first, turned to see my friend break through
the shutters and rip the closet door off as he, the video camera, and
the door tumbled out of the closet and crashed onto the floor next to
us:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLMAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH HHHH"
The memory of the 2-second span where all three of us were vomiting
at once is permanently seared into my brain. I have never heard anything
like that symphony of sickness.
I think the crowning moment was when my eyes locked with Jaime's, I
saw her moment of realization and then her quick shift from shock and
surprise to complete and irreparable anger. Between bouts of hurling
she flipped out:
"OH MY GOD-BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-YOU FILMED THIS, YOU
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ASSHOLE-BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-HOW COULD YOUBBBLLLLAAAAHHHHI
THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME-BBBLLLLMAAHHHHOH
MY GOD-BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-I LET YOU FUCK
ME IN THE ASS-BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH."
She tried to stand up, slipped on the huge puddle of backflow AstroGlide
on the bed, and fell into both my pile and her pile of vomit, covering
her body and hair in vomit, shit and anal lubricant. She flailed on
the bed for a second, grabbed the top sheet, wrapped it around her,
and started running out of my place. Still naked and retching, my dick
covered in shit and lube, I followed her as far as my front door.
The last contact I ever had with her is the image I witnessed of her in
a dead sprint, a shit, vomit and grease stained sheet stuck to her body,
running from my apartment.
Postscript
The camera we used was one of those ancient fragile ones that filmed
onto a VHS tape, and when he crashed out of the closet, the tape
recorder and tape broke. It didn't occur to us at that the tape records
the images magnetically, and we could take the actual tape itself and
get someone to put it in another holster until after we had thrown it out.
I know it seems stupid now, and believe me I kick myself about it
everyday, but you should have seen the apartment afterwards-the
tape was not a high priority. AstroGlide, shit and vomit covered
EVERYTHING.
I had to rent one of those steam cleaners, buy a new mattress, and I
STILL lost my deposit. It was impossible to get the smell out. The next
month was like living in a sewer. Every girl I brought back to my place
after that refused to stay there, and some even refused to sleep with
me anywhere because of how my place smelled.
What I never found out, and I still want to know, is how the girl got
home. I never heard from her again, and the mutual friend who
introduced us called her but didn't get her calls returned. I never heard
anything about her or from her again, even though she left her clothes
and ID at my place (she wore a tight dress out that night, and didn't
bring a purse or any money with her).
Can you picture that scene? What did she do, hop in a taxi? Wave
down a passing car? Get on the bus? She lived at least 30 miles away,
145
there is no way she walked home. It perplexes me to this day. I'm hoping
she reads this. Maybe then I'll find out how she got home.
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THIS'LL JUST HURT A LITTLE
Occurred-July 1998
Written-March 2005
Look, I know how bad some of these stories are. I know that in return
for my youthful behavior, fate will give me five daughters and make
them all vicious sluts who sleep with guys like me and then throw it in
my face. I know that in any cosmically just afterlife, I deserve to have
all order of awful punishments waiting for me, but in the corporeal interim
one girl gave me a little bit of my own medicine. I normally like to
focus my stories on how awesome I am, but it would be intellectually
dishonest to leave this story out, because it really is funny to everyone
but me:
I met "Stephanie" in South Beach. She was 19 at the time, smoking
hot and still in college but was spending the summer in Miami doing
modeling. Stephanie had the type of body you see on the cover of
Maxim, except she was that hot in real life and not just airbrushed hot.
Granted, she threw up a lot of dinners for that body, but considering
that I wasn't paying for her food, I didn't care.
Like most super hot girls, she was incredibly insecure. She wore too
much make up and not enough clothes, which is always a sign of despair
in a woman. But she went beyond the normal female do-thesepantsmake-
me-Iook-fat insecurity, which is manageable, and graduated
to full on, I-am-so-ugly-and-worthless, I-hate-myself, please-fuck-mesol-
can-feel-c1ose-to-someone insecurity. As a result of her severe
and unquenchable insecurity, she was quite promiscuous, to the point
where dating her was similar to the experience of sitting on a warm toilet
seat: Even without seeing him walk out of the stall, you knew that
someone else had been there only moments before you arrived.
I was 22 at the time and this sort of super-hot, super-insecure girl was
right in my wheelhouse. It was my pattern at that time in my life; I
would meet them, sense their insecurity, feed off it, play with it, and
before I knew it the girl was in love with me. I would quickly dump her,
and then there would be some sort of incident. I used to do this with
pretty much every girl I met. My friends used to joke that my
conversations
with these girls would go like this:
Girl "Hi."
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Tucker "Hi."
Girl "I'm lonely."
Tucker "Me too."
Girl "I love you."
Tucker "I love you too."
I honestly was NOT trying to fuck with these girls or hurt them, I was
just too young to understand what I was doing, too stupid to figure it
out, and too fucked up myself to stop. I have since learned how awful
it was and now take pains to explain to women what I want and what I
expect from them before we do anything, which is not only the right
thing to do, it prevents the kind of issues that happened here from
occurring later on.
So back to the story: We fucked and hung out and fucked some more,
and I played the "great guy with an edge" part and let her totally fall for
me. She told me she loved me, and I probably told her the same thing ...
but then I got bored, stopped calling, and left it at that. Another day,
another hit, right? She wasn't ready to let go so easily.
She called and called and called, and I ignored and ignored and ignored,
until one day she decided that she needed to take her anger
out at me in person. I was drinking at a bar with some friends when
she and her ugly friend (all hot girls have at least one ugly friend)
came storming in.
Ugly friend "Why haven't you been calling her back?"
Tucker "Why haven't you been losing weight? Same reason."
Stephanie "SHE IS NOT FAT!"
Tucker "That's not what you say behind her back."
Her friend wasn't actually fat-only by ridiculous South Beach model
standards-but the point was to undermine Stephanie's moral support,
not to be factually correct.
Ugly friend "You called me fat?"
Stephanie "NO! TUCKER, YOU ASSHOLE! WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL
ME BACK?"
Tucker "I didn't want to. Let it go, and just leave."
Stephanie "FUCK YOU! I DON'T CARE ANYWAY, YOU HAVE A
SMALL DICK AND YOU SUCK IN BED AND YOU CUM QUICKLY!"
Oh, Steph ... I wish you hadn't done that. Granted, I was a cowardly
dickhead and I should have called you, but you called me out in front
of other people ... now I have to destroy you.
Tucker "Well, if that is the case, then why did you search me down to
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scream like a lunatic about getting dumped? Shouldn't you be happy
about losing me instead of embarrassing yourself in public like this?"
Stephanie "I AM NOT EMBARRASSING MYSELF."
Tucker "Then why is everyone laughing at you? You want to know why
I didn't call you back? Fine: you are insane and whorish. When you
close that revolving man-door you call a vagina, come back and we'll
see if I've gotten any better in bed."
Stephanie "FUCK YOU!"
Tucker "I'm sorry that you hate yourself and that no one loves you, but
it's time to end this crazy show. Take the mountain troll and leave-we
are trying to meet some women who are actually dateable."
She was utterly fucking speechless. At that moment, if she shitted a
dictionary you couldn't have gotten a word from her. She turned to
leave; if I was a good person I would have let it go there, but that's just
not me:
Tucker "Didn't go as well as you thought it would, did it? I bet some
random guy is getting pussy tonight! Female insecurity: It's the gift that
keeps on giving!"
The whole little crowd that had gathered were laughing, even the
bartenders.
I am pretty sure by the time she hit the door Stephanie was in
tears. Win the crowd and you always win the argument.
Tucker: 10
Stephanie: 0
I figured with that, it would be over, but two days later I got this voicemail:
"Tucker, it's Stephanie. I just got tested, and I have Chlamydia, and
you need to get tested ... jerk."
When I was young I was an idiot, but I wasn't stupid enough to blindly
believe something an angry woman told me. She wouldn't give me the
name of her doctor, so I demanded a copy of the test results. She
mailed them to me a few days later, and well, there it was. A positive
result for Chlamydia. Wow. I guess I have to get tested now. That sucks.
I had to go to one of the many free clinics in Florida, because I didn't
want my father, whose insurance was covering me, to know that I
might have Chlamydia. After fighting off the crack heads and prostitutes
in the lobby, I tell the nurse I need a Chlamydia test. Do you
know how they test for Chlamydia? Before going in, I didn't.
In the examination room, the nurse tells me to drop my pants and pulls
out a 6 inch long thin metal rod and sticks a cotton swab on the end.
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No way she can't be thinking ... I mean, that can't go there ... it
won't fit and besides, that would be inhumanly painful ... well,
then what is she going to do with it?
Nurse "OK, I am going to insert this into your urethra, and then-"
Tucker "WHAT?"
Nurse "I am going to insert this into your urethra, and-"
Tucker "NOPE! NOPE! NOT GOING TO HAPPEN! There is no way
you are putting that massive metal Q-tip INTO MY DICK HOLE. No
way."
Nurse "That's how we test for Chlamydia."
Tucker "No, there has to be another way. THERE HAS TO BE
ANOTHER WAY. This is the 21st fucking century, there is never a need
to stick metal into my dick. I'll pay-whatever, but THERE HAS TO BE
ANOTHER WAY."
Nurse "Not to test for Chlamydia, there isn't."
I argued with her for 30 minutes, until she finally gave up and got a
doctor. I argued with him for 20 minutes until he threatened to throw
me out or call the police unless I got the test. Who knew the word
"medieval quackery" could get someone so upset?
I wait for a week, making up bullshit reasons to turn down sex ("You
can't come over tonight, I promised my grandmother I'd watch Matlock
with her"), until my test result comes back, and much to my relief it was
negative.
My first thought, being a naive 22 year old was that she had just gotten
it somewhere else, and I got lucky.
About a month later I saw her best friend out at a bar (not the ugly one,
a different cute one). She saw me and started giggling and waving. At
first I thought she was hitting on me, which made me laugh. Females
are always fucking over their friends. So I went over and started talking
to her, but she and all her friends kept giggling at me and kinda
mocking me:
Tucker "What the fuck is so funny? Do I have a booger hanging out or
something?"
Girl "Heehehehehhehehehehehhehehe-I can't tell you, you'll get
mad."
Tucker "Just fucking tell me."
Girl "Well ... Stephanie's friend is a nurse and she took someone
else's positive test, whited out the name, put her name in there,
photocopied
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it, and sent it to you! Heheheh!"
Tucker "What? She never had Chlamydia? So there was no chance
that I had Chlamydia?"
Girl "Nope! Hehehhehehehehhehehe! Isn't that funny?!?"
Tucker "I GOT THAT AWFUL FUCKING TEST FOR NOTHING?"
Girl "Hehehhehehehehhehehe!"
Tucker: 10
Stephanie: 500
Winner: Stephanie
And that marked the last time in my life I ever underestimated the
resourcefulness or motivation of a woman that I had wronged. Of course,
if I was smarter I would have just stopped wronging women and instead
been honest with both myself and them about who I was and
what I wanted, but that didn't happen for another few years.
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THE UT WEEKEND
Occurred-September 2002
Written-October 2002
Thursday
It's a typical Thursday in my life, noonish, I'm at the laundromat washing
my filthy rags, when my cell phone buzzes. It's my cousin, TheCousin,
who goes to the University of Tennessee.
"Dude- Tucker-I've got tickets to the UT-Miami game this weekend,
AND it's Homecoming. You have to come down. It's going to be
awesome."
I need no other persuasion. Check last minute flights to Knoxville:
$1047. Looks like I'm driving. The drive is no problem, until I get about 60
miles from the Kentucky Tennessee border. I stop at some low-rent
redneck place so I can pick up beer for the last hour of the drive. I want
to arrive prepared.
I had heard about "dry" counties before, but they were still an abstract
and foreign concept to me. I thought of them as silly anachronisms
from a long distant prohibitionist past, something only found in the
pages of National Geographic. I was wrong. Evidently, every county
along 1-75 from Richmond, KY to the Tennessee border is dry. THIS
INFURIATED ME. I almost got into a fight with the redneck checkout
woman when she told me I have 40 more miles to go before I could
buy liquor.
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ARRIVE DRUNK IF YOU WON'T SELL
ME LIQUOR?? WHAT KIND OF BARBARISM IS THIS??"
I stopped right across the Tennessee border, excited by the sign that
says "First Place to Buy Beer." But at the gas station, there didn't appear
to be any alcohol for sale. I inquire:
Tucker "Don't you sell alcohol?"
Attendant "No, we're too close to a church."
Tucker "What? Didn't Jesus drink wine?"
Attendant "Yeah, well, 'round here, ya gotta go-on down da road
bout'a half mile, to da bar."
Driven by my need for libation, I "go-on down da road bout'a half mile"
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and find, literally, a bar with a drive-thru liquor store attached. But
apparently, this wasn't enough. They had firecrackers for sale, right there
next to the beer, in the drive-thru liquor store. I'll just pause here and
let everyone make up their own redneck jokes.
I arrive at my cousin's apartment, and it's a TV cliche of a college
apartment; beer cans piled to the ceiling, pubic hairs all over the sink,
filthy underwear hanging from the lamps. I go to get a beer from his
fridge, and what does he have? Cans of "Country Club Malt Liquor."
Sometimes, I really do think that God hates me.
After enduring a few cans of this ghetto swill, we head out to a line of
bars that everyone in Knoxville calls "The Strip." Typical college town
with typical college bars, we pick one and start the night.
Not ten minutes later, three girls walk in-two are attractive, one is fat.
My cousin tells me that one of them has been sweating him for
months. Which one? "The fat one."
I immediately walk over and point out my cousin to Fatty, and she almost
knocks me and a random girl over to get to him and give him a
hug. He gives me a look of, "I fucking hate you, and hope you
immediately die an agonizing death."
The rest of the night saw two dramas play out simultaneously: While my
cousin tried to fend off the obvious and painful advances of Fatty, on my
side the two attractive girls were battling to decide which one was going
to hook up with me. It wasn't that I was so incredibly charming. The 1st
Law of Scarcity was at work; two of them plus one of me equals my
desirability increasing substantially. It was awesome. They were being
catty bitches to each other, each one trying to monopolize my attention
and push the other one out. It was like a bad episode of Elimidate.
Apparently, I didn't have much of a say in the matter, but I was rooting
for the short girl; she had the better face, and seemed somewhat
intelligent.
My cousin saw what was going on, knew I liked the short girl,
knew I was drunk, and set the match to the gasoline:
TheCousin "Hey Tucker, you know she's French, don't you?"
Tucker "Oh hell no-You're French?"
Girl "My parents are, but I was born here. I want to move to France
after graduation."
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Tucker "You fucking cheese-eating surrender monkey. I thought
someone stunk around here. So if I start speaking German can I push
you around and take all your stuff? Those hairy fucking stink-bags would
be speaking Kraut right now if it wasn't for us, and they aren't the least
bit appreciative. I hope they all fucking die, and your frog-sympathizing
ass with them."
That pretty much settled it: I am going home with the tall one. The four
of us head back to her apartment, and as we walk in, she tells us to be
quiet, because her roommate is sleeping, and she is bipolar and will
flip out. Telling me this, especially when I'm drunk, is akin to letting a
starving, rabid pit bull loose in a Montessori school.
"Give me and TheCousin ten minutes with her; she'll be trying to hang
herself with her pantyhose. HEY-CRAZY! COME OUT HERE. I
WANT TO POINT OUT YOUR FLAWS AND SHORTCOMINGS. I BET
YOUR DAD DOESN'T LOVE YOU, DOES HE?"
The tall girl and I eventually go into the bedroom, leaving my cousin on
the sofa to be devoured by Fatty. During foreplay banter, tall girl
makes a request:
Girl "Massage my forearm. It's sore."
Tucker "Right. The only way I'm doing that is if it's a post-coital activity."
Girl "What? I don't speak Spanish."
Oh boy ... it's a good thing I was drunk.
This girl had a nose job and told me that she has to use Q-tips to get
the boogers out of her nose, because the surgery left her nostril holes
too small for her fingers to get into. She got mad when I tested this by
trying to stick my fingers into her nose. By god, she was right; I couldn't
even get my pinky in there.
Ten minutes later she told me that she was so poor growing up that
there were times when she and her mom ate only potatoes and
peanut butter sandwiches. My response, "I guess stripping really does
pay sometimes, doesn't it?" She got mad, but hey, if she can't take a
joke, fuck her.
Friday
I wake up the next morning and find my cousin, naked, sheets
wrapped clumsily around his torso, asleep on the floor next to the
sofa. Why the floor? Because Fatty was so big that both of them
couldn't fit on the sofa at the same time. I was in tears laughing at the
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scene. We eventually leave, telling the girls lies about how we'll call
them later. As soon as we get outside, my cousin flips.
TheCousin "I cannot believe you made me do that. It was awful. She
said I was only the second person she'd ever had sex with, which I
don't doubt, because honestly-who would want to have sex with her?
Except for people whose asshole cousin set them up with her, of
course."
Tucker [I could barely get this out between fits of laughter] "She had a
hot face."
TheCousin "Oh yeah, asshole, she'd be hot as hell if she wasn't fat as
fuck. Eat shit and die, you cocksucker."
Tucker "Well, at least she had big tits."
TheCousin "Yeah, that was the best part. She thought she was hot
because she had such big tits, but you didn't notice them because they
were resting on her stomach. They were like bags of oatmeal."
I really hope his parents read this story.
TheCousin is currently finishing his undergraduate studies at the
University of Tennessee because he was kicked out of the Merchant
Marine Academy. Why? He was on restriction, and went off campus to
get a sandwich. He'd gotten in so much trouble during his four years
there, that this was enough to get him kicked out-THREE DAYS
BEFORE HIS GRADUATION. Yes, he is obviously related to me.
TheCousin and I went back to his place, and he took a shower,
scrubbing himself like a rape victim. He had a late English class that day,
and I decided to tag along and see what it was like. I went to public
school in Kentucky, and I say this now with full understanding of the
meaning: That class, a 300-level class, was possibly the biggest farce
of education I have ever seen. I've heard 14 year old meth-addicted
Thai prostitutes say more prescient things than the woman that was
supposedly a "professor." I had a hard time believing that this was a
class. I wish I could give you a recap of the conversation, but that
would be like trying to recount the disjointed ramblings of a senilic
nursing home sewing circle. That "school" is a joke. I would have
learned more watching a Special Olympics spelling bee.
After class, my cousin showed me around the campus. There were
beautiful women everywhere. Wanting to test my cousin's game, I
dared him to approach a random girl and invite her to the lacrosse
party we were going to that night. He casually sauntered up to a beautiful
girl, used some dumbshit line, and she looked at him with such
shock and disgust I almost fell over laughing. She looked like a homeless
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person had asked her to wash his ass. Of course, I wasn't helping
much. I came up right behind him and said, "Is he giving you that
lacrosse party line? It doesn't exist. If you show up to that address,
he's going to drag you into an alley and beat and rape you."
My cousin wasn't that upset, because he said that there would be
plenty of lacrosse groupies at the party. He calls them "Iacrossestitutes."
The highlight of the campus tour was when we came across this old
guy standing on a corner with a megaphone, preaching to everyone
about the Bible and Jesus and whatnot. He had serious mental
problems, but was nonetheless hilarious. I loved him. He was castigating
and vilifying every attractive girl that walked by. I stopped for awhile to
provoke him. Some samples:
Me "What do you think about that girl?"
Him "She will burn in the fires of hell for her heresy! The Lord forbids
such dress!"
Me "Hey man, what about her? Look at her skirt man, that's pretty
tempting."
Him "HARLOT! JEZEBEL! She is a WHORE, WANTON IN HER
DEBAUCHERY!!"
Me "Good Lord! Look at that blonde girl. I'd sell my soul for her."
Him "DO NOT FALL VICTIM TO HER TEMPTATION! She is a common
prostitute, smeared with the paint of seduction, flaunting her wiles
for Satan!"
Me "She owes us a rib, right?"
Him "MORE THAN A RIB! SHE OWES US OUR VIRTUE!! SHAMELESS
STRUMPET!!
For my money, there is nothing funnier than provoking idiots. I could
have hung out with that guy all day, but there was alcohol to be
consumed and women to be exploited, so it was off to the party.
My cousin is also the assistant men's lacrosse coach at UT. He would
play for UT, but he used up his four years of eligibility before he got
kicked out of the academy. He is like a grad assistant, and hangs out
with the team a lot, thus we went to their party that night at the
lacrosse house. At one point in the night, I got to trading stories, and
these three guys I met had some great ones:
Guy #1 told me that, ''I'm not drinking in the shower anymore, because
the last time I did that I woke up with no hair." Apparently, one time he
passed out in the shower, slammed his head on the wall and got a
concussion. His roommates, instead of helping him, came in and
shaved all the hair off his body.
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Guy #2 told me a story about how one time he got so drunk on Red
Bull and vodka that when he woke up the next day, his mother came in
his room and showed him the police report from the night before. He
had NO MEMORY of this, but, according to the police report, he had
driven his car into a house, fought the police when they came to the
accident scene, spit on several cops at the police station, and got a
QUI with a .25 blood alcohol level.
Guy #3 (actually TheCousin), told me a story about when he was in
Europe and hooked with up a Swedish girl. She was giving him head
when he started taking off her pants and said, "Alright, we have to
have sex," to which she responded, "I don't know-I can't have another
abortion." He said there is no quicker way to lose an erection.
We all agreed.
At some point later, I drunk dialed a friend of mine. The conversation
went like this:
Tucker "MY, waz up?"
Friend "Tucker, what are you saying?"
Tucker "Am I slurrin' my speech?"
Friend "Are you what?"
Tucker "Yeaaa, everbuddies a comedian."
I was sitting in the kitchen trying to hit on this one girl, and it wasn't
going well. So, in typical Tucker fashion I just swung for the fences:
Tucker "Why don't you come over here and sit on my lap."
Redhead "Why?"
Tucker "Because then your cooch will be up against my crotch."
It didn't work well.
People started doing keg stands, which led to perhaps the defining
moment of the trip. This one girl, who was ugly and a bitch (thus, didn't
have basic human rights) started doing one. Don't ask me why I did
this, because I have no idea why, but when she was upside down, legs
spread apart, I punched her right in the vagina. This caused her to
violently spit up the beer she was trying to consume, and fall backwards
into the two people holding her up, all of them splashing to the mud.
I ran off, laughing so hysterically I couldn't breathe. Thankfully in the
alcohol-addled confusion, no one noticed who did it.
I ended up leaving the party with a girl who was an alumnus (remember,
it was Homecoming). We'll call her "Melissa." The only problem
was that she didn't live in Knoxville, and I couldn't find my cousin or his
apartment, so we had to go to her friend's place where she was staying
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for the weekend. This wasn't that bad, except that we had to sleep
on the sofa. I hook up in style.
Saturday
The next morning Melissa and I start catching up on everything we
missed the night before. For instance, she didn't remember my name.
It turns out she is a Special Education teacher, and she told me some
great stories about her students. Sometimes when she gets frustrated
with them she'll start moaning and walking around all weird and say,
"I'm not Miss Cochran anymore, I'M A MUMMY!" then they all freak out
and run around the room screaming. Her school is by an Army base,
and every time a helicopter flies over, she yells at her kids, "WAVE!
Waveto the people dying for your country!" and they all run to the window
and wave at the helicopter.
She teaches kids in grades 2-4, and she often has them spell.
Sometimes, even though she uses simple words, she has to use creative
grammar to get them to understand what she wants them to
spell, and even then it doesn't always work. One spelling exchange:
Melissa "Is ... Is you my friend ... Is"
Kid "Yes Miss Cochran, I am."
Melissa "No, I want you to spell 'is.'''
She said the hardest part of the job is the random and violent emotional
outbursts of the kids. Many of them have severe behavioral
problems, and sometimes they just flip out. She's had to learn several
effective ways to "restrain them without leaving marks." One of the
best ways to control them is with sugar. Her quote, "Retards will do
anything for candy."
Some other random conversations:
Me "Do you actually call them 'retards.'"
Her "We're not supposed to."
Me "So that's a yes?"
Her "Well ... not to their face."
Me "Do you ever mess with them in a mean way, like tell them that
God hates them because they're retarded?"
Her "NO!"
Me "You ever put signs on their back that say 'Kick me, I'm
Retarded?'"
Her "NO! TUCKER!"
Me "Or make them wear a dunce cap that has 'Retard' written on it."
Her "NO! You're mean! What would you do if you had a retarded
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child?"
Me "I'd bash its head against a rock, and have another kid."
Her "Oh my god!"
She loved it. Thought I was hilarious. We were still talking about tards
when the girl she was staying with got up and started cleaning the
apartment and talking to Melissa. Then she abruptly turned to me, and
said, "I'm sorry, who are you?" Melissa cut in and explained, "Oh, this
is Tucker. He was too drunk to find his apartment last night, so we
came here." This explanation satisfied the girl. Later in their conversation
something was said, not directly to me, that I commented on.
Melissa turned to me and said, "Shhh. You can't talk-you're a random."
I got Melissa's cell phone number and eventually made it back to my
cousin's place. I changed clothes and we headed out for the pre-game
partying at the lacrosse house. On the way to the party, my cousin and
I stopped at a liquor store to pick up some hard stuff. I go in while my
cousin waits in the car, talking to someone on his cell phone. He later
described the next scene as such,
"I knew it was going to be trouble when Tucker came out of the liquor
store giggling like a 12-year old girl."
I had purchased Everclear, which is pure grain alcohol. 190 proof. The
bottle has three prominently displayed warning labels:
"Caution: Extremely Flammable!"
"Caution: Over consumption may be dangerous to health!"
"Not Intended to Be Consumed Without Non-Alcoholic Mixers."
Sounds like a wager to me!
I bought a liter of Everclear, a quart of Gatorade, and a can of Red
Bull, and poured all of it into my CamelBak. I come prepared.
We arrive at the lacrosse house, and I begin sucking back the
Everclear/Gatorade/Red Bull mixture, which I will hereafter refer to as
"Tucker Death Mix." It tasted like ghetto romance. It was awesome.
The lacrosse house sits in a busy corner on campus, and has a huge
wraparound porch, where me, my cousin, and a bunch of lacrosse
players and lacrosse-stitutes were hanging out. The only problem:
Everclear doesn't get me drunk. It turns me into a raving lunatic. It has
the same effect as a nail gun to my frontal lobes. I became Phinneus
Gage; I lost what little social tact I have, and shouted anything rude I
could think of. Starting with a 10 person audience, I started making fun
of everyone that walked by the porch. I was too drunk and maniacal to
remember everything that I said, but here is a sampling:
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• An ugly guy: "Holy crap, looks like God screwed up. Don't worry
you'll find an ugly girl that'll love you."
• A hot girl: "You have great tits; they'll get you a husband some day.
If you don't fuck them floppy, that is."
• A guy with orange, black and white camouflage overalls (UT colors):
"OH MY GOD! DID A BLIND PERSON WHO HATES YOU
PICK OUT YOUR CLOTHES! LOOK AT YOURSELF!? LOOK AT
WHAT YOU ARE WEARING!! YOU DEFINE THE WORDS "REDNECK
LOSER" EXAMINE YOUR LIFE!!"
• A big fat black guy with cornrows: "HEY HEY HEEY! FAT ALBERT
FUCKED LUDACRIS AND THEY HAD A SON!"
• A fat white guy in camouflage pants: "LOOK OUT! IT'S THE
PILLSBURY
COMMANDO! ALL YOU CAN EAT?!? THE JOKE'S ON
THEM!!! Hmmm, steak or chicken, steak or chicken? WHY NOT
BOTH? SAY GOODBYE TO ALL THE LEFTOVERS."
• A woman with the worst, most disheveled hair I have ever seen:
"OH MY GOD! Where did you get your hair done? A wind tunnel? A
bombing range? The "I Hate Myself Salon?" Hey grandma, the
heroin chic look went out years ago. Do you realize that you are in
public?"
• A guy with a mullet: "YEAAAAHHHH! My first mullet in Tennessee!
WELL STOMP ON FROGS AND SHOVE A CROW BAR UP MY
NOSE!! WELL PAINT ME RED AND NAIL ME TO THE BARN!!
HEY MAN! LET'S DRINK SOME MOONSHINE AND SET SOME
FIRES! COME ON BUDDY!!"
I was like this for a solid two hours. One girl had to go inside twice to
fix her mascara, which had run all over her face from the tears she
was crying while laughing. By the time we headed to the game, there
were about 40 people hanging out on the porch listening to me rip
everyone that walked by. I am convinced that the only reason no one
tried to kick my ass is because there were several large guys hanging
out with me.
Let me just say this: There is nothing better than college football
Saturday in the South. The weather is warm, the liquor is bountiful, the
barbecue is sumptuous, there are countless hot girls in sun dresses, and
all of it is topped off with three hours of brutal, modern gladiatorial
competition for your enjoyment. After the game, you go home, have
drunk sex and pass out. What beats that?
We get to the game, and our seats are 20 rows up on the 40 yard line.
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Awesome. The only problem: It's UT-Miami. I mean honestly, who do
you root for, the rapists or the murderers? I hate both teams. I figured
I would just root for myself to find a nice girl.
I got a free coke at the game by telling one of the black girls working
the counter that she looked "like a Hallee Berry posta." Some guy at
the game almost tried to kick my ass when he was looking for his
girlfriend, and I told him, "Your girlfriend left with a bunch of black guys."
This one girl, after drinking deeply from my CamelBak, informs that
she is not in a sorority. Why? Because she was kicked out for leaving
dirty condoms outside her room. She got mad when I asked her why
she didn't just save everyone the trouble and tattoo 'I'm a whore' on
her forehead.
My idiot cousin had spent the entire pre-game, and game itself, trying
to get laid by offering pulls from my CamelBak to every girl at the
game. I thought this was no big deal since alcohol kills bacteria and
germs. Yeah, well, apparently not these germs. Before halftime, I was
carrying the entire plethora of viruses, germs and bacteria of every
cocksmoking whore at UT. By the time I left the game I was so sick my
lymph nodes looked like I had goiter.
My cousin, a friend and I find my car, which was parked on a side
street, completely boxed in. The car behind us pulled up literally to the
bumper. Still feeling the effects of the Tucker Death Mix, I get in my car
and start alternately backing into the car behind me and bumping the
car in front of me. This doesn't bother me because I got this car for
free. After smashing into the car behind me a good five or six times, a
couple girls come out of the house across the street, and start yelling
at me from their porch.
"HEY!! THAT'S MY CAR!!"
"WELL WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PARK IT SO CLOSE TO MINE?"
"DON'T SMASH IT UP!"
"Alright, then come move it. I'll wait."
A reasonable request, I thought.
Instead, the girl just stood there for about 5 seconds, staring at me,
and then raised a large piece of posterboard that had, "Not So Fast My
Friend!" written on it. I hate Lee Corso, so I backed into her car a few
more times just for spite, and drove off.
I was home at 6, and by 8, I was dead. Saturday night in Knoxville,
and I couldn't make it out. Stupid poetic justice.
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Did I just pack it in? Nope. I called Melissa, and she came over to my
cousin's place, and we had a great time hanging out, eating pizza, and
having lots of sex. She stayed there all night with me. I have to say this
about the girl: she is awesome. I was a mess, blowing my nose,
coughing like a TB patient, farting like Jim Belushi, making rude
comments.
She was fine with it. I guess working with retards is the perfect
precursor to hanging out with me.
162
THE PEE BLAME
Occurred-July 2003
Written-July 2003
When I was visiting Austin, I met some frat guys at the University of
Texas. They were pretty cool (read: they worshiped me), so one
weekend I accepted an invite to a party they were throwing.
Let me explain something to all of you out there who didn't go to college:
The easiest place to get laid on earth (without paying) is an
American college campus. And the easiest place on a college campus
to get laid is a frat party. You don't need ANY game to get laid at a frat
party. You generally don't need much game to pick up 18-21 year old
girls anyway, but college frat parties are ridiculous. It's like a clearance
sale in the pussy aisle at the hook-up store; Everything Must Go! No
Reasonable Offer Refused!
One girl in particular drove this point home for me. Towards the end of
the night, I was walking to the bathroom to urinate, when I saw a girl I
had been talking to earlier. I called her over to me and explained my
problem, "I'm drunk and can't undo my jeans. I need to get them off or
I'll pee in my pants."
I fully expected her to look at me like I had just told her to kick a kitten
into a wood chipper. I mean come on-who would buy that stupid line?
A drunk college girl at a frat party, that's who.
She laughed, remembered my name from earlier, told me I was cute,
and undid my jeans for me. Well ... fuck me, it's time to push it. After
all, the only way to see how far she'll go is to ask, "Will you hold it for
me; I'm going to pee on my hands if I try to do it."
Laughing again, she led me into the bathroom, and though she declined
to actually hold my penis while I pissed, she did stand behind me, hold
my hips and say, "I'll stand here and be a spotter for you."
Tucker being Tucker, I decide to test her spotter skills. I pissed on the
wall to the right side of the urinal, and she laughed and said, "Move
left." I shifted all the way to the left, and pissed on the wall to the left of
the urinal. She giggled and kind of nudged my hips so that I peed in
the urinal. Meanwhile, she checked out my package the whole time; I
guess this was our foreplay.
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She then zipped my jeans back up, being considerate and observant
enough to make sure not to catch my penis in the zipper, and we got
another beer together. I honestly don't remember what I said to her
over the next ten minutes, but it ended with, "Let's get out of here," and
her following me home. I was only staying a block away from the frat
house, so this worked out well, as my driving skills at this point would
have been about equivalent to a narcoleptic chimp.
At my place, clothes come off and fucking starts. I am completely
shithoused drunk AND wearing a condom ... yeeeah, Tucker is not
coming tonight. I had a hard-on, but Jenna Jameson on prison-quality
crystal meth wouldn't have had enough energy and skill to get me off.
I started to slow down because I wasn't going to cum and I was tired
and drunk, but she was into it, and told me to keep going. What? Fine,
I go for another 5 minutes, get bored and stop ... and AGAIN she tells
me to keep going because she is close.
Well thanks bitch-I'M NOT.
I start pumping again, but the situation quickly becomes intolerable: I
can't feel anything, the latex is chafing and hot, and I am so drunk I am
about to vomit. Without any other options, I do something I have never
done before, and honestly didn't even think guys could do:
I faked it.
I swear to all I find holy (i.e. open bars, hot women and money I don't
have to work for), I pumped real hard for ten seconds and then
collapsed. She kind of let out a sigh, and said she wished I had kept
going because she was almost there. I started laughing, "Yeah, well
my penis has a mind of its own." We both pass out, me giggling to myself
about how sneaky I am.
The next morning I wake up completely covered in urine. I know it's
urine because it SMELLS. I know it's me because my side of the bed
is soaked, and she is on the other side of the bed and only slightly wet
on her side, not her crotch.
[The irony of this is revolting. Not even two months earlier, a girl peed
in my bed and I made fun of her ruthlessly for it. Yes the gods of alcohol
obviously have a sense of humor, and yes they are using it to mock
me.]
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My bed is completely fucked up. There is piss everywhere. What do I
do? Do I just accept the fact that I am an incontinent buffoon who wets
his bed?
No. I decide to stand against the gods, to deny them pleasure at my
expense and to change their bankrupt prophecy. Tucker Max does not
bow to fate. I get up and change my clothes, throwing my piss stained tshirt
into the washer. I delicately roll her onto my side of the bed, the
urine soaked side, and then pour some lukewarm water on her crotch.
As I do this, she starts waking up, so I shake her to confuse her and yell,
"Wake up. WAKE UP!"
She slowly wakes up, looks around, and is obviously still drunk.
Before she can even process what is going on I tell her to look down.
She sees the massive dark stain and feels her wet shirt (We both had
shirts on, as we were too drunk/horny to fully disrobe before fucking).
I help her out in case she is still confused:
Tucker "You fucking pissed my bed. You PISSED in my BED."
Girl "What?" She reached down and touched the sheets, "OH MY
GOD!"
Tucker "Why would you do this? Could you not find the toilet?"
Girl "No ... I ... this never ... I've never ... oh dear god!"
Tucker "God is not going to clean this piss up."
Girl "I'm so sorry, I've never ... I can't believe I was that drunk. I am so
embarrassed."
Tucker "No shit. I'd be embarrassed too if I pissed in someone's bed."
I got up and went to the bathroom because I just couldn't hold in my
laughter anymore. I came back to my bedroom and she was standing
there, in utter disbelief, staring at the bed, nearly in tears. She turns to
me and says,
"I can't believe I drank that much last night ... I still have to pee right
now! How could I pee all that out in my sleep and still need to pee
more in the morning???"
I almost lost it again. I had to leave the room, pretending to be in anger
but nearly biting through my hand to suppress the laughter. I got into
the shower and laughed for a good ten minutes while in there.
When I got out she had already stripped the sheets and put them in
the washer, on top of my piss clothes that she didn't notice. She
apologized about 100 times, wrote me a check for a new mattress, and
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then got out of my place as soon as she could. Predictably, she did not
leave a number. I nearly framed the check. I didn't cash it because even I
have limits on how much I will exploit someone. I took all her dignity, I
didn't need her money too.
166
TUCKER GOES TO A HOCKEY GAME
Occurred-October 2002
Written-November 2002
Sometimes even I need a night off, and after an intense Thursday and
Friday I decided to spend a relaxing Saturday hanging out with a
friend of mine from high school who happened to be in town that night,
"Mark."
He shows up at my place around 4pm with a 3D-pack of Old Style,
which we manage to polish off rather quickly. As I am trying to decide
how to steal some more beer from my neighbors, a commercial comes
on for a regional minor league professional hockey team, which
coincidentally has a game in two hours. Mark wants to go see hockey.
He considers it the best idea of all time. I disagree. I want a relaxing
night.
Somehow he manages to convince me that drinking 15 beers and
then going to a hockey game can qualify as a "relaxing night." But not
only does he want to go to the hockey game, he desperately wants to
bring the CamelBak, having read about it in the UT Weekend story. I
pause and consider my options. I can:
A) refuse to go anywhere, knowing myself well enough to see that this
night is obviously on course to become a catastrophic trainwreck.
B) agree to go to the hockey game, but refuse to bring along the
CamelBak, because it will quite obviously result in my early demise.
C) say "fuck it," tl1row all caution and temperance to the wind, go to the
game with the CamelBak full of Tucker Death Mix, and dare the
consequences of my actions to catch up with me.
You've read my other stories, what do you think I did?
I load up the CamelBak with Tucker Death Mix, but this time, instead
of Everclear, I use real Kentucky moonshine. My mother lives in Kentucky,
and one of her neighbors makes moonshine in his barn.
Seriously.
167
We arrive at the arena fully shit-housed. We don't have tickets, and
the only scalper we can find has got to be the dirtiest, poorest, shittiest
looking crack addict in Chicago. He is trying to sell two ratty tickets.
They look like he got them with a McDonald's Super Value meal. This
does not stop me from bargaining with him. I am a master negotiator,
especially when drunk:
Tucker "How much for the tickets?"
Crack fiend "40 each."
Tucker "Get the fuck outta here? Do we get a handjob too? Are you
kidding? I'll give 20. Total"
Crack fiend "Awww, come'on man. Deez is good seaats, yo."
Tucker "You know ... scalping is illegaL"
Crack fiend "Man, don gimme dat shit. Deez is 8th row, at the co'na."
Tucker "40 is steep. After all, you're just going to spend the money on
crack."
Crack fiend "Man, fuck you."
We settle on $40 total, find our seats right before the game starts, and
much to my displeasure, there are about 10 women total in the entire
arena. Not that we came to the game to pick up girls, but there is always
that hope. I loudly say to Mark, "Jesus H Christ. What the fuck is this,
Gay Hockey Night?" These two dorks on the left look at me horrified,
while the old guys on the right start laughing. Fuck the idiots on the left.
We start talking to the old guys, bitching about women and whatnot.
One of them starts telling us a story. "Yeah, I was with these two
beautiful girls the other night. Wonderful girls. The night was going great
until they started using all sorts of horrible four-letter words. Horrible,
horrible four letter words, like "can't" ... "won't" ... "don't" ... "stop."
Horrible, horrible four letter words." These old guys were cracking us
up. Of course, we were quickly approaching Tucker Max Drunk; a
dancing Tele-Tubby would probably have had us in tears.
Because I can see the entertainment value from miles away, I start
talking to the low-rent metrosexual on my left. I immediately wanted
to punch him in the face. He was one of those annoying
pseudointellectuals; horn-rimmed glasses, drinks Pinot Grigio by the
glass at bars, buys poetry books but never reads them, avoids red meat,
shops at the Kiehls counter, acts indignantly offended by Howard Stern,
likes to drop names like "Foucault" and "Sartre" in normal conversation.
We all know one or two. I kept laughing to myself, because he looked
exactly like Chachi from Happy Days. He thought he was better than me
because I was drunk and acting like an idiot, while he was composed
and polite. Yeah, I got something for him.
168
He condescendingly asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm a writer.
Then the fun began:
Him "Hmm. I used to be a writer, until I went to law school" A fastball
down the middle.
Me "Really? I never would have guessed. Where'd you go to law
school?"
Him "The University of Texas."
Me "Well, I guess not everyone can go to a good school. So what did
you write?"
Him "Mostly freelance think-pieces for magazines and newspapers."
Me "So you were an out-of-work copy editor?"
Him "Uh ... no. My last piece was published in the Utne Reader."
IS THIS GUY FUCKING SERIOUS?
Me "I bet you're very proud." I laughed, but he just ignored me. "So
what do you do now?"
Him "Uh ... well, I'm a lawyer. That's why I went to law school"
Me "Suuuper. So, Chachi, where are you from?"
Him "I'm from Texas."
Me "I bet you were real popular there."
He didn't respond. Mark and I order a couple more beers. The game
was boring, so I keep fucking with Chachi. His aggravation is growing
visibly, but he's the type that signs anti-sweatshop petitions, so I'm not
concerned about any forthcoming violence. I continue:
Me "I've been to Texas. I liked it. But I've heard some strange things
about the laws there. You're a lawyer: Is it true that you can have open
containers in the car, as long there is one less than the number of people
in the car?"
Him "Uh ... I'm not really sure. We didn't really study that in law
school"
Me "Did you ever drink?"
Him "Uh ... yeah."
Me "And you never drove afterwards?"
Him "Uh ... no."
Me "You don't believe all that Mothers Against Drunk Driving propaganda
do you?" He ignored me, so I continued, "Is it true that in Texas
you can shoot someone if you find them sleeping with your wife?"
Him "No, that's not true. It's a myth."
Me "I don't know Chachi, I think it's true. What about if you come
home, and you find a guy on your porch, nosing around, and your wife
is inside, and she's naked. Can you shoot him then?"
Him "No."
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Me "What about your wife, can you shoot her?" He didn't answer.
"What if there's a guy in your yard, and he's naked, and he's looking at
you funny. I bet you can shoot him then."
Him "No, you can't."
Me "What if some guy is on your porch, and he's dancing all funny, like
a hippie, and your wife thinks he's attractive? Can you shoot either of
them? What is the self-defense standard in Texas-'He needed
killin'?",
Him "What? Are you serious?"
Me "I'm just trying to figure out the law here buddy. You never know
when you might have to come out blazing."
He and his friend get up and leave, but he leaves his beer in the cup
holder. As soon as he was out of sight, I pour half his beer into mine,
finish it off, and head to the bathroom. When I get there, I see Chachi
standing at the urinal, so I bust out in song:
"THE STARS AT NIGHT, ARE BIG AND BRIGHT [CLAP] [CLAP]
[CLAP] [CLAP] DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!!"
He looks over, not amused. I make a little gun with my thumb and
index finger, point it at him, and go "POW!" He is even less amused.
Fuck him if he can't take a joke.
The second period comes around, and Chachi doesn't return to his
seat, so I finish his beer. He's not going to need it. Mark is busy sucking
on the CamelBak, and appears ready to slip into a coma. Then it
happens, that defining moment that I wait for every time I go out drinking:
Right before the second intermission, some guy comes up and asks
our section if anyone wants to go on the ice and shoot pucks against
the mascot,
"OH ME ME ME!! I WANT TO DO IT!! ME ME ME!!"
The guy kinda stares at me hesitantly, but since no one else in the %
full section dares get up and challenge my drunken enthusiasm, I
become the chosen one. I get down to the staging area behind the
penalty box, and the other two participants are a girl who was so
skinny she looked like she spent three weeks on the Miami 48-hour
Miracle Diet, and a fat guy who uncannily resembled the Comic Book
Guy from The Simpsons. I asked him if he owns a comic book store,
and I guess this is a joke he's heard often, because he got kinda mad
at me. Unsure of how to react to his visible anger, I say "Worst.
Reaction. Ever." This didn't help.
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The waifish usher explains the rules to us: We get a hockey stick and
a puck, and are allowed to take one shot against the mascot, this big,
furry, dog looking thing. Anyone who scores gets tickets to the next
game. I chime in, Tucker "I don't want to go to the next game. This place
sucks."
Usher [stares at me with contempt for a minute] "You can't take your
beer on the ice with you."
Once on the ice I flip off the crowd, and start my advance on the mascot.
Right before I am about to shoot the puck, genius strikes me.
I hurl my stick at the mascot to confuse him, kick the puck into the
goal, tackle the mascot into the net, pull his jersey over his head, and
start delivering directed body shots into his ribs.
Raise your hand up if you've ever heard a professional team mascot
say "What the fuck are you doing, you asshole?"
I'm not sure if I have ever laughed so hard as when this big fuzzy
brown head let loose with a rapid fire barrage of curse words. I am so
in tears laughing at him, that I can barely keep up giving him body
shots. Of course, my laughter only makes him madder, and I eventually
lose the upper hand. He gets me rolled over and ends up on top of
me. He is now completely engrossed in the fight, and starts hitting me
back, all while I am laughing hysterically.
The crowd went nuts. I mean honestly-picture this scene in your
head.
I have no idea who
took this pic, it was
anonymously sent to
I me a week or so after
the fight. Thanks, I
guess.
The entire time, the announcer is standing 10 feet away, completely
dumbfounded. He had no idea what to do or say, until the mascot got
on top, when he finally comes over and pulls the mascot off of me. It
actually took him a few minutes to get the mascot composed. The
mascot had completely lost his shit; he wanted to keep fighting me,
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especially after I got up and threw my hands in the air, receiving
boisterous cheers from the crowd.
I was escorted off the ice, to continued cheers, when someone who
appeared to be in charge started throwing around a lot of fancy legal
words like "assault" and "battery." I paused, staring at him while I
composed my thoughts, and said,
Tucker "I'm sorry, but I stand by my decision. I am now a member of
the elite club of people that have fought a professional team mascot.
You sir, are not in that club."
He stared at me, completely silent, for what seemed like three or four
minutes, and then just turned and walked away. I was kicked out of the
area, and told not to ever come back.
I had to wait by the car for a good hour and a half until dumbass Mark
came stumbling out. When I asked him why he was so late, and didn't
leave when I was kicked out, he looked at me strangely and said,
"You got kicked out? What did you do?"
172
THE ABSINTHE DONUTS STORY
Occurred-November 2002
Written-November 2002
I used to think that I'd seen everything. I had experienced so many
things that I had become jaded with life; nothing affected me anymore.
I was world-weary.
That was before I drank absinthe. That devil juice is brewed from the
urine of Lucifer. Now I know why Van Gogh cut off his ear and why
Toulouse-Lautrec painted funny looking midgets; it wasn't mental illness,
it was the goddamn absinthe.
A few weeks ago, one of myoid friends, we'll call him "Rich," was in
town to visit. This is the story of that night:
6:00pm: Rich shows up at my place. I have not seen Rich in 7 years.
He has put on at least 60 pounds of muscle. I am shocked at his size.
He is with one of his friends, "Eddie." They are both in an elite special
operations unit that is shipping to the middle east in a few weeks.
Eddie is Hispanic, tall, angry, and muscular. He looks around my
apartment as if deciding what piece of furniture he wants to break first. I
consider that perhaps this wasn't a good idea.
6:01: "So Tucker, I hear you finally learned how to drink a little bit?"
Rich smiles at me. They have 2 cases of beer with them. I think maybe
this is not such a bad idea after all.
7:00: They tell me some of the best stories I have ever heard. Many
are tales of clandestine and violent death brought upon unsuspecting
international terrorists or stories of sex with third world hookers. I think
that this was a good idea.
7:05: We finish our first case.
7:45: I tell them two of my best stories. They are in tears laughing.
Eddie tells Rich that he was right, I am the funniest guy he's ever met.
I now think that this was a great idea.
8:40: We have finished both cases. I am already 6 beers behind each
of them, and feeling the alcohol. They look like they could do an iron
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man triathlon right now, even after 18 beers. I begin to think that
maybe I am not in their league, drinking wise. This worries me. Then I
remember that I am Tucker Max. I am no longer worried.
8:45: Eddie thinks my site is the greatest piece of literature in existence.
He says that he aspires to be like me. He wants to hear more
stories about me ridiculing fat people and hooking up with hot girls. I
decide he is one of my best friends.
8:49: We walk to a pasta bar for dinner. The waitress is immediately
displeased by our behavior, "We usually don't get people as drunk as
you coming in here." I decide her attitude needs an adjustment, "Do you
know who these guys are? They routinely risk their lives so you are
free to toss your fat ass around Lincoln Park like some haughty tramp,
and you question them? Woman, get us some food and liquor, and be
quick about it."
8:50: The manager asks us to leave.
8:58: We go to McDonald's. The woman in front of me in line spends
more than 5 seconds contemplating her order. This infuriates me,
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?? MC-SEABASS?? IT'S THE
GODDAMN MCDONALD'S MENU, IT'S BEEN THE SAME FOR TEN
YEARS! IT'S ALL MCSHIT! JUST ORDER!"
8:59: She quickly departs the restaurant. One might have described
her departure as "fleeing in terror."
9:00: I don't know what I want. I just point at the Dollar Menu and say,
"Give me all of that."
9:05: I am displeased with what I get. I try to send back certain items,
like the apple pie. The 14 year old Mexican boy working the Friday late
shift doesn't understand. I get frustrated and just throw everything I
don't like on the floor.
9:07: We decide to play Rich's favorite game: Window Pickle Races.
9:09: We have about 8 pickles on the window, each making ketchup
and mustard streaked trips to the bottom. We argue about who owns
each pickle. These become intense and profanity laced arguments.
Military guys use very creative curse words. I didn't even know I had a
"cock-holster" or a "man-pleaser."
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9: 14: The last people finally flee in terror. The restaurant is empty. We
taunt them, and cheer as they leave. They, and their small children,
are all cowards.
9:15: The manager comes out and asks us to leave. Eddie is confused,
"We can't get kicked out of McDonald's? This is like the DMZ of
drunk eating. THIS IS WHY WE CAME HERE!"
9:16: The manager is a frail Mexican woman. She is scared of us. She
goes behind the counter, then tells us to leave again. She waves the
phone at us, threatening police intervention. We go.
9:45: We arrive at the party. I find the friend who invited me, and
introduce
my friends.
9:46: We are apparently drunker than I calculated. My friend is appalled,
"Dude, man ... I told you not to show up this drunk."
Apparently he is confused. I politely attempt to straighten him out,
"Who the fuck are you talking to?" This angers him, "Man-look
around. This isn't that type of party."
9:47: I spend a good 45 seconds perusing the scene. It is a large
townhome. There is a big bar, with a bartender. There is a table of hors
d'oeuvres. I see several button down striped shirts. A few anti-war
buttons.
A couple guys holding glasses of pinot grigio. I tell my friend,
"You sir are incorrect. It most decidedly IS that type of party."
9:48: We walk directly to the bar. I turn to my friends, "Gentlemen this
is going to be a show. You kill terrorists; I destroy poseurs and idiots.
Get a drink and watch the artist at work. These people think
they're better'n me."
9:48: I order 3 top shelf vodkas. They only have well. This angers me,
"WHAT KINDA LOW RENT SHIT IS THIS?" I argue with the bartender.
I think he is hiding the good stuff from us. I tell him that my friends kill
people for a living, and that unless he produces good vodka, he will
become a "target of opportunity."
9:50: An attractive girl comes up and asks what the problem is. I tell
175
her that the rat-fink bartender is trying to make us drink cheap donkey
piss. She laughs at this. I shamelessly flirt with her. She flirts back. I
tell her that flirting is nice, but it's not getting me drunk. She looks at
me seductively, and tells me to follow her upstairs. "Can my friends
come?" She smiles, "Of course."
9:51: Eddie whispers in my ear, "Man, I thought your stories were at
least a little bullshit, but we haven't even had a drink and we're gonna
run train. Rich was right; you are the fucking MAN."
9:52: She takes us to a bedroom. There are a few other people there.
They are smoking pot and drinking. There is a solitary bottle on the
table with greenish liquid in it. The label has the word "Absinthe" on it.
I don't know what absinthe is. Whatever; if it is alcohol, I am not afraid.
9:53: The girl takes three glasses, pours sugar over ice, and then
pours the green liquid over the ice. It turns clear. This fascinates us.
She hands us the glasses, smiles, and says, "This is better than anything
down there."
9:54: I take a sip. Goddamn-my neck muscles flex involuntarily. I can
feel my heart start beating irregularly. This shit doesn't fuck around. I
drink more.
9:56: The girl starts kissing one of the pot smokers. Eddie whispers to
me, "So much for the gangbang." I frown at him, "How long have you
known women? Dude-They're all whores. Except our mothers. Just
stick to me, I'll find you some pink stink."
9:59: One of the guys tells us about absinthe. He says he brought it
back from Europe because it is illegal in the US. Apparently, it is very
strong (160 proof) and supposedly has hallucinogenic properties. I tell
him he smells like patchouli oil and bong water. Rich and Eddie laugh
hysterically. Tucker has an audience.
10:18: Absinthe is the fucking shit. I am on my second glass, and I'm
Fucked-in-Half drunk. Rich and Eddie want to see full-on Drunk Insult
Tucker. Loaded up with hallucinogenic alcohol, Tucker is happy to
oblige.
10:20: We station ourselves in the kitchen. A fat girl walks in. It's game
time, "Well, say goodbye to all the leftovers."
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10:21: Apparently, this fatty seems to think she can hang. The Iraqi
Army made better tactical decisions:
Fatty "What did you say?"
Tucker "Can you not hear me? Are your ears fat too?"
Fatty [Look of astonishment, stares at my friends cracking up] "EXCUSE
ME?"
Tucker "I'm sorry. Really I am. [I open the fridge] Would you like
cheesecake or chocolate cake? Probably both, I'm guessing."
Fatty [Turns and leaves in utter astonishment]
Tucker "Hey Sara Lee, I was only kidding! COME BACK HERE-MY
FRIEND LIKES TO GO HOGGIN. MORE CUSHION FOR THE
PUSH IN! IT'S LIKE RIDING A MOPED!!"
Tucker has arrived.
10:23: Rich knows me from undergrad, and knows how to provoke
me, "Come on man, you can do better. There are plenty of people
around here to make fun of." Express elevator to hell, going down. I
give him my voice recorder and a simple order, "Don't miss anything."
10:26: I see a girl wearing two colored tank tops over each other. This
is too easy:
Tucker "Hey 1985 Madonna, are you gonna get the person who did
that?"
Girl "Did what?"
Tucker "Spilled 80's all over you."
Girl [Confused look]
Tucker "I know I'd be pissed if I looked like an extra from Desperately
Seeking Susan."
10:29: Eddie points out a girl wearing the standard anti-globalization
outfit. It is topped off with a "No Blood for Oil" button. Rich whispers in
my ear, "You gotta get her. Come on man. Do it-for us ... for your
country." Eddie starts humming God Bless America.
10:29: I storm over. Rich says into the voice recorder, "Target acquired
... we are weapons hot."
10:30: I introduce myself to her as Alger Hiss. She doesn't get the
joke. Time to be blunt:
Tucker "Do you hate the World Bank?"
Girl "Uhh, umm, well, I mean, yeah, I feel that ... "
Tucker "You don't hate the World Bank."
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Girl "I don't?"
Tucker "No. You're mad at your father. You just want daddy to hug you
more."
Girl "What?"
Tucker "You were a sociology major weren't you?"
Girl "NO!"
Tucker "What was your major then? Cultural Studies?"
Girl [Pauses] "Uhhh, English Literature."
Tucker [Pause-to give her a look of contempt] "Did your parents send
you a bill for college? Do those Marxist Literary Critique classes help
you at Barnes and Noble?"
Girl "NO-I wor-"
Tucker "Shouldn't you be blocking an intersection right now? How
many anti-sweatshop petitions have you signed-EVEN THOUGH
YOU HAVE REEBOKS ON. Very-anti globalization to wear those with
your animal tested Clinique make-up made in Nepal. Well, at least
you're consistent in your shameless hypocrisy."
Girl "What a fascist piece of shi-"
Tucker "Wait-You ever wake up in the middle of the night because a
couple of cats are clawing each other to death outside your window?
That's what it's like listening to you speak."
Girl [A mishmash of stammered half insults]
Tucker "Seriously-If I stuck my dick in your mouth would that shut
you up?"
Girl "Wha ... YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!"
Tucker "HEY-Don't blame me for the wound in your crotch." [As I
walk off] "By the way, you owe us a rib."
10:31: I turn to Rich and Eddie: "She'll never recover from that. She'll
never be the same. I've completely ruined a human being. Years of
expensive therapy and costly drugs can't reverse that kind of damage ...
yeah, I have an upper management role in Hell reserved for me." Rich
looks at me and says into the voice recorder, "Damage assessment:
Total." I got the joke the next day.
10:32: We spend the next 45 minutes talking to girls. Surprisingly,
most do not seem thrilled to talk to us.
11:16: The fat girl from the first kitchen encounter comes over. With
reinforcements.
Her backup: A small frail dork that looks like he just finished
a Magic The Gathering tournament, a heinous Asian girl, and a
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greasy haired fat doofus in a camouflage vest. I ask you-Am I here
right now? Is this my life?
11:17: The girl starts saying something about what a horrible person I
am. I stare at her, but I am not listening. I am preparing myself. I am
B-Rabbit. This is the final battle rap. I will win the hostile crowd:
[I interrupt the fat girl] "Ward, I think you're being a little hard on the
Beaver, [as I point to each in turn] so is Eddie Haskell, Wally, and Mrs.
Cleaver."
[To the fat guy with greasy hair in the camo vest] "Look out everyone!
It's the Pillsbury Commando! Hey Chunk, when was the last time you
washed your hair? Does it give you more hit points to have that grease
helmet? I hate to break the news, but +5 defense only counts in
Dungeons and Dragons."
[To the ugly Asian girl] "Why you no rike me? You want me frip over?
You no piss me off! ME FIND YOU IN POCKING ROT!! YOU NO
TAKE MING ARIVE!!"
[To the small frail dork-I notice he has a lazy eye] "Dude-Look at me
when I'm talking to you-BOTH EYES AT ONCE. Are you really this
ugly or are you just playing? EVERYONE, BE CAREFUL, THIS GUY
LURKS UNDER THE STAIRS AND TRIES TO LICK YOUR SHOES
WHEN YOU PASS BY!"
[To the original fatty, pause for effect] "Why do you do this to yourself?
WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? Look, I'm gonna give you
some advice: Leave the party, take the geek squad with you, go to
Denny's, order about 10 Grand Slam Breakfasts, and eat your pain
away. Won't be the first time, will it?"
11:19: I am finished. The kitchen is quiet, except for Eddie and Rich
laughing. The four freaks are completely speechless. Everyone is
staring at me. I blurt out, "WHAT? I'm pretty sure it's what Jesus
would've done." Eddie and Rich promptly remove me from the kitchen.
11:42: The absinthe is kicking into third gear. I am feeling euphoric.
Manic even. This is the weirdest drunk I've ever had. I decide it is time
to get my little pencil wet.
11:54: I see a hot girl. I walk over and use one of my favorite lines, "Hi.
I haven't insulted you yet, have I?" She laughs. I am in.
11:58: I see the large diamond and accompanying gold band on her
finger. Hot Girl is Married Girl.
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12:06: I talk to Married Girl for a few minutes. I try to think of a good
way to broach the marriage subject to find out if she wants to hook up
with me. This is difficult, as my mind is a spinning miasma of absinthe.
12:07: I can't think of anything new or good, so I decide to go with my
standard married shtick, which has never worked for me, ever, not
even once:
Tucker "So you're married?"
Married Girl "Yeah."
Tucker "Is it a good marriage?"
12:08: Married Girl looks at me, looks down, looks back at me, and
almost
breaks into tears. Married Girl begins pouring her heart out to
me. I guess she didn't drink any absinthe. Because she is hot, I decide
to be nice to her.
12:23: Married Girl gets to an emotional part and does actually start to
cry. I suggest we go into another room so we can "talk in private."
Married Girl readily agrees and tells me that I am "so nice."
12:45: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Holy shit this is working!
Being nice is great! Who would have ever thought?!?
12:47: Married Girl breaks into tears again. I console her.
12:51: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
12:56: Married Girl breaks into tears. I console her. And undo her bra.
With one hand. I got skillz.
12:59: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
1:05: Married Girl breaks into tears. I just stare at her. I suggest to
Married Girl that perhaps the best thing to do right now is to go with
what feels natural, and not worry about other painful things in her life.
As proof that I am doing this, I tell her that my friends are shipping to
Iraq soon, but I'm still at a party hooking up with her. Married Girl
agrees with this logic.
1:06: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Clothes come off.
1:12: Married Girl breaks into tears. Again. "I don't know; I ... I ... I
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just can't do this. I'm not like this."
1:13: I get up and return to the party. Tears do not make hooking up
fun. Being nice sucks.
1:15: I tell Eddie there is a girl waiting for him in the bedroom next to
the guest bathroom. "Really?" I hand him a condom, "Oh yeah dude,
she was asking me all about you. She's already got her clothes off and
everything. Go to it."
1:16: Rich and I laugh hysterically as Eddie goes into the room. We
fully expect Eddie to come out any minute.
1:20: No Eddie.
1:25: No Eddie.
1:30: No Eddie. I want to go in and see what's going on, "Hey-it's my
pussy after all. I primed that pump!" Rich convinces me to stay away,
"Hey John Maynard Keynes; hold off. This could be the last pussy he's
getting for awhile. Military women are ugly."
1:43: The friend who told me about the party has been dispatched to
throw me and my friends out, "Dude, everyone here is scared of you.
Your friends are huge and you have successfully insulted everyone.
That one fucking girl you said owed you a rib or something-dude, she
was crying to [the host]. Literally crying. You're like Attila the Hun. You
laid waste to this party."
1:46: Rich convinces me that we should just leave Eddie, "Dude, he's
an operator. He can find his own way home. The kid made his bones
in Bosnia, I think he can find his way around Chicago."
2:04: Rich wants pussy. I take him to a club. I hate clubs.
2:05: We go to a place called Rive Gauche. It should be called Lotsa
Douche. Almost as soon as we walk in, some skinny shitbag idiot
starts spinning glow sticks right in my face. This enrages me. I shove
him down and kick him in the spine.
2:05: Rich bear hugs me and carries me to a VIP booth before anyone
figures out what happened.
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2:07: I pass out in the booth.
2:30: I wake up to see Rich trying to eat the face of some skank. She
looks like something he scraped off his shoe.
2:36: I am not feeling good. Mr. Absinthe is about to send me a bill for
his services.
2:44: I make it to the toilet. I can feel the vomit coming.
2:45: My intestines, without subtlety, tell me that I have a higher priority.
I nearly pass out on the toilet from my colon's version of Shock and
Awe.
2:47: As I am crapping out my internal organs, Mr. Absinthe teams with
Ms. Poetic Justice to eject everything in my stomach right out of my
face.
2:48: I lean to my left to prevent vomit from getting on my clothes, but
my shift moves my ass off the side of the toilet seat and causes me to
shit watery diarrhea all over the toilet seat and floor.
2:49: I look over at the shit, catch a whiff of it, and start vomiting again.
On top of the shit.
2:53: I stand up, clean myself, and survey the damage. It looks like a
tapioca abortion.
2:58: I come out of the bathroom and inform the line that "I am Shiva,
Destroyer of Worlds."
3:04: Back at the VIP table. Rich has nearly undressed The Skank and
is investigating all of her orifices. His hand will never smell the same.
3:12: The Skank has a friend. She is staggeringly drunk. She makes
fun of The Skank and tells me I am hot. Maybe clubs aren't so bad.
3:14: The Friend tells me I am way too sober. I agree. We go shot for
shot with vodka.
3:40: After about 3 shots, she tells me, "I think I am getting really
drunk. I always do stupid things when I'm drunk." Strike up the band,
we have a winner.
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3:50: Rich takes The Skank to the bathroom to fuck. The friend says to
me, "About time. I'm surprised she didn't just go down on him at the
table. That's what she did last weekend."
4: 12: The Friend does not mince words, "Let's get out of here. I don't
want to fuck in a club bathroom. I have standards ... well ... some
standards." I can't make this shit up.
4:15: The Friend hands me her keys. I ask her, "You want me to drive
your car?" She says, "Well, you're more sober than I am." This statement
makes me laugh. I am so drunk I am not sure I could read.
4:40: She lives far away. I don't know where I am.
4:45: We cannot find parking. She has me drop her off at her building
and tells me to come up when I find a parking place. I decide that she
is a bitch. I think that she will "accidentally" get my dick in her ass
when we are fucking doggy style.
4:50: I still cannot find ANYWHERE to park. This is infuriating me.
4:55: I parallel park the car into a space that is too small. I try to force
it in. The car gets stuck on the curb. I slam on the gas, the wheels spin
until they catch and jump the car onto the sidewalk, crashing it into a
storefront.
4:56: I get out of the car. I am INSIDE of a donut shop. With the car.
Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I investigate the damage.
There are broken and fractured tables scattered all across the store.
The car has only a few scratches. I am in shock and completely unsure
about what to do. I have never driven a car into a store before.
4:57: Thankfully the donut shop is closed and empty of people. I still
don't know what to do. I start laughing to myself. I look behind the
counter, but the donuts are all put away.
4:58: I decide that while I find this funny, the car owner, the donut shop
owner, and the police would not find it funny. The letters "DUI" leap to
mind. The phrase, "destruction of property" also appears. I decide that
felony hit and run is not funny anymore.
4:59: I pull the car out of the donut shop, park it in a tow zone, wipe all
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my fingerprints from the entire car, throw the keys into some bushes,
and take off running.
5:01: I get my cell phone and desperately call Rich. I tell his voice mail
that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should he tell The Skank what my
name is, who I am, or anything about me. It is Tucker Luck that on the
one night when I need to stay anonymous I have someone in special
forces to run my operational security.
5: 15: I am still running. I lost count of the number of blocks I had
traveled
somewhere around 30.
5:30: I finally get home. I am completely fucking exhausted and feel
like dying. I have probably only run like five or six miles but I know
what Pheidippides must have felt like. My feet are bleeding, but I am
safe. I pass out.
Epilogue
Rich was smart enough to not only give The Skank a fake name, but a
fake phone number. It's standard operating procedure for him anyway.
It's been awhile and I haven't seen anything in papers or police reports,
so I guess I am OK.
It turned out that Eddie and Married Girl hooked up about 4 times and
then they both passed out. The hostess found them the next morning,
screamed, both Eddie and Married Girl jumped up, threw on their
clothes and tore out of the house. Both were guests of people who
were invited, so neither knew anyone who lived in the house.
When asked about how he succeeded with Married Girl where Tucker
failed, Eddie simply smiled and said, "That was easy. I walked in and
she was already naked. The hardest part was done. After that it was
just a little patience and some sweet talking. Come on man; I run black
ops for a living-this was cake."
I have no idea what ultimately happened to that girl or her car. Oh
well ... next time she'll stay in the car with the guy until it's parked.
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THE MOST DISTURBING
CONVERSATION EVER
Occurred-November 2002
Written-December 2002
Part 1: Tucker meets adoring fans, gets cock-blocked
This particular Friday began innocuously enough at The Union, where
we drank as much beer as we could pour into our faces, as it was $5
all-you-can-drink from 5-8. The highlight of the early part of the night
was when I drunk-dialed one of the MTV producers, Serena [this was
about a week before MTV was set to do a documentary about me,
which aired in May 2003]. She had made the mistake of giving me her
personal cell phone number and telling me to call her "anytime you
have any questions or anything." That's like Chamberlain telling Hitler
he can have the Sudetenland. You give me an inch, I'm going to take
the whole thing.
Tucker "So when you film me, are you going to follow me everywhere?"
Serena "Yeah, that's the plan."
Tucker "Well, what if I hook up and the condom breaks. Are you going
to follow me to Walgreen's to get some Ru-486?"
Serena "We'll have to see about that."
Tucker "You have a sexy voice. What are you wearing?"
Serena "A muumuu."
Tucker "What?"
Serena "Tucker, I'm like 250 pounds."
Tucker [Long, drunken pause] "MTV better send a hotter producer."
Thankfully, she is smart and has read enough of my site so she picked
up on my drunk sarcasm. And more importantly, she is not even close
to 250.
I was drinking at an alarming rate and was well on my way to breaking
things and fornicating with hot girls, when some guy came up to me
and said, "Aren't you Tucker Max?"
He was a huge fan, and was all excited about meeting the actual
Tucker Max in person. I am not a big enough celebrity yet to be used
to this, so of course I ignored everything else and basked in the glow
185
of adulation as he introduced me to all his friends. Of course, that
adulation might have been from the five tequila shots I had done in the
past hour.
I can't remember what he and I talked about, but I'm sure it was about
how awesome I am. The funniest part was when he was ready for the
next round, asked if I wanted another one, then looked at my unfinished
beer, and said, rather condescendingly "Oh. You're not finished."
You gotta love it when your own fans are calling you out. I deserved it,
and I would expect nothing less. Hey, if I can't take a joke, then fuck
me.
As we were talking, this girl came up and basically wrapped herself
around me and started almost making out with me. I chatted with her
for about 20 minutes, when she said, "Let's go back to your place." A
confirming nod later she took my hand and we headed to the door. I
like my fans, but I am not passing up pussy for them, even though I am
pretty sure that guy said to me as I was leaving, "Tucker, what are you
doing? She's a high 2-star at best." I legitimately thought, at the time,
that she was a 4-star, and we all know that in these matters, perception
truly is reality.
Then came perhaps the greatest cock block I have ever seen. As we
were leaving, her friends, seemingly on cue, descended on her from
all different directions of the bar. I never even saw them coming. They
herded her away from me and into a cab, then piled in after her. The last
one turned to me and said, "Sorry, no more room in the cab." The last
thing I heard from inside the cab was the girl saying, "But I want to
have sex with him ... "
The bait and no-switch was such a shocking and unexpected turn of
events that I stood out there in the cold for awhile, staring at the taxi as
it drove off down the street. Eventually I just went back inside and
wandered around the bar like a lost vagrant. My mind was having trouble
shifting back into "Pursue" mode after being in "Gonna get laid"
mode. It was then that my cell phone rang, and part two of the story
began ...
Part 2: Tucker has the most disturbing conversation ever
I answered my phone, still in a daze from having eager vagina snatched
away from me. It was my friend Jez.
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"Hey what are you doing? Come up and meet us, we're at Felt. It's on
Halsted, right north of Belmont." Everyone who lives in Chicago knows
what's coming next.
I take a taxi and arrive to find a bar completely packed with dozens of
the best-dressed guys I have ever seen, and hardly any girls. Oh,
that's fucking great Jez, thanks for bringing me up here, how am I
supposed to pick up a girl at this fucking sausage-fest ... TWO GUYS
ARE KISSING IN THE CORNER!!
Jez comes running over and gives me a big hug and a kiss. She is
wasted. "Come meet my gay friends. One of them looks just like
Christian Slater!"
I am dragged over to the faux Christian Slater and the rest of the gay
friends, and introduced ''This is my straight friend Tucker. Isn't he so
cute!!" They all readily agree, and I desperately feel the need for an
alcoholic drink. I tell the bartender to just bring me anything strong. That
short-sighted comment is immediately rewarded with a raspberry long
island iced tea. I suppress the urge to throw the drink in his face, and
then pay him $10 for it. I guess I'm gonna get fucked one way or another
tonight.
Having cut my clubbing teeth in South Beach at clubs like Twist and
Swirl, I am used to hanging out around gay guys, and thus am
completely comfortable around them, but this was a totally different
experience. In South Beach, the coolest clubs are the "gay clubs," but it's
usually pretty obvious who is gay and who is not. The gay guys are
flamboyant and entertaining, real thin, drink bright colored drinks, and
wear dazzling, shiny clothes. The straight guys wear tight shirts and
hang out in packs, waiting for opportunities to hit on the numerous hot
girls that go to those clubs "just to dance."
Not in Chicago. In Chicago, the gay guys look and act just like straight
guys, except they accessorize better ... and, you know ... fuck other
dudes in the ass.
I was at the table with a girl and three guys, each of which looked and
acted just like any of my other friends, except they were better
dressed. After I got used to it, I was actually thankful to be hanging out
with these great looking guys, all of which are gay, because it just
means less competition for me. Ask any of the 40 or so straight guys
who have attended Vassar over the past decade; having lots of gay
187
guys around means the girls will be desperate. Unfortunately, there
were no girls around except for the obligatory fag hags, which did not
tickle my loins.
So being bored and Tucker Max, I couldn't resist the temptation to
start quizzing these guys. There are just so many questions. I started
off by throwing one out to the table:
"Alright guys, seriously, what is it about sucking dick that you like so
much?"
They went on to explain that sucking dick is all about imagining it to be
your own dick, "You just treat it like a little version of you." They also
told me that getting your dick sucked by a guy is much better than by
a woman, because, "We know what we want. Women don't have
dicks, they don't really know how to deal with them like we do."
It turned out that two of the three guys had been with multiple girls;
Christian Slater had been with like 10 or so, and Adam had been with
about 8, so they had a reasonable basis for comparison. I guess I'm
just going to have to take their word for it.
We leave Felt and decide to go to Manhole. Just by the name, you
should be able to discern some things about Manhole. But let me be
clear for the stupid readers, like my cousin: Manhole is a famous gay
club, and it is famous for a reason, namely, lots of gay "things" go on
there.
On the way there, Adam expresses concern for me, "Tucker are you
sure you want to go here? This place is very ... free."
Bitch, please. I'm not about to avoid such great story potential just
because of some swinging dicks, "Dude, I grew up in South Beach. I've
been to Thailand. There is nothing in there that could shock or disturb
me." Truthfully, I've never actually been to Thailand, but I wasn't going
to miss out on this.
The club opened into a huge room, and ended in a tunnel that led to
another huge back room. The front room had a large, star-shaped bar
in the center of it. The ceiling was ringed with dozens of TV's, much
like your average sports bar. Unlike your average sports bar however,
the TV's were not featuring athletic competition. That is unless you
consider vigorous and explicit gay sex between men hung like Tijuana
mules to be a sport. The walls were a dark, dingy brown. I stayed at
least two feet from them at all times. And my favorite part: Every guy
had his shirt off. Except me. And it was going to stay that way.
Jez and I get in line for the bathroom, and every guy in line immediately
pushes her to the front. She asks why, and they say, "Because
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you actually have to go." The door opens and three guys come out of
the one-toilet bathroom together. The last one stops, says, "Oh wait, I
have to pee," and heads back into the bathroom.
Jez and I decide to go in the bathroom together. We walk in, and I
make her close the door, because I don't want to touch it. The walls,
which were originally some shade of orange, were now an oily brown,
having been re-painted with splooge. Some of the stains were like 10
feet high on the wall. Who was fucking in here, Peter North? I pee in
the sink and quickly exit, not touching any surface.
Some random events over the next few minutes: One guy asked me if
I liked football, and he said his favorite teams were the Packers and
the Titans, though he liked them better as the Oilers.
I asked the only girl in the place other than Jez if I could feel her tits.
She said sure, and I gave them a good slapping. It was awesome. She
loved it because she thought I was gay and thus safe, and I loved it
because I am straight and she had great tits. Everybody wins!
Jez and I took a spot next to the front bar, and her gay friends
immediately surrounded us. Jez was mostly talking to Adam and
Christian Slater, while the other guys, Lloyd, Dave and Mike talked to
me.
The three of them were right up on me, each with their shirts off. They
began asking me about the gay porn showing in the TV screens, and
whether that offended me or made me uncomfortable.
"No, not really. Porn is porn; I've seen so much in my life I've become
inured to it. Most of the shots are up close, too. You can't even tell if it's
a male ass or a female ass getting fucked until they pan out."
After they realized I was not averse to discussing gay topics and was
relatively comfortable in a gay environment, the fucking floodgates
opened.
The first subject was something I knew nothing about, and was actually
kind of interested in, in a sort of clinical, sociological kind of way:
How do gay guys decide who fucks who? I mean, when two guys go
home, do they flip a coin? Play rock, paper, scissors? How does that
work?
They explained that there are two types of gay guys: Tops and
Bottoms. Tops are the ones that like to do the fucking, the pitchers, if
you will, and the bottoms are the ones that like to get fucked, the
catchers. Most gay guys have a preference, but can go either way,
189
though there are a certain percentage that are only one way or the
other. So if two Strict Bottoms go home together, then no one gets
fucked, though there is still the oral sex option. This really was
remarkable info to me. I just assumed that when you went home with a
guy, you fucked him and then he fucked you, but that is rarely, if ever,
the case.
One of the TV screens was showcasing a gay guy tossing another guy's
salad, and we began discussing the finer aspects of such activity.
I admitted that I had never eaten out a girl's ass, but that I had had
girls do it to me, and that yes, I liked it, especially when the girl jacked
me off as she was doing it. They started telling me all these trade secrets
about tossing salad and the various ways that one could improve
it. They even asked me whether I washed my ass before I had my
girlfriend go down there. I told them that I was courteous and did indeed
clean myself beforehand. Dave told me I was "well trained," because
there is nothing worse than going down there and finding it "all grainy."
Then it got a little weird. Dave started testing my limits. It is apparently
break me in:
Dave "So, would you ever let a guy eat out your ass."
Tucker "No, I'm not gay. And that would be weird."
Dave "Right, but if you aren't looking you'd never know if it's a girl or
guy."
Tucker "I don't know about you, but I usually look at the people who
put their tongue in my ass."
Dave "What if your girlfriend started it out, but then a guy moved in and
finished. You would never know."
Tucker "I mean, I don't know, I guess ... but ... what kind of girl
would ... look, I'm not gay."
Dave "You know, gay guys give the best head. We teach female porn
stars how to do it."
Tucker "I don't doubt that, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm not
gay. I don't like dick. Except for mine, of course."
Dave "'like yours too."
Tucker "That's pleasant."
From that point on, it became a game of advance and retreat with
these guys. They would test my sexuality with questions like that, and
I would have fun talking to them about it, but would always draw the
line before they suggested we head into the bathroom. The weird thing
was, because I was straight, I had probably three of the hottest guys in
there hitting on me, especially Dave. That guy could get so much
pussy if he was straight.
190
It was a very unique feeling, to be so actively and aggressively pursued
by guys. Now I know what hot girls feel like, being hounded by
multiple guys at once. On one hand, it is a flattering feeling because of
the attention and the obvious desire for you, but it kind of leaves a
mildly annoying and hollow tang, because you know that all the guys
really want to do is fuck, and they only care about you because of what
you represent to them, not who you are as a person.
OH JESUS-DID I JUST WRITE THAT?
At one point during a lull in the conversation, a random gay guy got
involved in our conversation, and figured out that I was straight and they
were trying to get me to have a homosexual experience. He dropped
possibly the biggest, most disturbing conversation bomb EVER
DROPPED ON ANYONE EVER:
[WARNING TO ALL GUYS: You want to stop reading here. The
conversation I am about to recount prevented me from sleeping for a full
two days, and has permanently and irreversibly scarred me. Save
your psyche while you still can. Women have nothing to fear.]
Him "I bet you've already slept with a man."
Tucker "Alright, come on man-I invented Tucker Max Drunk, but not
even Tucker Max Drunk makes you switch teams."
Him "How many women have you been with?"
Tucker "I don't know, somewhere in low three digits."
Him "Oh yeah, I bet you've fucked a man."
Tucker [Getting obviously frustrated] "How??"
Him "I have three words for you: Post Op Transsexual."
It took a few seconds for the full meaning and significance of that
statement to filter through my drunken brain.
Tucker "What? Get the fuck out of here. I've never fucked one of
those."
Him "You wouldn't know."
Tucker "Man, give me some credit."
Him "Have you ever slept with a woman who told you she couldn't
naturally
lubricate, that she had to use KY?"
Oh no.
Tucker "Well ... yeah ... two, actually."
Him "Uh-huh."
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Tucker "No. No way. Stacey was one, I went to college with her, she was
definitely a woman. Everything about her was woman. And she was
like 17 when we fucked. You can't be post-op that young."
Him "Probably not. What about the other one?"
Please no ...
Tucker "Uhhh, I met her in Miami ... "
Him "What did she do?"
Tucker "She was a stripper."
Him "Did she have fake tits?"
Tucker "Yes."
This isn't happening. He is fucking with me.
Tucker "No, man, she was not a fucking man. She didn't have an
Adams apple."
Him "That is a two hour outpatient surgery. Easily done. Cheap too."
Tucker "But it was ... she had a pussy. IT FELT LIKE A PUSSY"
Him "Surgery is amazing these days. She probably even had a clit."
WHAT THE FUCK??
Tucker "But she was soft. Her skin I mean. She felt like a girl."
Him "You're smart. You know what large amounts of estrogen do to the
male body, don't you?"
Tucker "But what about her voice? She didn't sound like those absurd
trannies on Springer."
Him "Again, estrogen. And maybe even vocal chord surgery. It would
make sense if she has a lucrative stripping or escorting gig to protect."
I just stood there, too shocked to move, trying to recall every detail
about her to refute his argument.
Tucker "Wait, wait, wait ... "
Him "She gave great head, didn't she?"
Tucker "She was a stripper! They give head for a living!"
THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING.
Him "Was she tall? Taller than you?"
Tucker "Yeah, but I've dated lots of girls who were taller than me."
Him "But I bet none of them had hands as big as hers."
I AM GOING TO VOMIT.
Him "Did you have anal sex with her?"
Tucker "Yeah."
Him "You ever had anal sex with other girls?"
Tucker "Yeah."
Him "Felt a little different with her, didn't it?"
Oh dear merciful Jesus. He was right. I distinctly remember that.
Tucker "FUCK THIS!! NO FUCKING WAY THAT I FUCKED A MAN!!"
192
Him "I think you did."
Tucker "SHUT UP SHUT UP-I CAN'T BE HEARING THIS!!!"
Him "Don't feel bad, this happens to lots of guys. You'd be shocked."
Tucker "OH MOTHERFUCK!! NO WAY. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING I
AM NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION!! WHAT IN DEAR GOD IS
HAPPENING??? I DID NOT FUCK A FAKE WOMAN!"
I was in SHOCK. I could not sleep or function for the next two days, as
I went over every detail I could remember about this "girl." I am still
undecided about her. Yes, he made good points, but everything about
her I recall as being feminine. The way she smelled, her touch, her
appearance, everything. And it was a nice strip club where I met her,
Rachel's in West Palm Beach. Don't they check for these things?
He went on to explain that some post-op transsexuals will go to the
bathroom before sex, and put the KY in without even telling the guy.
Others don't even have fake breasts, because the elevated estrogen
levels can give them B cups. He said she might not have been the only
one. My brain was completely fried after that conversation. I still don't
know what to think.
Gentlemen, all I can say is don't spend too much time cataloging your
ex-hook-ups because it will drive you nuts. Just pretend you never
read this and move on. You wish you had heeded that warning now,
don't you?
193
SHE WON'T TAKE NO FOR AN
ANSWER
Occurred-December 2002
Written-March 2005
This always happens to me, and it pisses me off.
If I dawdle and wait too long to approach a group of girls, invariably the
ugliest one "calls" me in the group. I have no idea why. One girl I know
told me it was because I am attractive but not great looking, so ugly
girls think they have a chance with me. And she added that to people I
don't know, I have an approachable air about me. What sweet irony.
One night my friends and I were out drinking, and we were sitting next
to a table of girls. One was pretty hot, one was fuckable, and the other
was awful. She was a fetal alcohol case, no question. Sunken nasal
bridge, thin upper lip, a short upturned nose and smooth skin between
the nose and upper lip-all the telltale signs. She looked sorta like
she'd been hit in the face with a frying pan.
Before we make our move, one of the girls comes over to talk to me.
Do you want to guess which one? Well, it wouldn't be a story unless it
was the bag of smashed assholes, now wou.ld it?
As my friends talked to the fuckable ones, I tried to make it clear to
PanFace that I was not into her. I told her the most absurd shit, things
that I was sure would offend her so badly she wouldn't want to even
look at me much less fuck me:
• "I will never date you. I won't call you. I probably won't even talk to
you afterwards, unless it's to tell you to get out."
• "I am going to cum in your hair. Do you know how hard it is to get
cum out of hair?"
• "For real, if I come home with you, you have to eat out my ass. And
I haven't showered in three days."
• "I will only want to fuck you from behind. And you can't look at me
when I'm fucking you either-I might lose my hard-on."
• "I want you to wear a paper bag on your head, cut a hole for your
mouth, and give me head with it on."
• "No seriously, I will probably just cum on your back, then get
dressed and leave. And I'll probably break some trinket of yours on
194
my way out, just to show my disdain for you."
COME ON-even a washed up stripper shilling for quarter tips at a
topless truck stop would have told me to fuck off. Whether she thought
I was joking or not-and I was kinda-some of that shit is just over the
line. What girl would keep talking to a guy that said those things? I
mean honestly-I told the girl that I would only fuck her from behind
because if she looked at me I would lose my hard-on. The girl had to
have stopped at some point, right?
Nope. She got all googly-eyed and smitten and told me I was the
funniest guy she'd ever met. Doesn't it always happen this way? I would
have just ended it for real, but before I could, she discovered my
weakness: An open tab.
I couldn't finish my drink before she'd have two more in front of me. Of
course, this feedback loop led to disaster:
The constant stream of Red Bull and Goose made me more animated
and sarcastic ...
Which made her more into me ...
Which allowed me to tolerate her more ...
Which inspired her to lean into me and expose her cleavage ...
Which caused me to comment on her nice breasts ...
Which led to her massaging my crotch ...
Which made me consider what she would be like in bed ...
To continue with this line of thought I had to switch to doubles ...
Yeah, I fucked her.
Oh, but it gets better.
The next morning I wake up in a strange bed with pink silk sheets. For
about a minute I seriously wasn't sure who I had gone home with, because
there was no girl in the bed. Then Pan-Face came bounding in
the room. All the awful memories came rushing back in my head:
Girl "What's wrong? You look upset."
Tucker "Oh Christ ... I can't believe myself ... "
Then the rest came back to me-last night this girl had basically promised
me the world; breakfast, laundry, fellatio-on-command, everything.
Well, I fucked her, I'll be damned if 1don't get my side of the bargain.
Tucker "I thought I told you I wanted breakfast in the morning."
Girl "OK! What do you want? I have eggs and bacon and pancakes
... "
195
Tucker "All of it. And you also promised to fellate me on command. I
want that as my appetizer."
Oh man. Here I go again. I always do this.
Whenever 1hook up with some marginally attractive girl I get pissed at
myself, for obvious reasons. Then, almost as punishment, I make myself
sort of keep se'eing/fucking her. Not because I am trying to pretend
that I want a relationship-I'm honest with the girl-but because 1
feel like if I get my money's worth in other areas, then it was worth it to
lose a little bit of my soul by fucking some girl I shouldn't even be seen
in public with.
After she went down on me [she was really good], I watched American
Chopper re-runs while she cooked me an awesome breakfast: an
andouille sausage omelet with cheese, sauteed garlic and grilled onions,
soggy bacon just like I like it, an English muffin buttered just right, skim
milk with ice just like I like it, and a cappuccino (she had a machine)
with just the right amount of froth-to-coffee ratio. I almost applauded
her when I was done-but instead I had her go down on me again.
Over the next few weeks, it got bad. I would go over to her condo at
like 2am without calling, drunk out of my mind, fuck her like she owed
me money, sleep all day in her bed while she was at work, and then
have her make me dinner when she got home. We'd go out and she'd
buy me drinks, and then I'd make her leave before my friends or other
girls would come out to meet me. When she came over to my place,
she would bring Carson's ribs or Harold's chicken or some other delicacy,
do my laundry, fuck/suck at command, and then leave without
even spending the night. After awhile, even I began to feel bad. Sort
of.
Ladies, let me give you some advice. You can throw all your stupid
fucking chick-lit, self-help, why-doesn't-he-Iove-me books out, because
this is all you need to know: Men will treat you the way you let
them. There is no such thing as "deserving" respect; you get what you
demand from people. Let a guy fuck you in the ass, cum on your back,
drink all your beer and then leave, and he'll do it. But if you demand
respect, he will either respect you or he won't associate with you. It really
is that simple.
Or you can just act like Pan-Face, and turn out the same way:
The turning point for me, the exact moment I knew I had to cut the
charade off and move on, was the day she showed up at my place in
196
a trench coat. I was in my standard position: sitting on the couch,
watching Jerry Springer in gym clothes, with my hand down my pants.
She kinda stood there smiling at me, until I looked up:
Tucker "What are you doing? It's 75 degrees outside."
At that, she dropped her trench coat to reveal a tight white t-shirt and
panties. Printed on them were these words (she had the shirts made
specially at some store):
Shirt "Tucker Max's tits"
Panties "Tucker Max's pussy"
Had I been 17, I would have thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever
seen. At 27, I could only see the imminent and now unavoidable disaster
that was going to result from this girl falling in love with me.
Of course, I still slept with her that night.
But after that I stopped calling her, and I am pretty sure that as a result,
she went bat shit crazy and moved back to wherever she was
from. I'm not really sure; I would routinely find 50 missed calls on my
cell phone from her and 30 emails in my inbox, so I blocked her email
address and changed my phone number. I'll leave that mess for the
beta males to deal with.
197
TUCKER RUPTURES HIS APPENDIX
Occurred-January 2003
Written-March 2003
On the Friday morning that MTV was in Chicago filming me, around
4am, my appendix ruptured. The pain was so intense, it woke me from
my sleep. It felt like my lower right abdomen had been stabbed with a
rusty serrated kitchen knife and twisted around in my gut.
I'm not sure how many Motrin I took, but it was well above the
recommended dosage. If by "well above," I mean "half the bottle." For
the rest of the time MTV filmed me, about 2 more days, I was in such
incredible pain I nearly finished a bottle of Motrin. There are 100 to a
bottle-kids, don't try this at home.
At the behest of my friends, many of them doctors, I decided to go to
the ER. This decision was sealed by my conversation with Andrew, a
surgery resident, "Dude, you could be in real trouble. You shouldn't
play around with internal injuries. You need to go to the hospital. Like
drop what you're doing and go immediately." That was at 11pm on
Sunday night, and I went to ER right away.
I arrived at Cook County Hospital, parked my car and got in line to
register at the desk. Right before the triage nurse got to me, an
ambulance pulled up and unloaded a bleeding gunshot victim. I am not
sure how many times he was shot, but I saw at least three holes. They
even had to call a janitor to come wash blood off the floor.
At this scene, the triage nurse didn't even look up, and handed me my
number. It is-I swear to god-187. I looked at my number, watched
the paramedic disappear down the hallway with the low-rent Tupac,
and walked right out the door. No fucking way. I don't believe in the
supernatural and I'm not even the least bit superstitious, but some
signs should not be ignored.
I was in agony all day the next day. I was on my sofa at around 10pm
when a tsunami of agony crashed over me. Nothing I've ever
experienced prepared me for this pain. I have broken an arm, some ribs
and a hand, torn a rotator cuff, hyper-extended both knees, severely
sprained both ankles, popped an eardrum, torn off fingernails, stepped
on carpenter nails, had a plantar wart, etc, etc, so I thought I had
experienced a wide and representative spectrum of pain. I was wrong.
198
It was so crippling, it took every bit of courage I had to reach from the
sofa to the table, pick up my phone, and call TheRoommate. He was
in his bedroom.
Roommate "Tucker, why are you calling me from the living room?"
Tucker [barely audible whisper] "... hospital ... "
Roommate "Oh shit! OK, OK, hold on'"
By the time we got to Cook County, I was almost in shock the pain was
so bad. A nurse rolled a wheelchair out to the car, brought me straight
into the triage room and was about to take me back to the ER, when
another nurse told her to instead take me to the nurses' station to take
my blood pressure and temperature.
On the way there she bumped me into every single chair, wall and
obstacle along the way. I groaned in pain at every nudge, each rattling
my appendix at what felt like an 8 on the Richter scale. We got to the
nurses' station where the nurse, who was Asian and spoke a sort of
broken ghetto English, put me in line behind six people.
I gaze at these people, and none seem to have critical, life-threatening
internal injuries. This infuriated me. A rush of adrenaline enabled me to
muster a voice loud enough to completely silence the entire front of
the Cook County Emergency Room:
Tucker "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHY AM I HERE? MY
FUCKING APPENDIX EXPLODED AND YOU WANT ME TO WAIT
BEHIND SLAPPY AND HIS IN-GROWN TOENAIL?"
Nurse "Are you in pain?"
Tucker [This question inspires such utter disbelief I can only resort to
my basest reaction] "ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?"
Nurse [Remember, this is in broken ghetto Asian] "HEY-You don got
to be rude. I'n just try-ing to hep you. You don got to disrespect. How
much it hurt?"
Tucker "MY APPENDIX EXPLODED-MY FUCKING STOMACH
FEELS LIKE SOMEONE FUCKING STABBED ME. HOW WOULD
YOU LIKE IT IF SOMEONE STUCK A KNIFE IN YOUR STOMACH?
YOU WOULDN'T BE IN A GOOD MOOD EITHER, MAMA-SAN."
Nurse "YOU GONNA STAB ME? [Turns to other nurses] "HEY
SHANDA, HE TELL ME HE GONNA STAB ME!"
Nurse2 [Comes over to investigate] "You say you gonna stab her?"
Tucker [I try to be calm about this] "I didn't say I was going to stab her
I was describing what my pain was like."
199
Nurse "HE SAY HE GONNA STAB ME. HE SAY HE GONNA STICK
KNIFE IN MY STOMACH."
Tucker [And there goes my patience] "I DIDN'T FUCKING SAY I WAS
GONNA STAB YOU. LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH GODDAMIT! I
WAS DESCRIBING MY PAIN YOU IDIOT!"
Nurse "HE CALL ME IDIOT TOO!"
Nurse2 "Sir, you need to be respectful or we are going to call the police,
and you-"
This was my breaking point. I just turned and started rolling my wheel
chair towards the ER. The pain was still intense, but my adrenaline was
so high I was able to manage it. I guess the nurses decided to go along
because the ghetto Asian started pushing me towards the ER. She
lectured me the whole way to the ER about respect, telling everyone
she saw how I threatened to stab her.
We got to the actual ER area and she rolled me into one of the triage
rooms and handed me off to an ER nurse.
ER Nurse "So what's his problem?"
Nurse "He call me idiot and say he gonna stab me."
ER Nurse [Turns to me] "Did you threaten to stab her?"
Tucker "What? My fucking appendix ruptured."
Nurse "He say he gonna stick a knife in my stomach."
ER Nurse [Still looking at me] "Did you say you were going to stick a
knife in her stomach?"
Tucker [I am wincing in pain through this whole thing] "What? What is
this? NO! She asked me what my pain felt like and I said it felt like I got
stabbed. I'M THE ONE IN PAIN!"
They laid me on a gurney and instead of attending to me and my pain,
continued discussing my abusive and threatening behavior. Honestly,
does anything ever go normally for me?
Two doctors arrived almost immediately, a male attending and a female
resident. They questioned me, poked my abdomen, etc, when
the male doctor asked me to roll onto my side:
Tucker "Roll on my side? What for?"
Doctor "I need to check your prostate."
Tucker "WHAT?????? WITH YOUR HAND??"
Doctor "Yes."
Tucker "IN MY BUTT??"
Doctor "I have to, you may have serious colon or prostate problems,
and the only way to check those is by hand."
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Tucker "Well this is just FUCKING GREAT."
As he put on a rubber glove, the female resident was snickering at my
comments, even though I was not finding them very funny at the
moment.
He turned to her and pointed for her to go on the outside of the
curtain. I interrupt:
Tucker "Actually, doctor, can she do it? If I'm going to have fingers up
my ass, I'd rather have them be female. You know-they're smaller,
more petite ... you know ... less gay."
He was completely taken aback at this request. The shock was evident
on his face, and for a second I even thought he would agree to it.
Doctor "No. Sorry."
Tucker "Well, she can stay anyway. Fuck it. Might as well invite everyone
to my party."
I didn't need this. I really didn't fucking need this. I couldn't stop thinking,
especially as he wiggled two fingers into my anal cavity and pressed
them against my prostate, about how I'll have to change the part in The
Most Disturbing Conversation Ever story about my anal virginity.
The ER doctors eventually decided that I had a ruptured appendix and
needed to get prepped for surgery. Never could I have imagined that
the words, "prep him for surgery" would have such horrific
consequences.
A male Hispanic nurse began prepping me. He took off my clothes, put
me in a hospital gown, took various measurements like blood pressure
and what not, hooked me up to an IV needle that was only slightly
smaller in diameter than PVC pipe, and refused to give me any
painkillers, because he said that they might affect the anesthesia.
At this point, I thought it couldn't get any worse. My appendix was
absolutely killing me, I had no painkillers, there were numerous needles
stuck in me, my ass was still greasy from some guy putting his KY
covered fingers in my rectum, some other guy was undressing me-reallywhat
the fuck else could go wrong?
Well, at least one more thing: The nurse told me to pull my gown off
my crotch and took out a long tube. It is called a Foley Catheter, and it
is used to drain your bladder when it is not under your control, either
because you are unconscious (for surgery) or cannot control it yourself
(paralyzation). It is exactly 16 inches long.
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I took one look at that garden hose he was holding and my heart
stopped. I'd rather have a herd of rhinos rape my ass hole than take that
thing up my urethra. I have heard absolute horror tales about what that
thing feels like going up your dick.
Tucker "No, no, no-You aren't putting that thing in my dick are you?
Please god in heaven tell me no."
Nurse "Yeah, man. Got to-It's how you piss when you're in surgery."
I didn't even have it in me to put up a fight. I was too scared. I just
grabbed the side rails of the gurney and held the fuck on. This is an
approximation of my reaction when he started inserting the catheter
into my penis:
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRR
RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH H"
It went on like that for a few seconds. When the blazing anguish
stopped, I wiped the tears forming in my eyes and looked down,
expecting to see a yellow tube sticking out from my penis.
Tucker "What the fuck? Hey man-where is it?"
Nurse "That one was too big, I'm gonna have to go with a 16 gauge
instead of a 14."
This did not please me, and I expressed my feelings with a string of
furious profanity that would make a longshoreman proud. He eventually
got the second one into my urethra, and I wasn't thinking about my
abdominal pain anymore. I never really understood the phrase "pissing
out razor blades" until this experience. The act of inserting that firehose
into my penis was so horribly painful, it made me forget what
was, to that point, the worst pain of my life. Even writing this is making
my dick hurt. Or maybe that's the herpes. Who knows?
I lay there for another few hours, without painkillers, waiting to get a
CAT scan. Every time I moved, the catheter shifted (it was taped to my
leg) resulting in a whole new wave of pain and misery. The strangest
thing about the catheter was that the collection bag was laying right
there on the bed next to me. I watched it fill up with dark yellow urine,
yet couldn't control or feel the flow. It was weird. But it felt warm
against my leg, which was nice.
Right before the CAT scan, one of the nurses handed me a huge tube
of liquid and told me to drink it. I had no idea what it was, but the label
didn't sound appetizing:
Tucker "Barium Sulfate?"
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Nurse "It's an imaging agent. It's so the CAT scan can get a map of
your intestines."
They might was well call it Cum in a Bottle. It was white, cloudy and
viscous, with a disturbing salty taste. You know what it tasted like? You
know when a girl goes down on you and swallows, and then comes up
and wants to kiss you? You try to avoid the kiss, but she is persistent
and there is nothing you can do, so you give her a little peck. You know
that taste on your lips right after? Hello Barium Sulfate.
This was very nearly my breaking point, "This tastes like semen. Haven't
you people humiliated me enough? Should I just dump this on my face
so you can get some Bukkake shots for the Cook County website?
Would that make you happy?"
I eventually got the CAT scan and waited another hour or so for the
consultation with the surgeon. She looked at the pictures and decided
they weren't going to operate on me, because my appendix had not
burst but rather had ruptured, and a leaking abscess had formed on it.
This meant that there was a huge pocket of puss around that section
of my colon, and they couldn't operate without having to do an entire
colonectomy. The ensuing conversation was alarming, even to me:
Doctor "When did the pain start?"
Tucker "About a week ago."
Doctor "A week! Why did you wait so long to come in?"
Tucker "I don't know ... MTV was filming me."
Doctor "MTV was filming you?"
Tucker "It would take too long to explain."
Doctor "So you just endured the pain?"
Tucker "Yeah, pretty much. Motrin helped. And lots of alcohol."
Doctor "Hmph. Well, just so you know, you could very easily have
died. As it stands, you are going to be fine, but you were about 2 days
away from sepsis setting in and killing you. That was stupid of you to
wait this long."
Tucker "Yeah, I'm not very smart."
The same male Hispanic nurse came in to de-prep me and get me
ready for transport to my room. One of the de-prepping activities was
too take out the catheter. The removal hurt, but nothing like the entry.
After he pulled it out, this nasty thick yellow discharge followed it out.
Tucker "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? DID YOU GIVE ME THE
CLAP?"
203
Nurse "Yeah, you got the clap from a sterile catheter. It's just dehydrated
urine. You're fine."
Tucker "Whatever. Dick. You ever have one of those in you?"
Nurse "No. But I'll tell you what-I've inserted hundreds of those and
I've never seen anyone scream like more of a bitch than you."
Tucker "So now you're the fucking comedian? Hey Paul Rodriguez-I
swear to god, you better not be around when they discharge me. I'll
find you, and broke appendix or not, I'll kick your fucking ass."
Nurse "Whatever. You'll just scream like a bitch."
Had I been able to stand, I think he and I would have fought.
Right after this little spat, another nurse came in and shot like 15cc's of
morphine into my IV. WOW-I can see why that shit is addictive. I
could literally feel the drug course through my veins and almost
instantaneously a flowery opiate-induced calm came over me. I went
from angry pain to ethereal joy in about two minutes. I even apologized
to the Hispanic nurse the next time I saw him.
[Side note about morphine: Everyone who called me or saw me over
the next two days when I was in the hospital can attest to the fact that
I was the nicest they have ever seen me. If I could find a drug that
gave me that feeling on a regular basis, I would be an addict, and
happy about it. I now know what it means when heroin users talk
about "chasing the dragon." In only a day the normal dosage of that
stuff was not enough. I was asking for more and more, pushing that
call button like it brought me a fat-titted hooker carrying a plate of juicy
pork ribs, screaming at the nurses if they didn't get it to me fast
enough. They had to switch me to codeine, which is apparently easier
to stop taking. I have what's called an "addictive personality."]
Once I was fully de-prepped, they wheeled me up to my room. I was
put in a room with another person, but it was dark when I got there,
and I was so flush with morphine that I ignored my roommate and
went to 'Sleep.
I woke up to quite the scene. And smell. There were two large black
nurses holding my roommate up while they cleaned shit out from
under him and changed his sheets. They were not happy:
Nurse1 "Why you keep shitting like this?"
Nurse2 "It's something he ate. What you eat?"
The guy pointed to some Fritos laying on the table.
Nurse2 "No, it ain't no Fritos."
He pointed to a Pepsi.
204
Nurse2 "No, it ain't no goddamn Pepsi neither. It must be them damn
carrots, because you straight up lettin' out vegetation."
They eventually got him cleaned up and left. I looked him over, and the
sight was not pretty. He was black, anywhere from 40 to 50 years of age,
Tracey Gold skinny, and had half of his head shaved. He didn't seem to
be able to use his right side, and did everything with his left hand. He
saw me looking at him and nodded his head at me in a "what up"
manner. I responded, and said, "What's up man? Having a tough day?"
He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, each time letting out little
grunts. Eventually, with much effort, he got a slurred, "Yeah" out.
Shaved head, can't talk, can only move his left side-he either had a
stroke or a brain tumor.
He and I talked for awhile, and I eventually learned how to interpret at
least some of his affected stroke speech. We were talking about
something when a girl I know called my room. I told her where I was
and she said she was coming over. My roommate was listening to the
conversation and waved at me to get my attention, then pulled his
sheet up over his crotch, tenting it, and clearly said, "Me ... too." I
laughed and told her to bring a friend for my crippled roommate.
L
ater that day his speech therapist came in, and she was pretty hot.
She said, "Hello Randolph, how are you today?"
This cracked me up, "Your name is Randolph? RANDOPLH! Your
nickname is Ray-Ray, isn't it!?!" Ray-Ray started laughing along with
me, and this thoroughly confused the speech therapist.
By this time, I was fairly proficient in interpreting Ray-Ray's stroke
grunts, and I spent the half hour telling her what he was saying, hitting
on her and making fun of her.
Tucker "You're a speech therapist and you can't understand your own
patient? Did you get your degree in the mail? Is there a picture of Betty
Struthers on your diploma?"
As she leaves, we have this exchange:
Tucker "So, you're pretty hot, can I get your number?"
Therapist "Sorry, no-I wouldn't give you my zip code."
Tucker "Nice one. That's cool, because I'd rather be deaf than listen to
you for another second."
Ray-Ray was nearly in tears laughing at this scene. He eventually got
this out, "We ... we ... we ... make ... a good team."
205
Watching him eat his lunch really made me empathize with the poor
guy. Every time he tried to eat, he would put the food in the left side of
his mouth, and then half of it would spill out the right side. He had no
feeling on that side of his face, or his entire right side, so he really had
no idea what was happening.
On one level it was funny, because there was this guy dumping half
his food out of his mouth without knowing it, but on another level it was
very depressing, as he seemed like a really good guy that was suffering
through a horrible fate.
He was so skinny, presumably from months of inactivity and confinement
to his bed, that over the next few days I gave him all of my hospital
meals. Granted, it was empathetic on some level, but believe me,
it was no fucking loss for me. Every stereotype you've ever heard
about hospital food is true. I would have rather eaten medical waste
than the shit they served us, though Ray-Ray loved it. I guess brain
injuries make you hungry.
Later that night, Stydie and Laura stopped by with, of all things, Harold's
Chicken. I don't think I have ever been so fucking happy to see
Stydie, as Harold's is nearly my favorite food on earth. That shit stunk
up my entire wing of the hospital, but I devoured it without compunction.
After Stydie and Laura left, another girl came to visit me. She brought
me a Playboy, and I gave that to Ray-Ray to look at while she and I did
things I wasn't supposed to be doing. I believe the term "medicinal
head" should be added to the medical lexicon, because I know I felt
better.
I heard Ray-Ray hit his nurse call button, and then a very familiar
smell permeated the room. Though my curtain was pulled, I heard
them clearly:
Nurse "Gh look-you done shit yourself again."
Ray-Ray "I ... I ... "
Nurse "You eating Fritos in bed again? Why you eaten Fritos in da
bed? Can't you get none in your mouff?"
[The girl and I were laughing at this exchange, and we could hear her
moving Ray-Ray to another gurney]
Nurse "Goddammit. I told you to stop eating that damn candy. Look at
this bed."
Ray-Ray "I ... I ... I want ... "
Nurse "Shut up!"
The girl who came to see me left halfway through this because we
206
were done, she had to get home to her boyfriend, and the smell was
oppressive. After she left and the nurse got everything back to normal,
Ray-Ray looked over at me and said:
Ray-Ray "I ... I ... I ... ruined ... your date."
Tucker "No man, it's cool, she was done anyway."
Ray-Ray [He laughed for awhile before he got this out] "You ... you ...
alright ... man."
The Playboy was a pretty good one (the one with the Latin TV stars),
and I enjoyed it for our remaining day and a half together. When I was
leaving I asked Ray-Ray if he wanted to keep the Playboy. He shook
his head yes, and said,
"I ... I ... I gonna need it."
207
THE SEX STORIES
Occurred-various, 2000-2005
Written-May 2005
The pen may be mightier than the sword, but I have found that the
vagina is stronger than both. No matter what happens to me, no matter
how many girls vomit on me or shit on me or screw me over, I keep
hooking up with all kinds of women, seemingly without regard for the
repercussions. These are some of my shorter vignettes involving sex
that don't fit into any larger stories:
Do you want fries with that?
While I lived in San Francisco I met a girl out at some dot com party.
She was cute, the lights were low, the liquor was free, I was hornyalways
a happy confluence of circumstances.
We ended up back at her place in the South Market district of San
Francisco (I lived in Mountain View, which is about 40 minutes south
by car, so this was convenient). We start kissing, fumbling with buttons
and hooks and straps, things start coming off, when she suddenly
pulls back and stops me:
Girl "Before we go any further, I have to tell you something."
Tucker "Umm, OK."
Girl "I just got over genital warts."
Tucker [A blank, unregistering stare]
Girl "This always happens."
Tucker ''I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, what did you just say?"
Girl "This always happens ...1used to have genital warts, but they're
gone now. HPV is usually not transmittable if there isn't a breakout
and you use a condom. You don't ... really have to worry about anything,
but I thought ... that I should probably tell you."
Tucker [Another prolonged, blank, unregistering stare.]
Girl "You were going to use a condom anyway. You won't get them. It's
OK."
Tucker [putting my clothes back on] "What's the best way to get back
to the interstate from here?"
In retrospect, I kinda feel bad. I probably have every STD known to
man, yet this poor girl was honest with me and I totally dissed her. She
courageously exposed part of her soul to me, and I callously stomped
208
it. Oh well ... that's what she gets for wanting to fuck Tucker Max.
Bro's before ho's
When I was in NYC to finalize the deal for this book, I met some
friends out for drinks and invited a few girls along that had emailed me
asking to hang out. One girl in particular, "Ho," took a liking to my
friend Credit, and flirted with him all night. This girl was obviously playing
the "girlfriend" game and looking at Credit as boyfriend material:
she was nice, a bit coy, not overly aggressive, laughed at all his jokes,
and instead of hooking up with him she only gave him her number.
Credit left early because he had to get up for work the next morning,
but this girl wanted to go out drinking more, so she took me and my
friend Junior with her. Not even two drinks into the next bar, she is all
over me: hands on my crotch, seductive looks, the entire slut repertoire.
I ignore her, instead paying attention to my vodka clubs, but this
only makes her more into me.
Junior lives in Connecticut and we accidentally missed the last train
out of the city, so Ho politely invited us to stay at her place. When we
got there, she gave Junior the couch and told me I could sleep on the
floor in her room.
Riiiiight. Not even two minutes after she turned out the lights I was in
her bed and we were tearing the clothes off each other. We both get
naked and I slide it in. Things are going great, when she stops and
gets all serious:
Ho "Wait, I don't know if we should do this."
Tucker "Why?"
Ho "Well, I don't want to ruin things with your friend Credit."
Tucker "HAHHAHMHAH ... I think it's a bit late for that."
Ho "NO! You have to promise not to say anything to him! PROMISE!"
After being a lying ass hole during my younger years and realizing
how awful it is, it is now a rock-solid policy of mine to never ever lie
to a girl ... but sometimes immediate biological urges force me into
situations where I am forced to break this rule.
Tucker "OK ... fine. Let's keep going, I'm not finished yet."
Of course I ended up telling Credit. I mean-come on. When I am
midcoitus, a girl could extract a promise from me to trade my first-born
for a Twix bar. Plus, I had to tell him. God forbid if he dated this girl, fell
in love and got married to her. What a shitty wedding that would have
been.
209
Tucker goes a little booty call crazy
I have been saying for years that phone companies should invent a
phone with a breathalyzer attached. I cannot tell you how many times
I have made awful, terrible drunk dials and not even remembered it
the next day. But one time stands out from the rest.
I was solidly Tucker Max Drunk after a long Friday night bar-hopping,
and came home alone at around 2am. I hadn't fucked for like four
days-a serious dry spell for me-so I started scrolling through my
phone, calling every female name I come across:
Tucker "Janet, come over, I'm horny."
Janet "Tucker, I live in Washington DC."
Tucker "So?"
Janet "You are in Chicago."
Tucker "Oh. Do you know any girls in Chicago who want to come
over?"
Tucker "Krista, come over."
Krista "Tucker, it's late."
Tucker "My horniness is not relegated to business hours."
Krista "I don't know."
Tucker "I SAID DO IT!"
Krista "Well, maybe."
I don't really recall the amount of time I spent on the phone or even
how many girls I called, but I do remember having the distinct impression
that I was shit out of luck. I relegated myself to the couch to pass
out while watching re-runs of The Shield, when all of the sudden there
was a knock on the door. It was an irregular fuck buddy of mine,
Sandra. Sweet!
She comes in and she wants a beer, so I tell her where the fridge is.
We kinda start making out on the sofa a little, and then there is another
knock on the door. Who the fuck is at my door at 3am?
Uh oh. It's another booty call, Liz.
Tucker "Well ... do you want a beer?"
Both of the girls just kinda stood there, alternately staring at each
other and at me. There is a way to turn this situation from disaster to
triumph, and even though it's a long shot, the only way that you can
ever win at the table is to throw the dice:
Tucker "So ... Liz, uh Sandra is kinda into girls, and I know you've always
wanted to experiment. What do you say?"
210
You know that noise girls make when they are so pissed that they can't
even form words? It's a sort of cross between "uh" and a reptilian
hiss? Yeah, she made that noise, turned on her heels, and stormed
out.
Oh well, at least Sandra was still there, right? I turned to her, and she
was setting her beer down and reaching for her purse. Time to act
quick:
Tucker "No wait, honey, you don't have to go. I didn't even invite her
over, she is a psycho who-"
I was interrupted by some unidentified noise at the bottom of my
stairs. It sounded like two girls talking to each other, followed by
footsteps, and capped off with the appearance of Krista at my still open
door.
Tucker "Oh boy."
I wish I could tell some story about how I turned this into some amazing
foursome, but since I have a policy to tell only true stories, I can't.
Let's just say that it did not end well. Things were thrown, curses
hurled, none of the three ever came over again, and I had to recruit a
whole new stable of booty calls. Maybe a better man than me could
have turned that night into something out of Penthouse Letters, but all
I did was end up with my dick in my hand and a mess in my apartment.
Toxic shock
While in law school I dated a girl named "Vicki." A total blonde southern
girl; really hot, really sweet, and really stupid. When we'd hang
out with my law school friends she'd be very quiet, and whisper
things to me like, "I am afraid to talk to GoldenBoy. He uses such big
words."
She used Depo-Provera as her birth control, and though it was effective
at keeping her from polluting the world with little Tuckers, it caused
her to spot occasionally, and she told me this and it usually wasn't a
problem. [for the ignorant males, "spotting" is when a girl bleeds when
not on her period]
One night we came home drunk and proceeded to fuck the shit out of
each other. Sex with Vicki was awesome because she was one of
those girls who can cum with virtually no effort through regular sex.
Every minute or two she would have an orgasm. I loved this not because
she got off so much, but because I could be ruthlessly selfish in
211
bed and it didn't matter. As long as I lasted more than a minute,
everything took care of itself.
This bout of drunk sex started off the same as the others; I humped
and pumped and she screamed and came ... but after a short time,
my dick started to hurt. I kept pumping away, she kept coming, and the
pain kept getting worse and worse. It was a weird moment: Think
about what goes through your mind when you are fucking now mix
those thoughts with flashes of intense, grinding pain on your
PENIS. This greatly confused my drunk brain, but I still plowed on,
determined to not let anything-not even obvious and searing painprevent
me from reaching the ultimate goal of virtually everything I do in
life: personal satisfaction.
I concentrated and was able to pinpoint the actual location of the pain:
It felt like the head of my penis was scraping up against something
hard and abrasive. I was drunk, so my first thought was that my dick
was so big it was hitting her cervix and scraping up against that. As if
her cervix was made of sandpaper or something. Yes, I can be that
stupid when drunk and fucking.
I tried to fuck through the pain. I really tried to convince myself that
everything was OK, but when my eyes started tearing up from the
agony, I had to stop.
Tucker "Baby-something is wrong with your vagina."
She looked confused, and then kinda hurt, "What do you mean?"
My penis was still penetrating her, so I tried to be diplomatic in my
explanation,
"Bitch, my fucking dick HURTS. Something is fucked up
with your fucking pussy."
She gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I examine my penis.
There is a bright red circular area to the right of my urethra (pee hole).
Almost all the skin on the right side of the head of my penis has been
stripped off. I delicately touch the red throbbing sore, and it burns. I
have played many football games on Astroturf, and I recognize exactly
what this is: Turf burn.
I have fucking turf burn on my dick? What the fuck? I am confused and
pissed off. I mean, how the fuck can I have goddamn turf burn on my
dick?
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I hear the bathroom door open and I stand up and prepare to yell at
Vicki ... and then I see her. She is crying hysterically, tears streaming
down her face, holding something in her hand. Her eyes meet mine,
she busts out in an even louder wail, and I look into her hand. I don't
really recognize what it is until she says,
"I'm so sorry. I totally forgot I had it in ... "
In her hand was a reddish-brown, smashed up Tampax.
Vicki had put one in before we went out drinking, and got so drunk she
forgot to take it out before we had sex. This was what my dick head
was rubbing up against for that 15 minutes of agony ... a FUCKING
TAMPON.
As big of an asshole as I am, I'm still a sucker for a hot crying girl, so I
gave Vicki a hug and told her everything was OK. Then she stopped
crying and I cut her throat. I'm just kidding. But, true to form for turf
burns, I did wake up the next morning with a yellowish brown scab on
the head of my penis. Which developed into a small scar that you'can
still see to this day ... if you are a hot girl.
What's grosser than gross?
This girl I was kinda seeing worked in a financial services office. On
Fridays she had the office all to herself, and once I went in to see her.
I tried to get her to fuck me on her boss's desk, that was a no go. On
the conference table, no go. In the kitchenette, still a no go.
I can't figure out what her problem is (we'd had plenty of sex before),
so I try being nice and start making out. I put my hands down her
pants and massage her c1it, and she likes it at first but then squirms
away, "No, not now."
Getting frustrated, I take my finger which I can feel is covered with her
juice, and rub it across her lips, just intending to tease her ... OH
SHIT!
Right across her lips and teeth is a huge red stain! Now it makes
sense. Tucker "Are you on the rag? Is that why you won't hook up?"
Girl "Yeah. I hate to say it, it's embarrassing. How'd you know?"
I just kinda raised my eyebrows ... and she licked her lips ... and I
wished I had a camera to record the look of shock and embarrassment
as she tasted the blood on her tongue. She immediately ran off to the
bathroom. I was washing my hands in the kitchenette when she
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rushed back in:
"You aren't going to write about this are you?"
Fucked up pillow talk
These are some funny quotes or bits of dialogue that are sexually related
or happened while in bed, but that didn't occur in the middle of a
larger story .
• This happened with a girl I had been seeing for like two weeks:
Girl "Do you love me?"
Tucker "I don't understand the question."
• From a girl who had obvious issues with sex:
Girl "OK, I want you to take your wee-wee and put it on my dirty spot."
Tucker "What did you just say?"
Girl 'Take your wee-wee and put it into my dirty spot."
Tucker "What is this, Sesame Street foreplay?"
• This from a girl who, for some reason, thought we were exclusive.
She didn't get that idea from me:
Girl "Why didn't you shave. You know I hate stubble."
Tucker "Oh sorry, I forgot that you were the one who liked me to be
shaven."
Girl "I'M THE ONE WHO LIKES YOU TO BE SHAVEN!!! HOW
MANY GIRLS ARE YOU FUCKING??"
Tucker "Maybe we haven't met: Hi, my name is Tucker Max. You've
seen my website. In fact, that's how we met."
• A similar exchange, with a different girl, that nearly ended the
fuckbuddy relationship:
Tucker "Do you like girls?"
Girl "You ask me that every time I see you."
Tucker "I forget who answers yes and who answers no."
Girl "I don't know why I keep fucking you."
Tucker "Because I am awesome and you can't help yourself."
Girl "You know, I used to have self-esteem before I met you."
Tucker 'That's what they all say."
• Five minutes later with the same girl:
Girl "What is your favorite sexual technique?"
Tucker "Well, I'm not sure. Probably where I pretend like she isn't
there, get off as fast as possible, and then she does my laundry,
cleans, and then leaves immediately afterwards."
• This was with a total random I picked up at the grocery store. We
went home and, with her groceries still in the car, start hooking up.
Before we begin sex, she let this out:
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"Don't worry about putting a condom on. I'm already pregnant."
• This one was really depressing. I wish she had told me beforehand:
"You are the first guy I've slept with since I was raped. Thanks for
being gentle."
• I was fucking this one girl with music on. I hadn't put anything on
intentionally,
it was just some mix CD I happened to have in. We are
mid-coitus, and a Ludacris song comes on:
Girl "Can you please change the song?"
Tucker "Why?"
Girl "Well ... I fucked one of Luda's roadies to get back stage, but I
never even got to meet him. I am kinda bitter."
• With a girl whose friend I had fucked:
Girl "You aren't anywhere near as good as [her friend] said you were."
Tucker "Well with her I actually tried. I liked her."
Miss Deaf Australia
The University of Chicago requires that students take a year of a foreign
language in order to graduate, so I took American Sign Language.
Our teacher got to like our class, so she invited us to some
deaf events in Chicago.
The first one we went to was a dance at a bar that some deaf
organization had rented out. We get there a little late and when we
walked in the foyer even though I could hear the music I couldn't hear
any voices so I thought it'd be empty, but instead the place was filled with
like 100 deaf people. I heard nothing except the clink of glasses and
some random grunting-everyone was furiously signing to each other. It
was kinda spooky.
I was introduced to a girl who had just won the Miss Deaf Australia
pageant. She was really pretty and thought that my retarded 4th grade
sign language ability was cute. After about twenty minutes of trying to
sign and getting frustrated, I asked her to dance, figuring I had to be
better at that than her; after all, she can't even hear the music. That
was another mistake. She was an awesome dancer. The deaf people
picked this club because it had a great sound system, and they dance
by feeling the music. Most of them are really good, way better than
me. Well, so much for that.
She ended up liking me anyway, despite the fact that I couldn't sign or
dance, and we went on a few dates, and ended up having sex on the
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third date.
I start kinda slow with her, but I can tell almost immediately that she is
freaky, so I get freaky with her. She is kinda grunting a little, but nothing
all that unusual, until she starts to come.
"AAARRRRRRRRRRHRHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGG
GGHHHHHH"
I got so scared I almost went limp. You have not heard a girl scream
during sex until you've heard a deaf girl come. It was literally like a
cross between a retard scream and the noise a horse makes when it's
being slaughtered. I have never heard a more guttural expression of
climax in my life.
Sex with her was great, but the rest of the relationship kinda sucked.
Not being able to communicate is cute at first, but gets real annoying
when you just want to stay in and watch The Sopranos but your TV
doesn't have subtitles and the deaf girl gets bored.
One instance made it clear we had to break up. We were in my
apartment having sex, and it was a particularly intense session, when all
of the sudden there was a loud knock on the door. I got dressed and
opened the door to find a cop standing there:
Cop "Sir please step back, we could hear the screaming and have
reason to believe there is criminal activity going on here."
The naked deaf girl in my bedroom was all it took to send the cops out
of my apartment in tears from laughing so hard.
The Chili Pepper Hook-up Incident
Where and how I met this girl is not important. Why I hooked up with
her, and what happened the next morning is not even worthy of a
story. What she looks like is immaterial (if you care, she looks a lot like
the red-head daughter in Six Feet Under). All you need to know for this
story are three things:
1. I was at a house party in Chicago that was catered by a Mexican
restaurant.
2. I was very, very drunk at this party, and at one point, I ate several
of these super-hot jalapeno peppers that Mexican restaurants
like to serve, the kind that aren't cut up and pickled.
3. It was at this party that I met the girl who eventually came back
to my place with me.
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Once at my place, we eventually got down to business. I started playing
with her vagina, fingering her and what not when all of the sudden
she abruptly stopped me, pulled my hand away from her crotch, and
asked:
Girl "Did you eat any of those hot peppers tonight?"
Tucker "Yeah, I had a few."
Girl "Oh no ... oh no, Oh my GOD! Holy shit, holy shit-IT'S BURNING!!"
She jumped out of my bed, ran into my bathroom and immediately got
into the shower.
I was still very drunk, so this confused me. I walked to the door and
yelled through it,
"Are you okay? What's wrong?"
She yelled back over the din of the water, "Did you wash your hands
after you ate those peppers?"
At this I figured out what the problem was, and immediately erupted
into hysterical laughter. I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe.
Then I remember what it was like to have my crotch on fire from
capsaicin (remember the Foxfield story?), and calmed down a bit, though
I was still laughing.
She yelled through the door, "Shut up! This isn't funny, you jerk! This
better not show up in a book!"
Friendly Fire
Karma being the bitch that she is, my activities always eventually
catch up to me. The summer before I started law school, I was seeing
a girl in Miami named "Courtney." She was incredibly hot-one of
those girls you have a physical reaction to as soon as you see her.
One time we were fucking doggy style, incredible sex, and right as I
was about to cum I pulled back too far and my dick came out. I didn't
realize it, and as I thrust forward again, instead of going back into her
vagina my dick stuck in her ass crack (NOT into her asshole, but her
crack, between her butt cheeks, like a hot dog in a bun ... sort of).
I was leaning over her, my face directly above the back of her head,
and I looked down at my dick right as I hit climax ... and shot nut
INTO MY OWN EYE.
A direct hit, right into my wide-open eye. I didn't even see it coming
... literally.
Almost immediately, I developed a personal appreciation for how
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much cum stings. That shit BURNED. It took me a minute to wash it
out, but the sting, and the redness, stayed for a good 4 or 5 hours.
Fuck you, karma.
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TUCKER HAS A MOMENT OF
REFLECTION; ENDS POORLY
Occurred-April 2003
Written-July 2004
One random Friday I was sitting in my Chicago apartment drinking a
beer and watching TV. Around 7, my phone rang. It was "Karen," one
of my booty calls at the time. It was early so I was kinda confused; we
normally never called each other until at least midnight, even on
weekdays:
Tucker "You drunk already?"
Karen "Hehe. No baby. What are you up to right now?"
Tucker "Nothing. Watching Morimoto make some crazy mushroom
creme brulee. Battle Porcini on Iron Chef"
Karen "Uhhh, OK. Well ... I am going on some silly blind date tonight
that my friend set me up on . , . but I was wondering if I could swing by
your place and get a protein shake first."
Very nice. Karen is obviously making an attempt to move up from
Irregular Booty Call to Head Dick Sucker.
Tucker "Yeah, sure. Just come on by. I'll be here."
Karen "Cool. I'll see you soon."
Tucker "Hey baby-bring some beer."
Not even ten minutes later, she rolled into my place ... with a 12 pack
of Miller Light. Karen's going to have to learn the difference between
good beer and watered down horse piss if she wants to move up in my
Ho Hierarchy.
She got right down to business because her date started in less than
30 minutes. I kept watching the Iron Chef, because come on, Morimota is
a genius. Plus, I've already seen the show Karen was putting
on. It's really good, but it's been in syndication for months; you don't
really need to pay attention until the ending.
I wasn't supposed to meet my friends until 10, so when she left around
8 I just kept drinking at my place. I started thinking about how fucking
cool it was that I had a girl coming over to my place to suck me off before
she went out on a date. I may not be Hugh Heffner, but I doubt
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many guys pull something like that off on a regular basis.
Then I started feeling bad for her date. This poor schmuck had no idea
that the girl whose chair he was pulling out and buying dinner for and
being nice to had her lips wrapped around my cock not even an hour
earlier. God forbid if this poor dude kisses her good night. I wonder if
it'll cross his mind that even with beer breath, her mouth shouldn't
taste that salty.
But in a way, I didn't feel that bad for him. You can't make a ho into a
housewife, and when you take one out on a date, you aren't helping
your chances. I guess some guys never learn.
Of course, he had no idea what she was like; after all, that was the
whole point of the date. I guess it just goes to show, you never really
can tell ... OH SHIT!! HOW MANY GIRLS HAVE DONE THIS TO ME??
I shot up from the couch in shock, spilling beer all over myself.
Has this ever happened to me? Have I ever been the sucker that took
a girl out after she bought beer for another guy and then blew him?
Oh.My.God-it has to have happened to me. HAS TO. I've been out
with so many women, there is just about no way that this hasn't
happened to me. And considering the moral turpitude of many of the girls
I've hooked up with-suspect at best, wretched prostitute at worst-it
is damn near certain that I've been That Guy at least once.
I mean, if Karen does this for me, why not for other guys too? I am
pretty fucking cool, but there are other cool guys in the world besides
me (or so my friends tell me). Plus, it's not like I've always known what
I now know about women. I could have easily been the sucker many
times in the past.
And why stop at dick sucking? How many girls have I slept with that
were with other guys the same day as me? Or went from another guy
right to me? Without even cleaning up? I wouldn't even know, would I?
HOW? HOW THE FUCK WOULD I KNOW? There is no way I could
tell, short of smelling the semen on her breath. Would I even smell it?
Smell it-WHAT ABOUT TASTE IT?
Oh dear merciful God ... please tell me that I haven't tasted it. I need
to go vomit. My entire worldview was immediately and permanently
altered. It was like the first time you turn on a black light in a hotel room
and see cum stains covering every surface: For better or worse, your
world is never the same.
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I stomped around my apartment for two hours until I met my friends
out. I explained the whole situation to them and they laughed, made
fun of me, and told me to get over it. I wasn't having it:
Tucker "How can you be so cavalier about this? I can't be hooking up
with seconds THE SAME DAY. That's for losers and douche bags,
NOT Tucker Max!"
Friend "Apparently not, Sloppy Joe."
Tucker "Aren't you the comedian."
Friend "Tucker, haven't you done this to girls before? You know,
fucked one in the morning, then gone out and picked up another and
fucked her?"
Tucker "SO WHAT? IT'S DIFFERENT!"
Friend "How?"
Tucker "BECAUSE IT'S ME!"
Friend "Wait-didn't you just get YOUR dick sucked tonight? And now
you're out trying to get laid?"
Tucker "FUCK YOU!!"
Friend "Dude, it's happened to all of us, and we've all done it to others.
Women are women, men are men. This happens to everyone."
Tucker "FUCK THAT. I AM TUCKER MAX. I AM BETTER THAN ALL
OF YOU. THIS SHIT DOES NOT HAPPEN TO ME!"
Friend "Oh man; is it going to be one of those nights?"
I drank, and drank, and drank, yet I was still unable to drown the
thought that I'd been totally played by multiple women, and I didn't
even know which ones had done it to me.
That might have been the worst part-not knowing. Well, that and the
prospect that I have at some point kissed a girl who still had semen
caked to her teeth from 45 minutes ago. I know of at least one
exgirlfriend that cheated on me, but we were long distance and I fucked
more than Caligula when I was dating her, so I wasn't pissed about
that. But what about all those girls I thought were all wrapped up in
me? How many of them fucked other people behind my back?
What also fucked me up was that women were doing the same thing
to me that I was doing to them, except I didn't even know they were
doing it. For the entirety of my life up to that point I thought I had the
upper hand, that I was the player and not the playee when in fact, I
was possibly just another chump. The illusion of control was shattered.
Needless to say, this little revelation colored my perspective for
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the rest of the night. If by "colored my perspective," I mean "totally and
irreversibly fucked me up beyond all repair."
Sometimes, too much to drink is still not enough. I needed therapy to
bury my anxiety, and alcohol was going to be my counselor. Yes
friends, this was going to be one of "those" nights.
At the first bar, I went around quizzing girls about how often this sort of
thing happens: Tucker "Let me ask you a question: Have you ever
sucked off one guy, then went on a date with another guy right after?
Like that same night?
Or fucked another guy right after you blew a different guy, but without
telling the second one?" Girl "EXCUSE ME?" Tucker "Don't play coy with
me." As you can imagine, this made me very popular with the ladies.
At bar two, I ordered at least three rounds of shots in the first ten
minutes. I kept making toasts like this one:
"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The bitch gave me head,
And some other guy too."
My toasts to cuckoldry got the attention of a group of girls, and they
came over to talk to us. My friends, who had not yet consigned all the
women of earth to a fiery death and eternal damnation, made up a
story about me to explain my behavior. They told the girls that I had
just broken up with my girlfriend who I was in love with and to not pay
attention to anything I said. It was my first night out and I was bitter
and mean. I helped enforce this lie with the toast I gave to the next
round of shots:
"This shot feels so good, this shot feels so right,
I can't believe she blew me and another guy tonight.
To drown my pain, I bought this drink at the store,
Because let's face it: All women are whores."
Greased by the bullshit story that I had been dumped, the girls actually
thought that I was funny. One of them tried to console me by switching
the subject to music. I told her I was a country music fan, which is not
even remotely true.
Girl "Really! I like to make up my own lyrics to country music songs.
Like, you know that one song, 'Let's Get Drunk and Screw?' I like to
pretend the lyrics are 'Let's Wait in Line for Shoes.' "
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Tucker [I stare blankly at her for a good ten seconds]
Girl [Still trying to be cheery] "Isn't that funny?"
Tucker "You are making me stupider."
Girl "What!?!?"
Tucker [Wait for it ... wait for it ... ] "I bet you've sucked miles of dick."
She immediately turned away and as she walked off stuttered, "You're,
you're ... a JERK!"
Tucker "Have another shot? DON'T MIND IF I DO!"
That pretty much sealed our fate at bar two. Bar three presented some
ample targets, but I was still too head-fucked to do anything, so my
friends planted me at a table and went looking for girls on their own.
After about three seconds, I got bored and started wandering around.
I snatched some pink drink off the bar as the girl who owned it looked
the other way, took a sip, and immediately spit it out. A girl on the other
side of me used this to initiate conversation:
Girl "Gross?"
Tucker "Yeah, it tastes like ass."
Girl "I like ass."
Tucker "What's your name?"
Had it been any other night, I would have turned this little gem into a
'tongue up my ass' crack. Not tonight. Tonight, it was only a matter of
time before I fucked it up.
Tucker "But be honest-would you ever eat out one guy's ass and
then kiss another guy the same Day?"
And I'm spent.
My friends were doing well with this one group of girls and looked to be
on the way to hook-up victory ...untill decided that I wanted to hear the
sound of breaking glass, and we all got kicked out.
We ended up going to a late night club. When we got there, I was so
drunk the bouncer almost didn't let me in. My last clear memory is my
friend grabbing me at the bar after I ordered a double something, and
trying to calm me down:
Friend "Dude, you've had too much. This is bordering on dangerous."
Tucker "The only dangerous amount is none!"
Friend "How many drinks did you have at the last place?"
Tucker "You're counting MY drinks? If you want to act like my liver
accountant then you can pay the fucking bill too!"
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Friend "I PAY YOUR BAR TABS ANYWAY!"
Tucker "I'M FAMOUS-WOMEN CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"
They sat me in a corner and went back out on the prowl. One or two
more drinks later, I decided that I was going to dance. Completely
immersed in my indignant self-pity on the dance floor, I found my savior.
In the corner of the club, dancing alone, I found the person that I could
trust. I found my one. My soul mate. The person who would never betray
me and who would love me forever and never fuck anyone else
behind my back without telling me.
This was the most gorgeous person I had ever seen. Piercing blue
eyes and sandy blond hair. Great body. A deep, penetrating stare that
revealed a wisdom and understanding beyond the average person.
Great charisma. Someone who would hold me. And we had immediate
chemistry.
We danced for an hour, exchanging seductive looks, coyly flirting,
seductively whispering sweet nothings at each other. Every smile was
met with a smile, every caress with an equal response.
I finally found someone to fall in love with.
I was too drunk to realize this at the time, but my friends were watching
me the whole time ... and all they saw was me dancing in front of
a huge mirror.
By myself.
No one else within ten feet of me.
Let me emphasize: I was so drunk, I was dancing WITH MYSELF in
the mirror. For AN HOUR. NO ONE was near me.
Not only did I never once realize it, the only thing I remembered the
next morning from that club was thinking that I'd fallen in love. For real,
it took several of them to convince me that I was dancing alone, and
not with the most amazing girl I'd ever met.
My friends also told me that later when the lights came on indicating
closing time, I staggered out of the club onto the street, ran away from
them, and their last sight was me careening down the street, bouncing
off store fronts and parked cars, yelling:
"IF YOU WANT TO GO OUT ON A DATE WITH ME, YOU CANNOT
FELLATE ANYONE ELSE FOR AT LEAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
BEFOREHAND! DO YOU HEAR ME?? AND I WANT YOU TO
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SHOWER TOO! I HAVE STANDARDS!! YOU HAVE TO DOUCHE!! IF
THE GLOVE FITS, THE GIRL IS A WHORE!!!"
Now THAT is Tucker Max Drunk.
But unfortunately, Tucker Max Drunk is not free. At some point the bill
comes due. How expensive is it? Let's tally the total:
You know it's been a hard night when you wake up dehydrated and
still dizzy. You know it's been a really hard night when you wake up
dehydrated and dizzy and don't know where you are and have no
memory of how you got there.
But it is only when waking from a truly Tucker Max Drunk night that
you are completely dehydrated, too dizzy to stand, and though you
don't know your exact location or how you got there, you do realize
that you have just woken up OUTSIDE, in a PUBLIC PARK, with a
stray dog LICKING YOUR FACE.
Raise your hand if you've ever had that happen to you.
I clawed my way to a park bench, pulled myself up onto it, and saw a
huge Tin Man statue. For a split second, I honestly thought I'd died
and gone to hell, and it was sponsored by Warner Brothers. That was
a bit of a shock, because I'd always thought Disney would rule hell.
Then I remembered: I lived right by a park called Oz Park, though until
this moment, it had not occurred to me where it got its name.
Encouraged by the fact that I was close to my apartment, I started
walking. After falling a few times and finally getting that damn dog to
stop following me, I found Halstead and followed it back to my
apartment.
I was so concerned with keeping my balance and navigating correctly,
I didn't really notice till I got home that my face and scalp were itching
something terrible. I was reaching up to discover the source of this itch
as I stumbled in my door. My roommate took one look at me, audibly
gasped and got that "Oh my god" face I've seen so many times. He
usually lets out a laugh when he sees the aftereffects of one of my
binges, but this time he was so shocked he could only cover his mouth
and utter "Go look in the mirror."
I felt my face, and there was definitely something sticky and hard
crusted onto it. Thinking that it was possibly blood and I had sustained
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a head injury, I rushed to the bathroom, and there in the mirror was
rock bottom:
The "love of my life" stared back at me with a face covered in hardened,
crusted vomit. Yellow and brown bile matted my hair, chunks
were in my eyebrows and ears, my cheek and neck had pieces of
grass stuck in the vomit crust. I looked like some sort of botched special
effect. So much for being too good for whores' sloppy seconds.
But the piece de resistance lay on the top of my head, at the edge of
the crusted vomit, precariously stuck to the vomit in my hair:
A small, dry dog turd.
Postscript
The repercussions of that night did not end there. First off, my (now
ex-) roommate will call me shit-head for the rest of my life, and I deserve
it.
Second, I will never look at women the same way. Ever. This event,
combined with a story my friend told me right after that about his
exgirlfriend letting herself get gang-banged by Mexicans in front of him to
get even for him cheating on her totally ruined me. Now, every time I
look at or talk to a woman, I can't help but think to myself, "Has she
already sucked a dick today? How recent was her last migrant worker
gang-bang?"
Granted, I've done horrible stuff also, but anyone in the world can read
this book and know what I've done. It's the not knowing that really
messes with me. What fucks me up is to think that girls I'm casually
dating are fucking around on me, and not even just on other days, but
right before they see me. I don't really go on dates anymore since I
learned that you don't need to spend money to get pussy, but when I
did, I wonder how many girls came out with sperm breath? And how
many of those did I kiss? And even now I wonder how many women
have I met out at a bar who fucked a guy before going out, and then
went home with me?
I talked to all my female friends about this, and the response was varied.
.
• The dumb ones were like, "Ohhhh-can I come over and suck you
off too?" Yes you may. And bring beer.
• The naive ones were like, "A girl came over and sucked your dick
before a date?? No girl does that!!" Riiiiight ... and you've never
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had a boyfriend cheat on you. Go back to reading books you buy at
the grocery store and leave reality to the rest of us.
• I finally got some usable feedback from my smart female friends.
Most of them were like, "This is news to you? That there are women
who do what you do? Tucker, I thought you were smarter than this."
Thanks for making me feel better.
One friend in particular summed it up: "At least you had this realization.
Most guys go through life being blissfully ignorant. My girlfriends
who juggle a lot of guys are the ones who don't give off any slutty
vibe ... which is how they totally get away with it. Every guy they are
with thinks they've got the perfect situation-a sweet girl who comes
over at midnight once or twice a week because that's all she wants.
They don't understand that she's got the same perfect arrangement
with four other guys."
I tried to explain that giving me head was so good that women actually
wanted to do it and didn't care about getting anything back, but she
just laughed.
Not that sucking my dick is some chore, but the idea that any guy is so
much better than other guys that he is above cuckoldry is ridiculous.
Believe me, guys: No matter how good you are, some girl has played
you ... and you probably didn't even realize it.
Don't think about this for too long fellas, or it will drive you nuts. I fixated
on it for a whole night and ended up dancing with myself in a mirror
for an hour and then woke up in a public park with vomit crusted to
my face and dog shit stuck to my head-you can trust me on this. Just
move on.
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THE DOG VOMIT STORY
Occurred-April 2005
Written-April 2005
As I write this I am sitting in my cousin Josh's apartment in Dallas,
Texas. I am fighting a hangover and an intense desire to vomit myself
to sleep so that I can get this down now, when it is fresh, because
even though it's not the most absurd thing I've ever done, it is up
there.
Last night we go to a place called The Corner to meet a group of girls
who had been emailingme.This is Josh's first experience dealing with
my website groupies, and even though he understands what I do in
the abstract, he can't fathom that I get laid this way.
Josh "So let me get this straight: Girls email you, then meet you out,
and have sex with you?"
Tucker "Yeah. Lots of them."
Josh "Why?"
Tucker "I don't know. I am awesome. Some women are sluts. Who
knows?"
Josh "All the women in Dallas are sluts."
Tucker "God bless them, every one."
The girl who emailed me, Lindsay, shows up. She is even better looking
than her pics; blonde shoulder length hair, cute button nose, that
sexy Texas twang, light eyes-a total Southern hottie. Her four other
friends ranged from "really cute" to "what happened to her face," so
predictably, I focus all my attention on Lindsay. Tucker Luck being
what it is, my cousin not only has a girlfriend but is also a great wingman,
so he was happy to handle the group, leaving my flank protected
and me free to talk to the hot girl. About five minutes into the
conversation, she drops this:
Lindsay "Can we just be friends?"
Tucker "What do you mean?"
Lindsay "Well, I just don't want you to think that I'm here to have sex
with you."
Tucker "When did I bring up the subject of sex?"
Lindsay "Well, you didn't, but ... well ... you know ... "
Tucker "Don't sweat things like that. Let's just hang out and have fun
and everything will work itself out."
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Let me translate that conversation from GameSpeak to common
English: Lindsay "I want to fuck you, but I don't want to feel like a slut
when I do it."
Tucker "I won't make you feel like a slut, even if you act like one."
Lindsay "Good, because even though I think I want to fuck you, I want
you to run good game on me first. You have to earn it."
Tucker "Relax, I have everything under control."
Now, even though the odds were good that Lindsay was going to fuck
me, I still had to play my cards right. I do know women as a group very
well, but I don't ever claim to completely know anyone individual
woman. As soon as you think you have a woman totally figured out,
that's when you walk in on her being triple teamed by the yard workers.
Lindsay did some of my work for me by getting really drunk. I was
drinking Goose and Red Bull doubles, and she was lapping me. Then
out of nowhere, she brought up my number of sexual partners.
Lindsay "How many girls have you been with?"
Tucker "I never answer that question. That answer never leads to
anything good."
Lindsay "I've only been with two people."
I openly laughed in her face. [note: She is 24]
Lindsay "IT'S TRUE!"
Tucker "OK, whatever."
Lindsay "IT IS TRUE!"
Tucker "I don't really care, but let me tell you something I have learned
about women: They lie. A lot. Especially about that."
Lindsay "I'm not lying."
Tucker "OK, I believe you. It doesn't really matter either way. We're
just friends."
Linsay "Oh stop it."
Again, from GameSpeak to English:
Lindsay "Ask me if I'm a slut."
Tucker "No."
Lindsay "I was testing you to see if you'll treat me like a slut for fucking
you the first night we meet."
Tucker "I know. Now I will show you how edgy I am."
Lindsay "You passed the test. And I like your edginess."
As the night went on, she got hammered. Housed to the point where
she was stumbling into people at the bar and speaking in tongues on
her cell phone. Her friends were telling me that it was the drunkest
they'd ever seen her. Not to be outdone by a small girl, I did shots with
half the bar until I was as drunk as, well, Tucker Max.
229
But just being drunk and foolish wasn't enough for Lindsay and me, so
we started making out. Yeah, we were that drunk couple that everyone
hates, the ones eating each other's faces at the bar. She kinda stops
and pulls me aside:
Lindsay "I never do this. I cannot believe I got this drunk."
Tucker "You ready to go home?"
Lindsay "That's a good idea."
Tucker "You obviously can't drive. Do you want me to call you a taxi or
get your friends?"
Lindsay "No. Are you sober? You can drive me home. I live just like a
mile away."
Translation:
Lindsay "I want to fuck you, but I need to get drunk as an excuse, so I
can explain this away when I sober up."
Tucker "Do you want to back out now? We don't have to do this."
Lindsay "I know, but I want to fuck you. Let's go."
I drove her home and was immediately met at the door by her anklebiting
yippy dog. I normally love dogs, with the notable exceptions
being those brain dead little rat dogs that are fashionable with the I
wanna-be-Paris-Hilton crowd, and this was one of those.
Lindsay "Hey Tucker! How are you?"
Tucker "His name is Tucker?"
Lindsay "I've had him for a year, way before I saw your site."
We eventually get down to business and start fucking. I am not even
inside her for a minute when she stops me. OK, no big deal, sometimes
girls just need time or whatever. We start fucking again ... and
she stops me again.
Tucker "Are you OK? Is everything alright?"
Lindsay "Yeah, it's fine."
So I start fucking her again ... and she stops me AGAIN.
Tucker "OK look honey, either shit or get off the pot. If you don't want
to do this, that is totally fine and 1have no problem respecting that
decision, I'll even leave if you want. But you need to decide one way or
the other, so I know what to do, because this game has to end. I only
start and stop when I'm in traffic."
She decides that she does in fact want to have sex, so we start fucking,
and to her credit she was really good in bed and managed me
well. Without direction I am selfish and dominant, but she knew what
she was doing and was able to mesh her desires with my style. We
finish, and I turn to her:
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Tucker "So how many people have you slept with?"
Lindsay 'Two."
Tucker "Yeah, you don't lie about that."
Lindsay "NO! I meant three. I wasn't counting you!"
Tucker "AHAHHAHAHHAHA! What are you, an Enron accountant?"
Lindsay "JERK!"
She goes into the bathroom to do whatever it is that women do after
sex. I had been feeling queasy during sex but had managed to force it
down until I came, but I couldn't hold it any longer. I had to vomit. And
this wasn't going to be normal vomit; this was make-your-eyes-water,
burn-your-sinuses, I-want-to-die vomit. Thank you tequila shots.
Then I panicked: where was I going to vomit? She was in the bathroom.
There was no porch. I tried to open the window but there was a
screen on it. That's a no-go; I've tried vomiting through screens before.
It doesn't work. Suddenly, I had an epiphany: still laying on her bed I
pushed it away from the wall, hung my head between the wall and
mattress, and blew all over the place. I couldn't have thrown a bucket of
vomit on her floor any harder. Thankfully her room is carpeted, so there
was no splashing and minimal running, it all just kinda streaked down the
wall and piled up under her bed.
By the time she came out of the bathroom I had moved the bed back
and recovered, so we fucked again. Thankfully she was drunk and didn't
notice my rancid vomit breath. Or maybe she did and just didn't mention
it.
The sex the second time was even better. But then in the middle of us
fucking, I hear this weird slurping noise. At first I think maybe something
is wrong with her pussy, so I stop for a second, but the noise
keeps going. Then I hear a jingle associated with it ... it sounds like
when my dog it wants to go out-I think her dog is under the bed eating
something ...
HOLY SHIT-THE DOG IS EATING MY PUKE!
What the fuck do I do now? I can't get up and stop the dog, because
then I'd have to admit that I threw up all over her floor and didn't clean
it up or tell her. The only solution I can arrive at is to kinda push myself
up and down on the bed, thinking that maybe he'll get the picture. The
slurping stops and the jingling increases.
Lindsay "Tucker, what are you doing under there? I think he is licking
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himself. That dog is crazy."
The dog takes maybe a three second break and I hear the slurping
again. This is great. Now I am simultaneously trying to:
1. Suppress my laughter,
2. Push the thought of the dog eating vomit out of my mind so I
can avoid getting sick on top of her, and
3. Maintain my erection and keep fucking her.
Seriously, picture this scene in your mind's eye: I am mid-coitus, drunk
out of my mind, vomit on my breath, on top of a girl I just met six hours
ago, her dog under the bed loudly feasting on my barf. What the fuck?
What would you do? What could I have done? When in doubt, just
fuck harder. It's what I did.
But it got better. I did manage to finish and we both fall asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to piss and as I step off
the bed, my foot lands directly in something musky.
Oh man ... there is only one thing that feels like that as it squishes
through your toes.
The lights were out but there was enough glow from a street lamp
coming through the window for me to clearly see doggy diarrhea all
over the floor. I used the floor to wipe the shit off my foot which left a
huge brown streak on the egg-shell white carpet. After playing hop
scotch to get to and from the bathroom, I just went to sleep and
pretended nothing was wrong. It's not my dog, plus she'll see the poop in
the morning.
She got up an hour later maybe, and stepped in the same shit I did.
Lindsay "OH TUCKER! You shit on the floor! Why did you do this?"
Tucker "He's probably jealous that he doesn't get to sleep in your bed
tonight."
Lindsay "You never poop in the house! What happened?"
[she turned the lights on]
Tucker "How did he leave that huge shit streak on the floor? That is
like two feet long." Lindsay "OH MY GOD-how did you do that? LOOK
AT THE FLOOR! BAD DOG! BAD!"
Tucker crawled up to her, and gave her a few vomit-flavored licks in
the face. Lindsay "OK, I forgive you. But you are still a bad bad dog."
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Postscript
The next day I got this email from her:
"I was being a good hostess because you're from out of town-but
that is the drunkest I've ever been in my life so I'm not counting anything
that happened last night."
Do I even need to translate that from GameSpeak to English?
She didn't find the vomit, and of course I didn't tell her about it, so we
ended up going out the next night.
Tucker "So, was it fun cleaning up all that crap?"
Lindsay "UH! What a mess. I had to buy all these cleaning supplies at
Walgreens and I scrubbed and disinfected and cleaned for two hours,
and it STILL stinks in there."
Tucker "Maybe he ate something. You should check the rest of the
room; he might have crapped or vomited somewhere you didn't find.
Dogs are weird like that."
233
THE MIDLAND, TEXAS STORY
Occurred-April 2005
Written-April 2005
Midland, Texas is awesome. Not because it is fun or peaceful or has
lots of hot girls. Midland is awesome because it is incredibly and
irreversibly fucked up. Remember the scene in Midnight in the Garden of
Good and Evil where John Cusack calls his editor and says, "This
place is like Gone with the Wind on mescaline. Everyone is heavily
armed and drunk. New York is boring." Welcome to Midland, Texas.
I went to Midland to visit my friend Doug. I had met Doug at a party in
Austin. He came up to me, huge dip in his lip, oil-stained jeans tucked
into his dirty cowboy boots, wide grin on his face and said, "HAY! Yur
Tucker Max!" and handed me his business card. It said:
[his full name]
Oil Wells Dug
Also: Revolutions started, Orgies Organized, Uprisings quelled,
Tigers Tamed, Assassinations plotted, Virgins Converted.
Also preach and lead singing for revival meetings.
I know, my first thought was the same as yours: This kid is a fucking
tool. But in spite of the absurd business card, I ended up hanging out
with him several times, and he turned out to be a pretty cool guy. When
he invited me to hang out with him for a week and work with him in the
West Texas oil fields that his family owned, I took the opportunity.
I landed at Midland airport and walked out of baggage claim to see
Doug sitting in his massive truck, its engine making that obnoxious
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK diesel engine idling sound. I have
to reach up for the door handle because the truck has huge 45 inch
tires as well as lifted suspension, putting the baseplate at like four feet.
I open the door to find the seat at eye level for me. He hands me a
beer before I can even pull myself up into the truck.
"WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! WELCOME TO MIDLAND
MOTHERFUCKER!!"
It is 3pm on Sunday and he is at least six beers ahead of me. Scattered
all over the floor are empty tins of Copenhagen, crushed up cans
of Keystone Light, Chilean surplus 7.62 rounds and .45 magazines
loaded with Mag-Safe hollow point rounds. On his gun rack-yes, his
truck had a gun rack-is an M-14 assault rifle and between the console
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is a holstered H&K USP pistol. If you don't know guns, let me explain
it this way: With just the arsenal in his truck, Doug could go round
for round with just about any cop in the country, SWAT included, and
probably outgun many of them.
It's a 20 minute drive to his place, and there is nothing resembling
civilization on the road there. Every direction is flat, arid brush land
scattered with mesquite "trees" (they look like bushes but Doug insisted.
that they are trees) and the occasional tumbleweed blowing across
the road. The only exception to this wasteland is the huge sign that
reads:
"Welcome to Midland: Home of George and Laura Bush."
Not even 20 minutes on the ground, and I begin to understand what
General Sheridan meant when he said, "If I owned Hell and Texas, I'd
rent out Texas and live in Hell."
We get to Doug's place and the first thing I see is a Colt .45 sitting on
his kitchen counter, pointing right at me. I notice that the hammer is
back, and upon closer inspection I realize that the pistol is FULLY
LOADED WITH A ROUND CHAMBERED. I grew up around firearms
and know how to use them, so I instinctually pick up the gun and make
sure the safety is on-which much to my relief it is-then immediately
clear the weapon.
Tucker "DUDE-why was there a round in the chamber with the hammer
cocked?!?"
Doug "The safety works better that way."
Tucker "Better than if there were NO BULLETS IN IT?"
Upstairs in my room, there is an HK 91 assault rifle just laying out, also
locked and loaded. There was enough ammunition scattered throughout
the apartment to re-enact the Son Tay raid.
Tucker "Dude, why do you have so many guns?"
Doug "Well, just in case, you never know. Plus, we got some rowdy
Mexican neighbors."
Tucker "WHAT? Who do you live next to, Pancho Villa?"
He hands me a beer:
Doug "Start drinking motherfucker, there are some bitches coming
over."
Tucker "Do you think maybe we should unchamber the rounds from
the rest of these firearms and safely store them before we get rip-roaring
drunk with girls around?"
Doug "What for? The safeties are on all of them."
Tucker "Are you kidding?"
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Doug "What if we want to go shootin' tonight?"
Tucker "Oh.My.God."
I immediately called my friend PWJ and told him to tell everyone that I
love them, because I wasn't coming home alive. But I didn't get to
where I am by fretting about these things, so I just said "fuck it,"
slammed a few beers and relaxed. After all, alcohol always makes
everything better.
[SIDE NOTE: I came to learn during my visit that everyone in Midland
is armed, and that they have a very different notion of gun safety than
the rest of the world. Basically, if the gun is not going off at that exact
moment, then it is safe. Even the women ride around with loaded
firearms in their cars. I consider myself a minor gun enthusiast, but
Midland is ridiculous.]
The girls arrive and I can immediately tell that they are all teenagers.
How do I know this without asking? Well, the game of quarters they
started playing was the first indication. The conversation about the
newest Lizzie Maguire movie was probably the second. And this
conversation sealed it for me:
Tucker "What are you drinking?"
Jenny "Chilled wine."
Tucker "You have ice cubes in it? No way. You're kidding right?"
Jenny "I like it that way. It's how we serve it."
Tucker jokingly] "What are you, a stripper?"
Jenny "No, I only work in a strip club. I don't strip."
Tucker "AHHAHHAHHAAH-YOU ACTUALLY DO WORK IN A STRIP
CLUB!! Yeah, there is a bright line distinction between the strippers
and the waitresses."
Jenny "IT IS DIFFERENT!"
Tucker "Let me guess-that is white zin. And you are probably mad
because Doug doesn't have any straws."
Jenny "Excuse me jerk; it is CHABLIS." [to her credit, she pronounced
it correctly]
Tucker "My mistake. I apologize, you are obviously very cultured. You
only partake of the finest of the boxed wines."
Jenny "It didn't come in a box! It came in a jug!"
Tucker "Oh right ... make sure to say hi to Carlo Rossi for me next
time you refill."
Doug comes out of the bathroom and joins the conversation.
Tucker "Dude-who is this girl?" [pointing to Jenny] "Don't you know
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me well enough yet not to bring girls like this around?"
Doug "What? She is hot."
Tucker "Yes, she is hot. But she is painfully dumb and desperately
needs braces."
Jenny "Excuse me, I've had braces."
Tucker 'Then why do your teeth look like you've been chewing on
rocks?"
Jenny "Because I lost my retainer."
Tucker "Left it on the dashboard of a truck, right? Don't you hate it
when that happens?"
I almost felt bad after this exchange. Fucking with 18 year old girls is
like kicking cripples; it's just too easy. Of course, the other two girls
with her thought this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. One is
cute and skinny with no tits, and one is cute and kinda fat with huge
tits. You want to guess which one threw herself at me? Whatever; just
give me another beer. I've fucked worse.
As the night moves on, I continue to abuse the dumb one for the
entertainment of everyone else. If that girl didn't hate herself before that
night, she did after it. The two girls that thought I was funny invited me
to go drinking with them at some friend's house. Jenny-the dumb,
hot, crooked toothed stripper-doesn't want to hang out with me, and
asks Doug to take her to a bar. He kinda looks at me surprised for a
second, and then realizes the lesson I just taught him: there is more
than one way to be a good wingman. You're welcome Doug.
Now, I assumed that when they said "a friend's house" these two girls
knew where the house was. And what happens when you rely on the
cognitive skills of 18 year old females? You get lost. After two hours of
riding around back country roads, we come to the sign:
"Pavement Ends"
Skinny Girl "Emma, do you know where we are?"
Emma "No."
Skinny Girl "Tucker, do you know where we are?"
Tucker "Is this a fucking joke? I LIVE IN CHICAGO!"
We eventually find our way to someone's house who has beer. It
rained the night before, and I am drunk and bored, so I throw Emma
into this huge mud puddle. She doesn't take that shit, and flings a
handful of mud at me. We wrestle and before I know it we are both
covered in West Texas filth.
237
Still dirty, we drive back to Doug's place and get in the shower to wash
it off ... and then we start hooking up in the shower ... and it moves
to the bed ... I put my hand down her panties, and feel something
gritty. I pull up and find a handful of mud. We get back in the shower,
this time with all our clothes off ... and we start hooking up again ...
and move to the bed again ... and I start to fuck her ... grit again. In
her pussy. No matter how much we tried to clean it off, it just would not
all come out.
I might as well have been fucking a dirt pile. Welcome to sex in Texas.
Doug woke me up early the next morning, because I was going to go
work with him in the oil fields. He knocks on my door, opens it and
sees Emma in my bed.
Doug "Shit. Get that land beast out of my house."
Tucker "I hope you have an elephant gun ready. You'll only get one,
maybe two shots before she tramples us."
Aside from the random hookups with little girls, the really funny thing
about Texas are the people you meet. These are not normal people. I
can't call them redneck, because that word implies a sub-standard
level of intelligence and sophistication, and that isn't really fair to these
people, some of whom are very smart. I grew up in a pretty rural part
of Kentucky, and those people are red necks, but the Texans I met
weren't like that. Perhaps I should just refer to them as "country." If you
ever grew up or spent time in a southern state, you know the difference
between country and redneck. These are some of the people I
met in Midland:
• The Sheriff of Midland lives in Doug's apartment complex. When he
gets drunk, which is pretty much every day, he sits in his car and
tries to pull people over for DUI. In the parking lot of the same complex
he lives in. He doesn't even bother going out into actual
streets.
• When they are bored, Emma's friends will do what is called
"spotlighting."
West Texas is basically all brushland that is overrun with
jackrabbits, so hunting them is legal year round. To hunt them, you
go out at night in the fields with your truck and shine your spotlight
around until you catch one. When the light hits them they look right
into it and freeze, thus making easy targets.
But because it is so easy, just shooting them isn't enough for some
238
of these people. One guy told me a story about how he got bored
with shooting them with a rifle, so he started using a bow and arrow.
That got boring, so he would run them over with his truck. That was
simple, so he started getting out of his truck and beating them to
death with a tire iron. When that got too easy, he chased them and
stomped their heads. When that lost its luster, he threw his tool box
at them. Then he took the 50 or so rabbits he'd killed and laid them
out in his ex-girlfriend's yard, spelling the word "Ho."
• One of Doug's friends got kicked out of his house at 18 because he
was a total fuck-up and his parents couldn't deal with him anymore.
This kid is either too poor or too stupid to get a normal apartment,
so he instead moved into a storage unit. He sleeps in an empty,
gutted Bronco, and uses hundreds of boxes of Keystone Light as
insulation. You don't believe me? Look at the picture:
These people are funny, but they've got nothing on Doug's co-worker,
Wayne. Wayne works with Doug in the West Texas oil fields, and we
spent a few days with him on the rigs. The first time I met Wayne, he
drove up in his truck when we were doing something manual:
Wayne "You two look like monkeys fuckin' a football."
Doug "Fuck you redneck."
Wayne "Proud of it, you knob-slobber. Want some beer?"
Doug "Yeah, gimme one."
Tucker "Should we drink when we work?"
Wayne "Sheeet. Son, this tha country, this ain't no got-damn New
Yourk City or no fuckin' She-Ka-Go. In the country, it ain't called
'drankin a beer,' it's called 'improvin' yer work.'''
Tucker "Well .. ."
Wayne "Come on. It's rodeo cool."
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Tucker "Well, OK, if it's cold I guess .. ."
I take a sip and immediately spit it out.
Tucker "DUDE-THIS BEER IS HOT!"
Wayne "Whudda fuck duhya thank 'rodeo cool' meens?
Watching Texans
work is funny.
We went to lunch with Wayne. He took out his tooth to eat-one single
tooth-and regaled us for hours with some of the funniest stories I'd
ever heard.
Wayne on occupational hazards: "Yeah, them oil rigs ain't to be trifled
wit. One time we was changing the heads on a pump and the fucker
blew .. Throwed me bouta hundred yards and killed two other guys
workin' with me. That was some shit. I had to take a whole week off
work."
Wayne on drinking: "I knew I should slow down my drankin when I was
going through half a fifth a day, just on the drive home. Now I just
drank a few beers on the ride and save the hard stuff for when I git
home."
Wayne on West Texas flora: "This one time I got throwed off a Bronc
and landed in a mesquite bush. You know them mesquite thorns is
long and thin as hell. Well, I stood up and brushed miself off, but I felt
blood dripping down ma face. I wiped it off but I couldn't find no cut,
then ma son told me it was coming from ma eye, so I reached up and
felt a lump under my eyelid. 1pulled a three inch thorn out of my face.
That fucker had gone in vertically and missed tha eyeball, but had gotten
sunk deep behind the eye. I got lucky on that one. You can still see
the scar-just look right her. What's wrong wit you boy? Why you
squirm'in' like a ki-ote caught inna snare?"
240
Wayne on whiskey: "I don't drink JD; it gives me gout." [we crack up
laughing] "Fuck yall, you'll be old soon."
Wayne on West Texas fauna: "Don't let no one tell you cows ain't
mean. Thems some fuckers. Another time I got throwed trying to
Watching Doug work
from the cool shade
of the truck is even
funnier.
break'a horse, and a cow done shit all over my head when I was laying
on the ground. I got up and whupped his ass. Punched that fucker
right'n his face. He didn't shit on me no more after'at."
Wayne on cunnilingus: "Just because it smells bad don't mean it
tastes bad. I ate out all kinds of pussies, and I liked ever one. Cept
them Mexican hookers. You don't go down on them, you'll come up
seeing stars and have a green tongue and shit. Other'n that though,
I'd eat the hymen outta dead donkey. I love it!"
The second day in the fields I had to get suntan lotion, because I wasn't
used to spending 10 hours a day in the sun. While we were at the
store Wayne called Doug looking for him:
Wayne "Where the hell you faggots at?"
Doug "We had to get Tucker some suntan lotion."
Wayne "SUNTAN LOTION? Well god damn! I been'ta two world's fairs
and a goat ropin' contest and I ain't never seen no shit like this."
After that, he called me the "World Champion Goat Roper" all week. I
didn't figure out what it meant for a few months. Think about what kind
of person spends time holding goats down, and you'll get it.
One night we were out drunk and called Wayne. Doug dialed his
number, the phone answered, but it was a good minute before any voice
came on. Even though I was standing next to Doug and not on the
phone, I could hear the Hank Williams Jr. blaring on the stereo in the
background.
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Wayne "Whut'dda fuck dyew want?"
Doug "Hey Wayne, you want to come get some beers with us?"
Wayne "Who's dis?"
Doug "It's Doug and Tucker."
Wayne "FUCK NO! I ain't watchin you two faggots suck dick all night. I
can turn on the cooking channel and see plenty of homos."
Here I am, in the West
Texas Oil fields, on the
phone with my agent.
Only Tucker Max.
Doug "Come on Wayne, we-"
Wayne [He yells away from the phone to his 12 year old son] "HEYYOU
FUCKING DITCH MONKEY, GET ME ANOTHER BEER 'FORE
I HIT'CHA WIT MY BOOT."
Doug "Wayne?"
Wayne "Ain't you got some goats to poke? Ah hell, where is my beer?
YOU BETTER HURRY UP YOU LITTLE SHIT OR YOU'LL BE
SLEEPIN ON THE PORCH WIT'DA DOGS."
Wayne is awesome, but Doug has other country friends that may be
even funnier. Doug is big into off-roading and rock crawling and similar
redneck activities involving big tires and loud engines, so one day he
took me to hang out with some other off-roading friends of his, Mike
and Cliff. He said I would like them because "they call themselves a
'drinking team with an off-roading problem.' "
We met Mike and Cliff at a maintenance shop that one of their friends
owned. It looked just like the American Chopper shop, except the
place was a mess. I kept expecting Paul Sr. to storm out of the office
and start screaming at Paulie and Vinnie about the shop being dirty.
Mike was about 40, had an orange "Daytona Bike Week" hand band, a
white goatee and was covered in axle grease or some other dirty
mechanical fluid. Cliff was about 35, in a plaid lumberjack jacket, a gold
rope chain and I think had at least two dips in, if not more. They both
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looked like tow truck drivers (and I don't mean that as an insult, it's just
the impression they gave off).
At first, we just sat around and drank beer and bullshitted. It took
awhile but once they realized that I wasn't some city-boy prima-donna
who thought he was better'n them, they warmed up to me.
Tucker "So Mike, on the ride over here Doug said that his truck was a
lot better than yours."
Mike "Sheet. His little girl truck couldn't pull a tampon out of a sick
whore's pussy." Tucker "Doug said that your truck is just like bad pussy-it
stinks."
Mike "There ain't no such thing as bad pussy."
Tucker "You haven't had enough pussy to say some shit like that."
Mike "Well you must fuck a lot, 'cause you ain't had a long enough dry
spell to thank pussy can be bad."
Tucker "Touche."
Mike "Don't use no goddamn French round me, boy."
Tucker "Holla."
Mike "I guess nigger's better'n French."
Tucker "You shouldn't say nigger. If you must, at least say 'urban.' "
Mike "You got too much education, boy."
Doug had something broken on his truck and his buddies helped him
work on it for a few hours. I just stood around drinking Keystone Light
and watching because I don't know shit about anything mechanical:
Mike "Tucker, hand me that crescent wrench."
Tucker "What is a crescent wrench?"
Mike "Goddamn. You bout as useful as tits on a bull. All that education
and you don't know nothin'."
Cliff "He sure know how to drink my beer without paying for it."
But the highlight had to be listening to them talk shit to Doug:
Doug "I only have 40,000 miles on that thing; I don't know how the
U-joint broke."
Mike "Right, 'cause having a dumbass driver who's always hopping
curbs and smokin' his tires don't got nuttin' to do wit it."
Doug "Fuck you, bitch."
Mike "I hope you brought some tequila Doug. We ain't doin' this for
free."
Tucker "All it takes is a bottle of tequila to pay you off? This is some
serious mechanical work you are doing."
Mike "Hell no. But tequilas the only thang that's gonna wash the taste
of dick outta Doug's mouth."
Cliff "You'd know bout that wouldn't you?"
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Mike "Weill was in the fucking Navy, asshole."
After they got Doug's truck fixed, we headed to Cliff's house to drink
more beer and blow things up. Cliff's place was hilariously redneck. As
we drive up, three dogs that look more like coyotes come running up
barking and jumping around. Sitting on a nice two-acre piece of land is
a big double-wide trailer, very nice by trailer standards. It is flanked by
two huge storage sheds with ATV's, boat hulls, a beer fridge, animal
skins mounted on the wall and all order of tools and sheet metal and
what not. In the huge back yard is a rock pond that is really nice and
well put together, with a working fountain in the middle. Next to the
pond is an old three wheeler ... up on blocks. No, really it was up on
concrete blocks. Awesome.
All the way in the back is an animal pen that has donkeys and goats.
We go to the pen because Cliff wants to show everyone something
behind it.
Mike "Hey Cliff, what the fuck is wrong with that billy?"
The male goat, called a billy goat, had a torn and bleeding ear. We
walk into the animal pen, and laying on the ground is a dead goat with
half its face missing. Across the pen are two dead baby goats, both
dirty and mangled. Everyone just kinda stands there for a second,
when one of the dogs-the big male one-sticks its head through the
gate, sees Cliff standing there, and takes off running with his tail between
his legs. Cliff explodes.
Cliff "CHEVY GET BACK OVER HERE! YOU GODDAMN
MOTHERFUCKER GET OVER HERE!"
Cliff stomps across the yard after the dog. He is PISSED.
Mike "Oh shit. Here he goes."
Tucker "Why is he so mad?"
Mike "You see the goats, Helen Keller?"
Tucker "That goat's been dead a long time. It's face is half decomposed."
Mike "No no. That goat was alive this morning."
Tucker "Then how did its face get like that? It's decomposed."
Mike "You dumbass. The dogs ate it."
Tucker "NO WAY! Are those dogs wild?"
Mike "Hell no; they just normal house dogs."
Tucker "Normal dogs wouldn't do that."
Mike "Sheet. You got dogs?"
Tucker "Yeah. I grew up with them and have one now."
Mike "Well, your dogs'd do the same thang. They are all sweet and
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nice around humans, but you get them in a pack and they go fuckin
nuts. Domesticated or not, them's wild animals at heart. Chevy is the
ringleader, and he's done this before, that's why Cliff is so pissed. He
should know better."
A gunshot rang out, and I kinda jumped. We turned towards the yard,
and saw Cliff, red as a beat, screaming and chasing his dog around, a
shovel in one hand and a .22 in the other. The dog was scurrying this
way and that, dodging gun shots and shovel swings. It looked like a
Hee-Haw skit:
Cliff "YOU STOO-PID STOO-PID DOG!" [swings the shovel and
misses] "WHY THE FUCK DA YEW KEEP DOIN' THAT!" [another
gunshot rings out and misses] "GET OVER HERE AND GET'CHER
WHOOPIN!" [swings the shovel and misses] "HOW MANY TIMES AM
I GONNA HAVE TA BEAT YEW?!?" [another missed gunshot]
Tucker "Is he really shooting at his dog?"
Mike "Oh hell yeah. Cliff is a pretty level guy, but when he gets mad,
you better watch out. He'll calm down after he tones the dog for a little
while."
Tucker "Tones the dog? What does that mean?"
Mike "Wait'li he catches him, you'll see."
A few seconds later I see Cliff swing his shovel and hear the distinctive
"TONG" of metal against skull as he clocks the dog flush in the head.
Much to my surprise, the dog took the hit and ran off with no noticeable
damage. I didn't know whether to laugh because of the absurd
comedy inherent in watching a fuming redneck chase his dog around
his yard with a shovel and a gun, or be sad because some guy just hit
a dog in the head with a shovel.
Mike "You hear that sound the shovel made on his skull? That's why
we call it 'toning'."
Tucker "Wow. I mean ... I've never seen anyone work a dog over like
that. I've never even seen anyone work over a person like that. Pimps
don't even beat hookers like that."
Mike "Chevy'li be fine. He's tough, but he's obstinate. Dogs is like
women; sometimes talkin' don't work."
After Cliff was too exhausted to chase the dog any longer, he stormed
back to the animal pen, shovel in hand but no rifle, sweat pouring off
his brow, still muttering to himself.
Tucker "Why is he so mad? It's just a goat. He can buy another one."
Mike "Well, he ain't got much money, and them goats is worth bout
$150."
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Mike goes behind the animal pen to what can only be described as a
small pet cemetery. There is a pine cross up with a goat's name, and
rocks over the grave. Cliff starts digging a new grave next to the old
one. The digging eventually calms Cliff down and all of us start trading
drinking stories. I tell them a few of my classics and they laugh.
Doug "Cliff, tell Tucker some of your stories."
Cliff "Well, there was that weekend I tore my intestine from beer. I went
into the doctor and he asked me how many beers I drank. I said I had
about an average Saturday, bout 50. A pretty hairy Sunday, had bout
70. They called in two more doctors and a whole mess'a nurses. Them
fuckers didn't believe me. I asked'em: How the hell else am I gonna
tear my intestine from beer unless I drank me a shit load of it?"
Tucker "You drank 120 beers in two days? No fucking way."
Cliff "You sound like the fucking doctors."
Tucker "That is over 1400 ounces of beer! That's like ... 10 or 11
GALLONS! IN TWO DAYS!?!?"
Mike "Well thank you Mr. Wizard, we know how much fucking beer it
is."
Tucker "I am in awe of that."
Cliff "Shit. That ain't nothing. Around here, 120 beers is what we call
'tha weekend.'''
After awhile Chevy came over and sort of crawled near us but stayed
out of reach, obviously not wanting to get another whipping. He laid
about 10 yards away, licking his crotch.
Tucker "I wish I could do that."
Mike "I don't think he'd let'cha."
Doug and Cliff digging
a hole for the dead
goats. Notice that Doug
is "supervising." He's
such a lazy shit.
Cliff finished digging and paused to stare at the dead goat for a
minute.
Cliff "I kinda want to keep that goat head and mount it above my fireplace
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... but I cain't."
Doug "Why not?"
Cliff "Cause evertime I look at it I'd hit my dog."
We threw the goats into the grave, and Mike jokingly took a full
Keystone Light and threw it in the grave before he filled it in.
Mike "That's for the trip, you stupid goats."
Cliff "The sad part is, when I'm broke jones'in for a beer, I'm gonna dig
that motherfucker up and drank it."
Mike "Boy, that'd really git your goat."
Cliff "Fuck yew."
Mike "Cliff, you feelin alright? You look like you just buried a goat."
Cliff "Im'ma tone you in a minute if you don't shut da fuck up."
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THE WORST TUCKER STORY EVER
Occurred-April 2005
Written-April 2005
[WARNING: If you enjoy carefree, guiltless sex with multiple partners
and want to continue having lots of it, stop reading right now. Don't say
I didn't warn you.]
I know I say things like, "Is this my life?" all the time, but honest to
fucking god, every time I think my life is as weird and perverse and
fucked up as it can possibly get, I trump myself. It never fails. This just
happened on April 3rd, 2005 as I was finishing up the material for this
book:
"Sarah," one of my regular fuck buddies, calls me and asks if she can
come over and spend the night. It was a Sunday and I was going to
stay in to do some work anyway, plus she is real cool and laid back
and doesn't require any attention from me except for sex, so I agree.
Sarah said she'd be over around 9pm. Right after I got off the phone
with Sarah, I got a call from an irregular booty call of mine, "Mimi."
Mimi was very drunk and making all sorts of promises about coming
over. She gets hammered and calls me all the time promising to come
over and never shows, so not taking her inebriated call seriously, I tell
her she can come over.
Sarah gets there and instead of fucking, she wants to talk:
Sarah "Tucker, I went to the hospital yesterday. I'm 5 weeks pregnant"
(we had been fucking for at least two months).
Tucker "Aren't you on birth control? You told me we didn't have to use
condoms because you were on birth control"
Sarah "I was. I still am, but remember when I got pneumonia from you?
The doctor said that the antibiotics messed with my birth control, and I
guess I got knocked up."
We talked about our options for awhile. I am always hesitant to say
anything in these situations, for many reasons, but Sarah made it easy
on me:
Sarah "Well, no matter what, I have to get an abortion. I don't really
have a choice."
Tucker "I mean, OK, but what do you mean you don't have a choice?"
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Sarah "Well, I start chemotherapy next month."
Tucker "Chemotherapy?"
Sarah "I wasn't going to tell you this, but ... well ... 1 have ovarian
cancer. I found out two weeks ago."
Tucker "Fuck. You are having a great month ... are you going to live?"
Sarah "Yeah, I should be fine. But 1obviously can't be pregnant during
cancer treatment."
The great irony in this: The entire reason she found out she had ovarian
cancer early enough to treat it was because she was fucking me. It is
pretty rare to get ovarian cancer that young (she's 20), but it's even
rarer to catch it early enough to treat it effectively. We had unprotected
sex because she was on birth control, but after considering the fact
that she was fucking me without a condom, she kinda freaked out and
went to her Ob/Gyn for a complete STD test and pap smear. Turns out
she has no STD's, but came up positive for cancerous cells. I guess
sometimes fucking me can actually be healthy.
But this wasn't all:
Sarah "You don't know any private abortion clinics do you? I need to
go soon."
Tucker "You don't have insurance?"
Sarah "Yeah, but I am on my parents' policy. If I use my insurance,
they will find out and flip on me. I'm not sure I even have enough to
pay for it."
Before I can even recover from the cluster bombs that Sarah dropped
on me, an enfilade is fired at me from my flank: Mimi picks tonight to
actually make good on a booty call promise. Oh boy ... this night just
got as awkward as a mule on rollerskates.
Still very drunk, Mimi crashes into my place and falls on the floor.
Maxie (my dog) licks her face until she gets up onto the couch, where
she proceeds to lay a litany of her own problems on Sarah and I. Well,
she doesn't actually tell us per se; she calls some other guy she is
fucking and we learn these facts from her loud and drunken conversation
with him:
• She was five months pregnant, but just had a miscarriage four days
earlier [note: in this, she is telling the truth. We have many friends in
common, and I saw her a few weeks before and she was clearly
pregnant. Now she clearly wasn't, and our friends had told me
about her miscarriage yesterday].
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• Her husband blames the miscarriage on her.
• She is pissed at her husband for blaming the miscarriage on her.
• She is very unhappy with almost everything about her three-month
•ld marriage, and thinks she wants a divorce. [Yes, she was already
two months pregnant when she married him.]
• She admits that the baby might not even be her husband's.
• She says that the only reason she married her husband was because
she was pregnant, not sure who the father was, and he had
the most money of anyone she was fucking at the time.
• She is at my place to fuck me mainly because her husband hates
me [note: He hates me because I once embarrassed him at a
party].
Wow; this night just went from awkward to full-on Tucker Max surreal.
There isn't this much concentrated misery in a pediatric burn unit.
But even beyond the wretched circumstances surrounding these girls,
I really don't know what to do. Both girls are totally fucked up and both
want to fuck me. How do I resolve this situation? I was totally baffled. I
don't even know what my options are. Could I just leave? Could I call
the cops and pretend one of them hit me, and have her taken away?
Could I somehow turn this into a perverted, prego threesome?
Remembering that the only way to defeat an ambush is to charge into
it attacking, I decide that fucking at least one of them is the solution.
But should I screw the slut who is cheating on her husband and just
miscarried a 5-month old fetus, or the one who has cancer and is currently carrying
my child? I do a cost-benefit analysis of sex with each:
Mimi Pro
• Mimi is great looking with
huge fake tits
• Mimi is good in bed
Mimi Con
• Mimi just had a miscarriage
• Mimi is a revolting slut who
should be ground into pig slop
Sarah Pro
• Sarah is very pretty also,
but no fake tits
• Not only do I actually like
Sarah, she is probably better
in bed than Mimi
Sarah Con
• Sarah is pregnant ... with my
child
• Sarah has cancer ... right in the
hole where I put my penis
I cut the Gordian Knot and decide to fuck Mimi. I figure that if I give her
a good dicking, she will either leave or fall asleep, and then maybe I
can salvage something with Sarah. If I fuck Sarah first, Mimi will get
pissed and immediately leave, probably stealing and/or breaking my
stuff on the way out.
All of us still sitting in the living room, I grab Mimi and lead her towards
my bedroom. I turn to Sarah and say, "Stay here. I just need to fuck
250
her to sleep, then I'll be back up." Sarah is not happy. As in "Hell hath
no fury" pissed. Whatever; it's too late to worry about that now. I've
committed to the charge, the only thing I can do now is finish hard.
We go downstairs and start fucking. Mimi fucks like a professional,
and is on her game tonight (I know what escorts fuck like because I
dated several when I lived in Florida). When I am with her I usually get
off multiple times, not really because I like her but because I have an
almost pathological fake tit fetish.
I shoot my first load pretty quickly; like five minutes. It usually takes me
only a few minutes to reload, so I massage her c1itand finger her until
I am ready to go again. But two minutes pass, and I can't get hard.
Four minutes, I am still a wet noodle. After like ten minutes, some jacking
off that required a surprising amount of concentration, I am finally
half mast, so slide in her and start again.
But it won't start. In fact, it deflates a little. What the fuck is wrong with
my dick? The only time it ever does this is when I am truly Tucker Max
Drunk or after I've cum like 5-6 times in a night.
Then I realize what is happening. Sometimes when I fuck, especially
when I fuck demon sluts like Mimi, my subconscious tries to fuck with
me. It has a nasty habit of creeping up on me and attempting to sabotage
my journey to orgasm. But my conscious mind, which has the
power of my penis behind it, usually busts the subconscious in the
mouth and quickly shuts it up.
This time was different. After everything that had happened tonight,
my conscious mind was like George Foreman in the fifth round of The
Rumble in the Jungle: exhausted, punched out, and stunned by an opponent
he underestimated. My subconscious, seeing my conscious
mind on the ropes, did exactly what Muhammed Ali did to Foreman:
Finished him.
Subconscious "Tucker ... are you having fun? You like that soft supple
flesh on your penis? That pussy you are penetrating ... it is the
same hole that just passed a dead 5-month old fetus. Isn't she supposed
to wait at least two weeks after that happens to fuck again?"
As my conscious desperately tries to fend off my subconscious, Mimi
is no help. She keeps moaning and screaming. This only makes me
more disgusted. My dick is not big enough to make a girl scream
"FUCK ME WITH YOUR HUGE COCK" during sex, especially considering
that I was barely hard. The only type of woman who would say
that is one who is accustomed to propping up the egos of men who
pay for sex.
Subconscious "I wonder how much she charges? You could be getting
thousands of dollars of value here, all for free. Do you think she fucked
anyone before you today? Her pussy does seem a bit slippery, doesn't it?
I wonder how much she made. After she passes out, check her purse."
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Mimi "OH TUCKER, JUST LIKE THAT! I LOVE YOUR GIANT COCK!"
Subconscious "Tucker, you realize that the only way a girl gets this
whorish is because she was raped by her step-dad at age 10. Do you
think your dick is bigger than the guy who sexually abused her as a
child? I bet it's doesn't feel that way, even if it is."
Mimi "FUCK ME HARDER! OH MY GOD!"
Subconscious "You know, she just miscarried ... I wonder if there is
still any embryonic fluid down there. That's probably why she's so wet.
I bet she didn't even miscarry. I bet she got a vacuum and sucked that
nearly third trimester baby right out. That's why she feels especially
good-a pussy gets tenderized when its stretched for a dead baby
head."
Mimi "OH GOD YES! FUCK ME RAW! SHOOT YOUR CUM ALL
OVER MY TITS!"
Subconscious "And if it was a partial birth abortion, there is probably
still some brain juice coating her pussy. That stuff is REALLY slippery.
I bet you can feel it if you concentrate."
There was the knock out punch. No standing eight count, no saved by
the bell: My conscious mind was on the canvas looking up at the referee.
My dick went totally limp. Wouldn't respond at all; it was like trying to
get a marshmallow into a slot machine. I was done.
Not even pretending to cum, I roll off her and leave the room. I
checked on her 10 minutes later, and she was passed out exactly
where I left her, naked, laying on her back, her huge fake tits just sitting
there on her chest. I momentarily considered waking her up to try
again, but the immediate gag reflex that followed that thought stopped
me. I don't want any more of my subconscious tonight.
Sarah was indeed pissed, but she stayed around anyway. After the
night I'd had, alii wanted was to be alone. I couldn't kick her out, but I
just couldn't be cooperative:
Sarah "Did you take a shower after you fucked her?"
Tucker "No."
Sarah "Well, would you take one?"
Tucker "Why?"
Sarah "Cause I want to have sex with you."
Tucker "Do we have to?"
She left after that. But not before she asked me to cut her a check for
half the cost of the abortion. As I wrote the $200 check, I momentarily
considered asking her if she was sure the kid was mine, but I just
couldn't. I was still on the canvas.
After everyone left, I stopped and fully considered what I had just
done:
I invited a girl over to have sex .
who is pregnant with my child .
AND has ovarian cancer.
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While she was at my place hanging out with me seeking moral support
for her difficult times ahead, I invited another girl over to fuck me ...
That girl is married ...
And just had a miscarriage ...
AND only wants to fuck so she can have something to throw in her
husband's face.
Then I fucked her, but had to stop because I couldn't remove the
image of dead fetus brains spilling out of her vagina from my mind ...
Then I refused to fuck the other girl because I was too disgusted with
myself to get hard again.
Seriously, think about this scenario for a second, and ask yourself: Is it
possible to be a worse person without breaking the law? Forget an
upper management role in hell; I think I have the CEO position in my
sights.
Well, I just hope that they serve beer in hell. Even if it is rodeo cool.
253
APPENDIX 1:
THE TUCKER MAX FEMALE
RATING SYSTEM
As an alternative to the "how many beers" or the "1 through 10" rating
system, my friends and I came up with the following 5-star scale to
rank physical appearance only. There are three things that you must
remember before using this scale:
1. Though personality is very important in evaluating females, in this
scale it can only hurt. Too many men are the type that once they start
fucking, they think the girl is cool because she likes having sex with
them, and want to raise a woman's rating. This scale is for accuracy of
physical appearance only, so keep your feelings for her personality out
of this rating. People generally agree more when a woman is a bitch,
thus making that more of an objective factor (personality is obviously
important in deciding whether or not you want to date the woman, but
not in conveying her physical attractiveness on this scale).
2. Bonus stars can only be given under the following circumstances:
• A woman financially supports the man, or at least buys him everything
he wants; capped at a half star.
• A woman is into other women, and lets the man participate in some
way (including watching); capped at 1-star.
• Sex drive can help, but it can only bring a marginal candidate up a
level. For instance, a high 2-star can be elevated to a low 3-star, but
an average 2-star CANNOT go to a 3-star, no matter what her sexual
habits are.
The scale:
1-star (aka, common-stock pig): No redeeming qualities. This girl is
ugly, usually fat, boring and sucks in just about every way possible.
If you don't know a common-stock pig when you see one,
you are destined to spend the rest of your life with one.
2-star (aka, respectable pig): One redeeming quality, like large
breasts, nice ass, cute face, great dick-sucking lips, etc. If you
concentrate on that one redeeming physical quality, and you get
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shit-housed, you're not too upset with yourself waking up next to
a respectable pig. Of course, you still make her crawl out the
window when she leaves, because you don't want your friends
to see her, but at least you don't want to gargle bleach and scrub
yourself like a rape victim after she leaves.
3-star (aka decent/attractive/pretty): Acceptable to be seen with in
public. She is average when sober, but looks MUCH better after
only about three beers. You'll admit to your friends that you're
fucking her, but you still make fun of her behind her back, and tell
them lies about her sexual prowess and bi-sexual tendencies to
justify your dealings with her. She's not bad overall, and will do if
nothing better comes along, but could be left in a heartbeat if the
opportunity for a hot chick arises. Sadly, most guys end up having
to settle for a 3-star, as these are the most prevalent type of
women.
4-star (aka girlfriend material): This is the girl that is very attractive,
but not super hot. You will be seen with her in public at any point
in the day, even before drinking. You think twice before ditching
this girl for a hot chick, especially if she has special powers
(tongue ring, double jointed, etc.). Ascension to the 4-star level
can only be attained through use of a petition. The candidate
must secure 75% of the vote from those polled. (NOTE: Bonus
points only make a candidate petition eligible. She still must garner
75% of the vote.)
5-star (aka super hottie): This is the hot chick. Hopefully no further
explanation is necessary. It's kind of like the Hall of Fame.
VERY FEW WOMEN ARE 5-STARS, about 3-5% of the population.
A declaration that someone is hot is assumed to be true, but
can be rebuked if 25% of those polled vote against her 5-star
placement.
Other category: O-star (aka, Wildebeast): The lowest of the low. A
1-star (common-stock pig) with a terrible personality qualifies as
a Wildebeast. They should all be put to sleep. This \is that loud,
disgusting fat girl in the bar that smokes, orders complicated
drinks and then spills them on everyone, and is generally just so
annoying that you have to actively restrain yourself from kicking
her in the crotch and stomping on her throat until she drowns on
her own blood. There is no insult too mean or crude for her, and
basic human rights do not apply to her.
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APPENDIX 2:
THE TUCKER MAX DRUNK
SCALE
When describing how drunk I get, I use my own scale that my friends
and I devised:
Buzzed: is after a few beers, when I can feel the alcohol affecting me,
but I think I can still drive reasonably well. My brain generally works
like normal, though perhaps a little slow.
Inebriated: is when I start feeling good, but I know my ability to drive
is impaired, and so I give the keys away. I begin to doubt my ability to
make good judgments. I am usually a much nicer person at this stage
of drunkenness, though this changes quickly.
Drunk: is when I start feeling overly confident about myself and all of
my abilities, I argue about who drives, but eventually give the keys up
anyway. Other people begin to seem much funnier and more interesting.
This is also when the ability to socialize in an appropriate manner
starts breaking down.
Fucked-in-half (aka "shit-housed"): is when I believe that my abilities
have become nearly superhuman, that I am the best looking man in
my geographical area, and that that hunchback girl over by the bar is
really hot too. As far as I am concerned, there is no road, policeman,
or possibly even army, that can contain me. It is at this point that I cannot
differentiate between an appropriate comment and an inappropriate
one, so I just say whatever I feel like.
Tucker Max Drunk: is the ultimate drunk stage. Never mind about
operating heavy machinery; I have trouble figuring out doorknobs. The
only benefit is that I don't have to worry about driving because I can't
even find my keys. Any of several things can happen at Tucker Max
Drunk. I can:
• Black out
• Hook up with ugly or fat girls
• Fail to hook up with hot girls because I pass out on them
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• Vomit uncontrollably
• Make loud, boisterous, and thoroughly untruthful claims about my
achievements
• Commit myself to large and utterly hopeless wagers that I have no
way of covering
• Claim to be a renowned expert on things I could not begin to explain
when sober
• Start fights with small, defenseless people
• Break things
• Become very angry with inanimate objects, and loudly curse them
• Say anything, no matter how offensive or mean, to anyone, no matter
how helpless or undeserving
• Wake up somewhere that I have never seen before, and do not
recognize
• Have long and involved conversations over important topics that I
have no recollection of the next day
The funny thing is Tucker trying to wahoo this blog.
Tucker, I know your socially retarded, but did you actually take stock of your life? You live in a shit hole with roomies, and little money. In fact, I bet Daddy gave you money for the surgery, since you aren't covered by insurance.
Even your "business" is going down the tubes. Your message board died after Gawker, and won't ever recover. Take a look at your alexa.com rating Tucker... it's called "scoreboard".
Wow, I thought the stories on the board got lame fast. Who the hell ever paid a dollar to read that drivel?
^ How do you know tuckernuts is trying to wahoo this board?
---TUCKER MAX INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT PART 7 -----
(The truth had been revealed. Tucker's unseemly father, Dennis, had just finished telling the story of how Tucker - Otto - got his name. In the moments between Otto's protests about our reporter hero's harrowing interviewing the senior Max, and the revelation about Otto's moniker, Otto had vanished.)
Reporter: I don't understand;; he was here just a second ago...
Dennis (via speakerphone): Aww... that's just like my little buckaroo... when he was a boy, we'd tease him sometimes about his name, or his face, or his questionable personal hygiene, and the little bugger would go off and hide somewhere, heh, heh... in the crawlspace under the stairs, maybe, or in the treehouse he'd paid the housekeeper to build for him. Ah, those were the days... you know, come to think of it, he'd do the same thing whenever he'd come home from college, too... and last Thanksgiving, we had to promise him a whole new wardrobe to coax him down from the attic...
Reporter: Uhh.... that's... fairly dysfunctional behavior for a thirty-year-old man, don't you think?
Dennis: Oh, you know how the young people are these days... I try not to discourage my little Maxi-man; after all, he IS an artist, and you know how temperamental artists can be...
Reporter: Uh-huh... tell me, what exactly IS your son's 'art?'
Dennis: Oh, you know... erm, he has a thing, you know... like a web-page or whatever... and I book, I guess, I don't know, I try not to meddle - listen, I'm going to have to let you go. The mayor of Boca Raton JUST got a table, and if I don't go press the flesh... well, you know how it goes! Tell my boy I love him, and that his new Beamer'll be all shined up and waiting for him when he comes home for Christmas! Ciao!
(Dennis hangs up)
Reporter: Hmmm.... I wonder where Tucker scurried off to?.... (calling into the kitchen) Nils! Nils, have you seen Tucker?!
(Nils is on the horns of a dilemma. With one hand stuck in a Pringles can, and the other wrist-deep in a tub of pure Crisco, he can't quite figure out how he's going to turn the T-bone steak he's frying.)
Nils: I'm sorry, what? I'm a little distracted over here...
Reporter: I can see that. Why don't you just pull your hand out of that tub of shortening, turn the steak, and then you can get back to... wait a minute... are you... are you greasing yourself up?!
Nils: Uh... yeah... after I eat my second dinner, I'm supposed to go to the Olive Garden with some people from Darko, and I don't want to get stuck in the booth again.
Reporter: Uh-huh... and the Pringles? Why don't you let go long enough to-
Nils: LET GO!? Are you INSANE? If I pull my hand out of this can, a microscopic amount of the fat from the chips will dry up... you think I'm going to let that happen? That fat is what keeps me alive, dammit!
Reporter: Wow... I mean... uh, anyhow, look, I can't find Tucker. He's not in the apartment anywhere. Do you know where he might have gone?
Nils: Hmmm.... well, normally, when he gets upset, he goes down the doughnut to that bar on the corner.
Reporter: Uh... did you just say 'he goes down to the DOUGHNUT?'
Nil: Huh? Did I? Oh, that must have been a Freudian slip. I haven't eaten anything since before I began speaking this sentence; I'm famished... but I'm sure you can entire-side-of-beef what I'm talking about.
Reporter: Right.... okay, I'm going to give the apartment one last look, then I'll go check out the bar...
Nils: Okay, man! Falafel!
Reporter: Uh... yeah... right back at ya...
(Our fearless journalist sticks his head into Bunny's room. She is darting from one side of the room to the other, apparently watching something moving around under the bed.)
Reporter: Uh... hey, Bunny... I need to go find Tucker. Is everything all right in here?
Bunny: Ohhh, yeush, ervything's juzt grr... I finished off thut botttle of whiskey, and I accudentallalaly turnded my vibrator on.... and it's *hic* escapeded... damn thang's a mind of it'z ownn... *THUD* (Bunny passes out and hits the floor with a deafening... well, thud. Just like you read.)
Reporter: Oh, man... this place is loonier than the Arkham Asylum...
(As our brave stenographer makes his way toward the door, he notices something he hadn't seen before. One of the apartment walls isn't a wall at all... he steps closer to observe that it's made completely out of books, stacked one on top of another, like the fort a child builds on a rainy day. He notices a small doorway and, figuring things can't get any weirder, peeks inside.)
Ryan: Who... who's there? Is that you, Violent Acres? I'll tell everyone your name!
Reporter: Uh... no, it's not Violent Acres... say, this little fort is kind of neat. Did you build this whole thing yourself?
Ryan (Rocking back and forth in one corner of the small structure): Yeah... built it myself... out of all the books I've read... I read a lot of books, you know... you wanna know how many books I've read? You want I should tell you how to read a book? You need highlighters... definitely some highlighters... gotta have post-its to line the pages with...
Reporter: Um... okay, I'm gonna go now... but, uh... yeah, good luck with... um, reading...
Ryan: Yeah... reading lots of books... definitely gonna change Hollywood... definitely gonna be the new media... yeah... definitely Robert Greene...
(Will our swashbuckling newsperson FINALLY discover the whereabouts of the newly-remonikered Otto Max?)
STAY TUNED!
----END OF PART SEVEN----
Wait is tucker charging money for his board now?
The stupid bitch in Pittsburgh who scratched a backwards B on her face and blamed it on a non-existent black mugger who was angry at her McCain sticker has a MySpace profile.
http://74.125.45.104/search?q=cache:dNPAoAhExjwJ:profile.myspace.com/index.cfm%3Ffuseaction%3Duser.viewprofile%26friendID%3D8513159+www.myspace.com/rabbitrocker&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&gl=us&client=firefox-a
Wouldn't you know it, Tucker is one of her top friends.
Tucker Max fans: rapists, racists, and liars.
Just like Otto himself!
Tucker is a fraud and a pedarast.
how dumb do you need to be to draw a backwards "B" on your own face.
I heard Tucker was going to use this a same PR tactic to promote his one of a kind, never before been done in Hollywood EPIC film, but Kung Fu Mike can't figure out how to draw a backwards "T" just yet.
Guess it's back to free IHTSBIH t-shirts, bumper stickers, and paid "outraged" Church protestors.
This is to easy. We save the Cancer guy. Tucker Max would be even more entertaining if he was actually famous and had his daily life under the celebrity microscope..
IN REPLY TO:
"I have a serious ethical question for the folks who visit this blog. Here it goes:
You’re walking down the beach when you see two people drowning. You only have enough time to save one person. The other will drown. The two people in the water are:
A) TUCKER MAX
B) THE MAN WHO HAS THE CURE FOR CANCER SOLVED.
So you have very little time to make a choice. Here is the kicker. YOU select to save the MAN WHO CAN CURE CANCER (and end the suffering of millions of people – including children) BUT… Tucker will somehow get rescued by his Dad and a group of Navy seals at the last minute. While you did help to save millions of lives – which is a great thing – Other events will now occur: Tucker’s film will be released and do several hundred millions at the B.O. -- 4 Stars, etc. Tucker will become a celebrity up there with Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp – Tucker on the cover of every magazine. He will be banging every hot chick as his billion dollar empire grows. Phrases from IHTSBIH will become art of cultural history. He will be accepted as the King of Cool. His legacy will be bigger than Elvis, etc.
BUT… IF you decide to SAVE TUCKER instead, here’s what will happen.
The MAN WHO CAN CURE CANCER will be eaten alive by sharks as he drowns. You will hear his screams as you drag Tucker to shore. Tucker Max is now alive and well. WELL…. Not that WELL.
Two weeks after rescuing Tucker a few things will happen. First his Dad’s company goes bankrupt. Next a series of lawsuits erupt preventing IHTSBIH from being released in any way shape or form – NOT EVEN DVD. The lawsuits claim the film is unwatchable, etc.
Next, Tucker forgets to renew the URLS for all his websites. The URL names are bought up by a gay porn company who redirects all traffic from Tucker’s websites to their gay websites like “MANHOLED” and “BALLBOYZ”
Depressed and broke, Tucker gets pulled over for a DWI after drinking six Zimas. He is jailed in L.A. County central holding where for three days he is beaten and raped by an angry gang of Mexicans.
After getting out of jail, Tucker is thrown out of his apartment. Desperate to make money to live he starts hustling tricks on Santa Monica blvd. One night he is picked up by Eddie Murphy. Murphy pays Tucker $400 to suck his toes and toss his salad. However, a police sting catches them in the act and the news crew from TMZ films the event. It becomes worldwide news – “Murphy Arrested Having Sex With Former Blogger Tucker Max.” There is even news footage circulating on the web showing Tucker looking up from Murphy’s lap.
After a few more weeks in jail, Tucker is bailed out by Nils (who by now has a decent career, ironically.) Tucker decides to get back to his roots and go on a road trip. Since he is “obviously not gay” – he decides to do what real men do and goes hunting with some of his Green Beret Commando buddies. Unfortunately, Tucker gets separated from his friends and ends up lost in the woods.
Tucker then accidentally steps into a bear trap. He is stuck there for 5 days, surviving only by eating his own feces. The flesh and bone of the foot caught in the trap rot and decay enough that he can eventually rip the rest of his leg off. He is now bleeding to death as he crawls through the woods crying and missing his right foot.
He is found on the side of the road by two drifters. They take turns raping him before leaving him in a ditch. Near death, but still fighting to stay alive, Tucker is found and arrested for loitering.
After six months in the hospital, Tucker takes a Greyhound bus to Hollywood. He steps off. Well, HOPS off the bus – he only has one leg – they had to amputate most of the right leg due to gang green.
Penniless and homeless Tucker sits near a Hollywood freeway exit with a sign that readers. “Hungry, please help.” No one stops.
Two weeks later he dies… of CANCER.
SO… Who would you save?
10/19/2008 12:06 PM"
^^^ EXACTLY. The asker doesn't realize that we don't wish any harm to Tucker (at least, most of us don't). We just think that it's funny to watch his schemes impload. Just like Sarah "Failin" Palin.
how dumb do you need to be to draw a backwards "B" on your own face.
I heard Tucker was going to use this a same PR tactic to promote his one of a kind, never before been done in Hollywood EPIC film, but Kung Fu Mike can't figure out how to draw a backwards "T" just yet.
Comment of the week.
@10:18: A pederast or a pedophile? There's a difference.
Tucker is boring as hell.
^^^ He's definitely a pederast.
Now he's calling out Troy Duffy in his blog, priceless!
Although Duffy may be a douche Boondock Saints is a pretty good movie. Tucker's remains to be seen.
TROY DUFFY IS STEALING MY IDEAS! - October 27, 2008 07:32 PM
I am totally just kidding about that, but take a look at the YouTube Channel he is doing for Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day.
Instead of doing a production blog, he is doing a video diary, but it's still a good idea. It's got a ton of content so far, and if you care about the movie, it's pretty interesting...for more than one reason, especially if you've seen my favorite documentary ever, Overnight. Plus, this should do the same thing my production blog is doing: Get free attention far out from the release and generate interest in fans. Good idea Troy. I can't think of any movie that has done such an extensive behind the scenes look while they were actually shooting.
Except maybe one...
Overnight is my favorite documentary. At least until someone hacks together one from my extensive collection of "first of its kind" innovations I unleashed upon Hollywood. My story will be better than Overnight. I'll call it Non-existent.
Tucker's gonna see first cut this Wednesday. How much you wanna bet he'll say "Wow, just wow, it went better than anything, Bob Gosse is a genius, THIS WILL BE REVOLUTIONARY, blah blah blah blah blah."
Wow! Troy Duffy is stealing Tucker's idea! What a joke of an indie film creator.
See, this is what I keep on talking about! Tucker's revolutionary ideas are so revolutionary, lots of other really successful people are now doing the same thing! Like, I REALLY like how Tucker's not linking to all the websites and newspapers and entertainment information resources that just keep going on and on about how revolutionary his movie blog is. You know? It's like, EVERYbody in Hollywood is talking about how revolutionary this is, but Tucker's so humble, and awesome, and really cool (and freaking FUNNY!!) that he isn't even acknowledging how the whole world is buzzing about how revolutionary his blog is.
MAN!! How COOL is this guy, that everyone on earth is almost unhealthily obsessed with how revolutionary Tucker's blog is, but he doesn't even CARE?!? It's like, he's probably saying, "Yeah, I'm totally cool, and I'm always having lots of sex with hot girls, so it's like, yeah, my blog and shit." Hahahahahahahahahahaihavenosenseofselfworth!! Holy unwashed sacrifical LAMBS, bro!!!
DO
YOU
EVEN
REALIZE
HOW
AWESOME
THAT
EVEN
IS
?!?!?!?!?
Dude, I was TOTALLY watching videos on the 'iophetheyservebeerinhell' channel over on YoutTbe - go check it out, EVERYONE'S watching videos on it these days, as part of the revolutionary blog experience - and I saw this video where Tucker was talking about how it's really, really hard to act, and how, like, he had to TELL Max Czecky about how to, like, BE him and whatnot. HOLY EFFING DONKEY INTESTINES IN AN HERB AND BUTTER SAUCE!!!!! THAT IS SO EFFING INSIGHTFUL, MY BLOOD HURTS!! See, that's another really great reason to even BE a Tucker Max fan, you know? It's like, he's so artistic and creative, but he's really smart, too, and oh-so-funny, and it's just awesome and cool about how funny and awesome he is!
things tucker invented:
1) a tucker max persona who has invented things/done something new
from being backed by viacom for douchebaggery and paid to pay kungfu mike/ryan holiday to edit his wikipedia page, to running a message board nobody reads anymore, to aggregating a bunch of blogs nobody ever read, to filming a bunch of c-listers in a scirpt written by a fat none-lawyer, tucker hasn't done all that much in the way of original.
From Tuckster's newest post:
"As great as the movie was in some ways, in other ways it brought out the worst in me, demons in me I thought I had beaten, so the past two months I have tried my best to not only not think about the movie at all, I've tried to, as much as possible put everything out of my mind..."
Doesn't that just say it all? Think about it.
Look, give the guy a break. Douchebag or not, he will have put the better part of a decade into this. Unless it was "go to school like I was told," I doubt many of you can say the same about anything.
^^^^^^^^^
What the fuck does that even mean?
It means it's easy to stand on the sidelines and critique. It's hard to put yourself out there for five years. For better or for worse, he's done that. And, like him or not, I think it's commendable.
^^^^^^
Hi Tucker Fan!!!!
First off, he's a guy who got famous because he wrote about fucking a beauty queen and she sued him. He also writes about fucking women in their ass and treating people like shit.
That's not commendable, that's just a douchebag who got fucking lucky. Besides the "success" of his book, he's pretty much failed at everything else. The laundry list of his failures far outweighs his successes. His movie, which was made entirely on the fact that his book sold well with a very niche audience, looks like a total disappointment. I mean, did you read that piece of shit script? Or are you going to waste 10 bucks to see it at a theater? Probably not, because it won't even get that far.
I'm not a fan. He's a douche. I'm just giving credit where it's due. And, yeah, maybe he's lucky, but I don't doubt he's worked hard. And, more importantly, he's been persistent. That part is unarguably commendable.
Mafia bosses work hard. Terrorists work hard. Hookers work hard. Get it yet?
I appreciate his last blog post. It's honest and raw.
I'll be honest and raw too. If Tucker Max fails, I'll be happy. He's a fucktard and deserves to fail in life.
If he succeeds, I'll be mad. But I'll wait until he dies of a heart attack. A man with his man tits and anger will surely die soon. And that'll be a good day for me.
^^^Wrong. Tucker doesn't know how to be honest OR raw. don't you get it? He's a narcissist, and proud of it. His worldview is so skewed that at this point in his sad life, it is actually impossible for him to be honest or real, because honesty and genuineness require a reasonably healthy worldview, which he traded in long ago.
Poor Otto, first Troy Duffy steals his ideas and now Google is the one to bridge the gap between old and new media. Damn corporate suck ups.
Google, book publishers reach agreement for digital book profits.
The announcement that Google, book publishers, and authors have reached an agreement over digital versions of printed books sparked heavy coverage in the major print and online news sources, with many stories appearing on the front pages of business sections. Coverage was positive, with writers noting that the deal could revolutionize the publishing industry, as well as bridge the gap between old and new media . Google was also praised for its role in the settlement.
I can't believe the comments came back around to someone stating how hard Otto has worked for this.
I doubt he's ever worked at anything in his life. He's persistent and has a gift of marketing spin and would have probably been a good salesman if he weren't such an ass in his dealings with his "inferiors" (read as anyone).
His stories are obvious fabrications, or at least great exaggerations. To avoid this argument he only allows his validity to be challenged on his self-contained message board. An honest dialogue about his stories would destroy him.
The only reason he's been able to do what he's done is the success of his father. He claims to not get any handouts from his parents, but I don't believe that the only child of a wealthy family has struggled to produce his art. I think he's gotten checks cut to publish his first books, and even this one.
I'm not attempting to say he's not attempting to chase a dream and create a movie. I'm saying that it's not an amazing lifestyle choice to take chances when you have a golden parachute.
Seeing the rough cut - October 28, 2008 02:11 PM
Since the day we wrapped shooting until yesterday, I have tried my very best to completely check out of the movie, emotionally, cognitively, physically--every possible way. Not only was there nothing for me to do until the director and editor put a rough cut together, but more importantly, I really needed the break.
I have been working non-stop on my entertainment projects for going on five or six years. Ever since I put the site up in 2002, my entire existence has been a non-stop sprint towards achieving my goals. I have been constantly writing, fighting, struggling, marketing, maneuvering, strategizing--it has been a rare hour in my life where I am not pondering or executing some aspect of my larger plan. Even when I am taking a break, I'm not, because the program is always on in the background, churning up resources and coloring everything else I do. I don't compartmentalize very well. My life is one huge pile, and the good, bad, and indifferent are all mixed together.
This sort of single-minded obsession is great for getting something done, but it takes a toll, and is ultimately unsustainable. As great as the movie was in some ways, in other ways it brought out the worst in me, demons in me I thought I had beaten, so the past two months I have tried my best to not only not think about the movie at all, I've tried to, as much as possible put everything out of my mind other than my old dog, my new girlfriend, my relaxation, and some self-reflection. Not strategy or business reflection, but personal reflection. We all need times in our life when we stop and look at what and who we are and examine whether or not it's where we want to be, and I tried to do that these past two months.
I haven't been perfect about that, but I have de-obsessed pretty well (for me), and in many ways it's helped. I knew I wouldn't be able to stay in this relaxed dream world for long, simply because I am just too driven of a person, but I wanted to do it for as long as I could, so maybe once I came back to ObsessionDriveSuccess Land I could bring some perspective back with me. I guess we'll see how it plays out.
Yesterday I wrote this sentence, "The rough cut is enough along that I am seeing it Wednesday night. I am nervous and excited at the same time." Talk about the fucking understatement of the century. That sentence I tacked on, while still kinda in shock. I was almost finished with that entry about BDS II, when Sean McKittrick called and said, "So we're down to within ten minutes or so of where the final cut will be, we're doing screenings all this week for everyone, when do you want to do yours?"
It hit me all at once. This is it. This 100 minutes of celluloid is the culmination of my last six years of toil, and ultimately what I am going to be judged on as an artist, and I can to see it as soon as I want to.
If this movie is as great as I hope it can be, then I am set. It's all up from here. Me and everyone involved in making this movie will be stars, we'll have boundless opportunities that weren't available to us before, the world will truly be our oyster. Everything I sacrificed, all the pain and the suffering and the work, it'll all be worth it. I will have won.
If it's not though, if it falls short in some major way...I don't know what then. I really don't know. I haven't planned for failure. I haven't even planned for mild success. All my assumptions and plans start with the movie being a success. If it's not, I just don't know what will happen or what I'll do. But regardless, the dice are in the air and all of my chips are on the table, and tomorrow I get to see them land
Don't get me wrong; I have seen the dailies, and I know in my heart we nailed it, but...until you see it, you don't know. And I see it tomorrow night. I am watching it alone--no one in the room but me--and as soon as possible after seeing it, I will post and let you know not only what I think, but how its affecting me emotionally, good or bad. Obviously I won't post anything specific about the movie, just what I am thinking and feeling, my rawest, most honest emotions, good and bad.
I honestly have no idea what its going to be like, watching this play out on screen, seeing all my efforts reflected in one single film. I have no precedent in my life for this moment.
If Otto fails, he'll probably have to do something awful like move to Florida and manage a restaurant.
I have to say that the latest blog and related thread has been quite a good read. We can say what we like about Tucker but the man is FUCKING DRIVEN.
And I can respect that.
On a sidenote, here's Donika's Myspace page - complete with a few pics of her:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=16959152
I recall someone was wondering what she looked like a while back. Well here's your answer.
Donika's Details
Status: Single
Here for: Networking, Friends
Orientation: Straight
Hometown: Philadelphia, PA
Body type: 0cm
Religion: Other
Zodiac Sign: Virgo
Is running from taking any personal responsibility in your life the same as being driven?
Is justifying your douche-like past behavior as art, driven or is it the only way that he can quantify his life's work so far as something useful and productive?
He has motivation certainly, but I question where it comes from.
Tucker is driven, I'll give him that. But so fucking what? Many, many people, both successful and unsuccessful are as driven. The problem with Tucker is that he always wants credit just for showing up to play. His most recent post, while more honest than usual, is the same self-pity/self-aggrandizement that is his hallmark. Oh poor Tucker, he's had to work hard for the past six years, and hasn't really had that much of a break to really take time off, reflect and relax. BOO FUCKING HOO! It's called life, asshole. Most people NEVER get the chance to basically drop out for two months of their life (anytime after college that is) and do nothing. They have responsibilities, a job, bills to pay, etc. I'm sure this proces has been draining, but that's true of almost every other human being on the planet. As usual, Tucker wants to be treated as special just because he has to do the same thing as everyone else.
Look, Tucker took a huge risk with his life/career (once working in law was foreclosed to him - read: not his choice, he couldn't get hired). It is high risk/high reward. If this movie is a success, then Tucker stands to gain substantially. If it fails, then he's fucked. But that's the nature of life. Just because you took a chance, that doesn't make you a special, precious flower. There are no guarantees, and you don't get credit just for doing what's expected of every other adult in society.
It would be one thing if this were a first time occurence, but it's not. Instead, every 8-10 months or so, Tucker announces how he's taking a "short" break to recharge because he's been going "all-out, giving 110%" on whatever scheme he's cooked up recently. This, in Tucker's mind, then "entitles" him to take a break of a month or so (and always ends up being twice as long as he says), where he does nothing but recharge and reflect. Tucker, for all your protestations, you are lazy. You're not willing to do the work day-in and day-out, you want the benefits immediately but aren't really interested in putting the time in. If I have to hear from Tucker one more time how hard/exhausting it is to be constantly producing and entertaining, I will just lose it. This was his choice, he freely decided to pursue this path. Tucker, you're only value is to entertain so SHUT UP AND DANCE, MONKEY!
Oh, and as per his usual, most of this post is a typical Tucker smokescreen to cover why he is not involved in any aspect of the post-filming. He's been shut out of the project and now he's trying to claim this is a result of a choice he made.
Here’s my take on Tucker Max. He’s one lucky motherfucker having been born into money. He doesn’t realize what it means to sweat out certain day to day obligations. However, he didn’t just sit back and collect Daddy’s checks, or become a cocaine-meth addict. He made a stupid website and won the Internet lotto.
His stories, true or not, are slightly funny. Who cares if they’re true? The stories aren’t that important and at best appeal to the lowest form of humans. Racist, homophobic, frat boy, white trash. Dickheads who have tailgate parties and wear Styrofoam fan hands.
He did work hard to have his movie made. Don’t pretend it fell into his lap. Could you sell your life story to a production company? Fake or real, doesn’t matter. He did. Pretty great achievement.
The problem is this. He now thinks he’s not the idiot in his stories, but something bigger and more meaningful. His stories are about going to parties at colleges and making fun of people who don’t fit into his world of ideal friends. I swear, that’s all he wrote about. Being an asshole that treated strangers like jerks. Somehow it caught on. And the rest is history as they say.
No matter how or when his movie comes out, it will be the best case scenario ever for a movie. It’ll be fun to watch him spin it either way. He’s a genius. But he’s OUR genius not HIS. And that he will never understand,
We already know how Tucker will react when seeing this movie. I bet you this is how Tucker is going to comment on his movie:
I saw the first screening yesterday. There is a storm of emotions brewing in me right now, but before I really get into the details of what I saw and how I feel, I want to make one thing clear: We nailed it. We nailed it like the Jews nailed Jesus. We hit this out of the ballpark. It was done with such professionalism, and I could see these actors truly embody the characters they’ve become. It was moving and sad at the same time. All of my work to this point had banked on one thing: The success of this movie. The book was the catalyst, the spark, but the movie is the fire. The movie had the ability to launch us, and I honestly think it will now, more than ever. At the same time, seeing Matt play me was sad. He did a great job, don’t get me wrong, but he is going to be people’s definition of Tucker Max. When I walk down the street people are going to say, “You’re not Tucker Max, Matt Czuchry was Tucker Max! Get out of here, wannabe.” In this sense, I have lost my identity and made it accessible for people to take what they want from it. And in a way, they're taking away me.
But...
I couldn’t be happier with how this movie came out. This is going to be a huge success, and it’s literally the tipping point of my career, and a bunch of other careers that I am almost entirely responsible for. I can’t even process this failing now. It’s just too good. You think you understand how good it is, but you don’t. But you will. You all will.
Wow, poor Donika. Here's KFM's myspace: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=72369135
He looks less nerdy in the pictures there than he did in the fight with Cloud.
"He did work hard to have his movie made. Don’t pretend it fell into his lap. Could you sell your life story to a production company? Fake or real, doesn’t matter. He did. Pretty great achievement."
Wrongo, darko employee.
The soldiers and U.S. Marines whose names you never know, nor care about, who pass on in anonimity, fighting for something greater than themselves--for *your* freedom, are the great achievers.
The unsung artists and poets who enlighten the world with art, not viacom-funded douchebaggery, are the true achievers. The guitar hero at the local coffee shop, the painter in the small town, and the graffiti artist are far greater achievers than tucker max/viacom/darko.
Mother Theresa. Martin Luther King Jr. Jesus. Socrates. Einstein. Shakespeare. None of them were funded by douchebag-filled corporations.
Tucker walks nowhere close to "achievement" properly defined.
The unhearalded innovators and inventors of all those great and useful things, the men and women who fight against viacom-funded douchebaggery, to teach a child right and wrong, day in and day out, are the achievers.
The fact that a douchebag sold their life story of douchebaggery to a production company does not make the douchebag's life great, but rather it shows that the production company is a bunch of cowardly douchebags, who are too afraid to speak out against viacom-funded douchebaggery, and desperate for any form of corporate-state attention whatsoever, after the darko flops.
Many modern douchebags would argue that judas was a great businessman, as he sold out jesus for money. But i think that even with all this money, judas ultimately hung himself.
what does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul, unless he was born without one? the only problem is that whithout soul, douchebaggery can never be art--it is incapable of redemption.
now tucke rcame of age in an era where the duke faculty and and U of C deconstucted the great books and classics, so not only did tucker not receive soul from his parents, but he never saw it in school either, and viacom of course rewarded him for this, as the corporate-state mission is the destruction and eradication of the soul and the exaltation of the corporate-state.
at any rate, quibbling about the boxoffice numbers would be akin to quibbling about exactly how much judas was paid, as it is not money that defines a man, but his words and deeds. ergo those who profit from acting and talking as douchebags are forver douchebags.
Why poor Donika? Because she hangs out with Tucker, or is there a juicy morsel on her mspace that I'm missing?
well said 11:23
unless i miss my guess, tucker's movie will expose his supreme douchebaggery for once and for all.
think of all the viacom $$$ spent on ryan holiday/kungfu mike to fund their internet/pr/amazon.com machinations.
its going to be a helluva lot harder to hide/mainuplate the truth with the movie, no matter how much viacom/darko spend.
hahaha.
awesome.
Poor Donika because she looks like the kind of girls Tucker mocks in his stories.
Donika seems like a fairly decent individual, albeit one with very low self esteem. She's stood on the sidelines and applauded some of Tucker's worst behaviour, I think mostly because she was afraid to go against the consensus.
In better company she'd probably be a better person.
^^^ What do you expect? She believes, with the rest of the Rudius braintrust, that silly, nasty stories about immature, arrogant know-it-alls are legitimate art.
I believe that tucker will finally find his most successful artful endeavors in hardcore pornography. He will have his own brand!
maybe extreme scat porn. You know, hardcore fisting, smack her face into the wall and have butt thekth while she's lying unconscious in a pool of blood, urine, and liquid feces. And taint guy is there, rimming otto's asshole, hoping he'll drop a deuce or at least cut a fart.
You made Taintguy hard. Taintguy wants you to write more. Taintguy needs you to write more!
Tucker's impression of the movie:
"I don't know. I really don't know. This thing could be an amazing, genre-defying comedy that is even better than I think, or it could just totally miss the mark. I don't know."
Translation: "It sucked, I'm fucked."
Max is showing an uncharacteristic weakness...his days of being a pouty douchebag on set have humbled him, and now the Internet can smell his fear. It's time to feed, you jackals.
I honestly thought after reading the first 4 paragraphs it was a suicide note. What did he expect when he hired Bob Gosse? Has he done any comedies? Didn't Tucker say he tells the worst jokes? According to imdb, Bob's "Niagara, Niagara" grossed $168k.
My first impression of the rough cut - October 29, 2008 11:02 PM
I don't know. I really don't know. This thing could be an amazing, genre-defying comedy that is even better than I think, or it could just totally miss the mark. I don't know.
At first, I thought it was a problem of it being a rough cut. The music is laughably off (its only temporary placeholder music), the sound is all wonked up, and most of the scenes are just cut wrong. Timing, pacing, jokes--there is just a ton more work ahead of us. I was expecting this, but still, seeing a rough cut is tough on your emotions.
But I got past that, I adjusted the scenes and sound and music in my mind, made them what I want to be, and I thought after I did that...I still don't know. I thought I would be able to separate myself from the movie, and see it objectively, but I can't. I am too deep into it.
I not only lived the story, I wrote the website, then the book, then the screenplay, then made the movie. I have lived, breathed, ate and slept this fucking movie and material for so long, I just can't do it. There is just no way for me to see this in anything resembling an objective light. Right now I am no obsessed with the micro issues, that I can't step back and see the movie as a whole. Even though I know this material and movie better than anyone, I think in the aggregate, I might be the worst on earth to evaluate it. I truly can't see the forest for the trees.
There is some good news. Pretty much every part of this movie, I had seen so many times in so many different ways I was sick of it, but there was one scene, one of the major, climactic scenes, that because of the way we shot it, I didn't really understand how it would fit together until I saw it on screen. I laughed out loud at it. I didn't think that was possible, for me to laugh anymore at jokes I've dealt with hundreds of time, but I did. The only part of the movie that felt fresh to me, made me laugh. So that's good.
There is only one other thing I know:
This movie just isn't like any other movie. I made a list of other movies I thought it would compare to, and none of them apply. Nothing. I don't want to call it revolutionary, but...it just isn't like anything else out there. I think because of this, the movie is either going to succeed wildly, or fail miserably. There won't be any average about this. It's not like any movie I have ever seen, and either I was right and it will hit a cultural vein, or I was wrong, and it'll be consigned to ignominy. As usual with me, there is no middle ground.
I think what we need to do now is make all the scene fixes, and then I want to show it to people I know and trust, and see how they react. Because right now, I need some honest outside perspective.
This is so weird. It's not like this with writing at all. With that, I know almost immediately if its right or wrong, and why. Movies are just a whole different beast.
I don't know how else to explain it, I'm sorry, it's been a tiring day and I haven't had time to sort out my thoughts. You know what it's like? You know when you listen to your favorite song so many times, you stop being able to even hear it anymore, it just becomes a sort of faint background buzz? That's kinda where I am with this movie. I can't see it fresh anymore.
Uh-oh, Otto is having some hard self realizations and needs "someone he trusts" (a.k.a. someone from the basement dwelling frat pack) to view the movies. It's a shame Bunny isn't there to tell him how wonderful he is.
I can't decide if it's more entertaining to watch him fail or if it'd be more entertaining to watch him succeed and leave the rest of the dorks behind. Let SLF pout on and on how he can't believe Tucker abandoned him.
"He did work hard to have his movie made. Don’t pretend it fell into his lap. Could you sell your life story to a production company? Fake or real, doesn’t matter. He did. Pretty great achievement."
Wrongo, darko employee.
MLK, Mother Teresa, violins playing, doves are released, etc, ect, blah, blah
-
--- To dude who tried in vain to be reasonable about Tucker: Go away. This bubble and its year-plus inhabitants have created a line of thought that cannot be persuaded otherwise. They will use any line of thought that will bring them back to their desired state. There is no point in speaking as if this were some kind of mature relevant reality when it is just the internets. There are only two things you can do here. One, you can join them by doing diligent research about Otto's life and friends and movie and book and income and pretty much every inane detail of his life for ther purposes of, well, whatever this is... OR you can run your club along the bars every so often just to watch the monkeys screech and shit.
And trying to discuss this in a "reasonable" fashion, knowing that you "monkeys" will start throwing your poo, isn't "running your club along the bars?" Oh, you people. You're so easy to whip into a frenzy and thus so infinitely entertaining.
I'm just... I'm literally spellbound by the depth of Tucker's psyche. Like, most people would totally be all like "dude, my movie's great"... but TUCKER, see, is contemplating the depths of the deepness of the transitory state-of-life he's in. Man... he is SO FREAKING SMART AND DEEP, you know? It's like, 'I lived these life-changing adventures; I achieved these pinnacles of greatness; I'm the one who changed the world forever, by accomplishing these great acts of vomit and sex. And now... I can't see the forest for the trees...'
It's just this sort of profound emotional transparency and awesome honesty that makes Tucker really, really smart, and awesome, too, and also very, very funny and smart.
What cultural vein could be hit?
Rapey fratty meatheads are just misunderstood lovely people?
Narcissists aren't just out for themselves?
Rich douchebag lawschool dropouts have something useful to offer the world?
Midget chasing is funny?
Every asshole wants a movie made after themselves, this is it?
I'm a decade older and none the wiser?
imagine going from dating kate bozworth to starring in tucker max's youtube videos revolutionizing modern media that get far, far less views than the star wars kid:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GJOVPjhXMY
The star wars kid is a far greater star than matt chursky now. And he never had to play a douchebag, nor sell his soul to one.
Leslie Hall is a far greater star than Keri Lynn Pratt now, and she never had to speak the words penned by a douche:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddFBX9hwaOM
That is Tucker Max's power--the power not to create, but to destroy and to transform all he touches into hot, steaming, darko douche.
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=beer+in+hell+matt&search_type=&aq=f
Far more people will watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMH0bHeiRNg
shot for a few dollars, than will ever see the multi-million darko beer in hell, which will also ultimately be distributed on youtube someday.
was Gosse's Niagra Niagra a comedy? How the hell did Tucker choose Gosse? Was there absolutely no other director wwanting to work with a docuhetard?
^^No, dude, there were Oscar-winning directors lined up for this job. Tucker chose Gosse because of his unflinching dedication to only producing the finest in cinematic artwork.
Tucker's a really serious artist, after all.
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