EarthGirl “No, we can’t, I’m on my period.”
Tucker “So? Shouldn’t you be into that? It’s natural and shit.”
EarthGirl “No! That’s gross!”
I just pushed her head down to my crotch, and since she loved that, we were on. The key to being good at fellatio is not skill; anyone can watch a decent porn and figure out the proper technique. The key is enthusiasm, and this girl LOVED sucking my dick. As she got more into it, she adjusted so that her crotch was on my shin and she could rub her clit back and forth as she sucked me off. This got her more excited, which made her better at head, which turned me on more, and so on, creating this awesome positive-feedback loop. But after about five minutes of this, she’d had enough.
EarthGirl “Bend me over and fuck the shit out of me.”
She pushed her shorts to her ankles and started to pull me inside her. She remembered before me:
EarthGirl “Oh, wait.”
She pulled out the tampon and flung it on the ground. Thank God; I’ve already done the “fuck a girl with a tampon inside her” thing. It’s not fun.
Tucker “But… what about the environment?”
I don’t think she was listening to me anymore as she yanked me inside of her. In nature’s ultimate bitch fight, Mons Venus trumped Mother Earth.
We finished up and got dressed. She picked up a leaf, found the tampon—the one she pulled out of herself with her pussy blood all over it—wrapped it up in the leaf, then put the period burrito in her pocket.
Tucker “What are you doing?”
EarthGirl “I can’t leave that out here.”
Tucker “You can’t put it in your pocket either. It’s a used tampon.”
EarthGirl “That’s littering!”
Tucker “You’re kidding, right? It’s just cotton and blood. That’s how they made South Carolina!”
EarthGirl “No.” [in her most indignant tone of voice] “I leave the Earth like I found it.”
[Long pause]
Tucker “I can’t believe I’m fucking you.”
THE CAPITOL CITY
CLOWN CRAWL
Occurred—June 2003
I was in Austin for a few months in the middle of 2003. While there, I got an email from a lawyer named J.D. Horne. He invited me to an event called the Capitol City Clown Crawl:
“Me and 50 of my closest drinking buddies are dressing up as clowns, renting a yellow school bus, and going on a bar crawl. We plan to get drunk, yell at strangers, fuck with an improv comedy troupe, and generally be the most obnoxious clowns possible. You should come.”
I could not imagine anything more appealing. I collected a group of friends—Nils, Stydie, and B-Ski—to go with me. We decided the appropriate way to attend this event would be dressed as the most offensive clowns possible.
B-Ski went as Hitler Clown. It was as bad as it sounds. Stydie went as Postal Clown, with toy gun and blood splatters. Nils went as Monsignor Pedophile Clown, complete with purple shirt, priest’s collar, a child’s T-shirt covered in blood and, tucked into his waistband, a pink insulated lunch bag with BAG OF INDULGENCES written on the outside and condoms and broken glass sloshing around on the inside. And of course, big red clown shoes. I mean, just because he’s a pedophile doesn’t mean he has no clown pride.
I took a different approach and picked a nonsensical outfit—Lifeguard Clown, complete with floaties. I knew the best way to be offensive is not with an outfit, but with actions, and I could think of no other clown outfit that could justify me carrying the greatest bar crawl accessory ever: my beloved bullhorn (the one I still had from the Duke grad school campout).
We started that fateful day at B-Ski’s apartment:
5:00pm: Wake up from hangover nap. Everyone else is still asleep. I gently put the bullhorn in B-Ski’s ear, the volume only at 4 (to be nice), “WAKE UP SHITBIRD, WE’RE LATE FOR DRINKING!”
5:01: He puts a pillow over his head. I kick his bed until he takes a swing at me.
5:02: Turn on very loud rap music.
5:04: Neighbor bangs on the wall. I turn it up louder and crack my first beer.
5:06: Neighbor bangs again. I bang on the wall back. “I don’t even live here, bitch!”
5:10: Nils, Stydie, and B-Ski wake up. We crack beers and start putting on clown makeup.
5:12: Nils doesn’t want to paint a clown face on. He is full of bullshit rationalizations. I ruthlessly question his manhood until he agrees to apply his makeup.
5:15: I have never put makeup on. It’s hard. “You assholes are crowding my mirror space. Gimme some room, I keep smearing my blush.” Everyone glares at me. I feel like a gay homosexual.
5:16: I shotgun two beers, piss out the bedroom window, catcall passing girls, burp violently, put cage fighting on TV, and play with myself. I feel manly again.
5:30: I remember past bar crawls. It can be difficult to get beer because everyone descends on the bar at once. This worries me greatly. “Nils, do you think they’ll have enough alcohol for us?” He is dismissive. “Tucker, we are going to BARS. All they do is serve alcohol.”
5:35: I keep imagining 50 clowns clamoring around a single, harried bartender. I crack another beer, “I don’t know, man. What if I don’t get drunk enough?” B-Ski is dismissive, “Tucker, when have you ever not gotten drunk enough?” I yelp, “Can I really risk it?”
5:45: I am obsessed. I cannot get past this issue. I decide to bring insurance: I fill my CamelBak with ice, a liter of vodka, a quart of Gatorade, and several cans of Red Bull. I call this concoction Tucker Death Mix.
5:50: I take a pull from my CamelBak and choke at its potency. It tastes like bad decisions. It’s perfect.
5:52: Walking to the bar, I let everyone else take a pull from my CamelBak. They reel. Nils refuses, “God only knows where your mouth has been.” I tell him if God knew where my mouth had been, he’d retire.
6:10: We pass a mother with stroller and child. She seems to think we’re real clowns. She tells us her baby loves clowns. Trying to be helpful, I put the bullhorn in the baby’s face and ask if it wants “to reach into the Bag of Indulgences?” The baby starts crying. The mom looks worried. I offer to help her make the baby stop. Stydie is skeptical: “Tucker, you don’t know what to do with a crying baby.” I scoff at him: “Of course I do. You put it in a trash can.”
6:13: The mother scampers away. I giggle at myself.
6:30: We arrive at Opal Divine’s. There are already a dozen clowns there. “CLOWNS, REJOICE, YOUR SAVIOR IS HERE! WE’RE GOING TO PARTY LIKE RUNAWAY AMISH KIDS ON RUMSPRINGA!!”Everyone cheers. I am the Lord of the Clowns.
6:50: I ask a large female clown if she came as Pregnant Clown or Fat Clown. She gets mad and storms off. “You’re never going to find a husband acting like that.” I giggle at myself.
6:55: Fat Clown is apparently already married. Her husband is now also mad. He starts throwing around phrases like “kick your ass” and “who do you think you are?” I casually use my bullhorn to inform him who I am—“THE GREATEST CLOWN ALIVE”—when J.D. steps in. “Tucker, let’s direct the abuse outside the group. Then we can ALL join in mocking them. No one can withstand 50 clowns laughing at them. We’ll break them.” I see the wisdom in his logic.
7:15: The clowns get on the bus. This picture was taken:
7:30: We arrive at Hula Hut. I see two of my regular Austin booty calls. Apparently, both work here as hostesses. And both are on shift. At this moment. I decide this is a great omen and tell everyone about how awesome I am.
7:31: Nils is disgusted, “Both those skanks are fucking you? Make sure they wash their hands before they bring us our drinks.” I will not stand for disrespect toward my whores. I point out that perhaps Nils is angry because he is too ugly to have even one skank, much less two. Nils gets angry with his ugliness. He misdirects his anger by pushing me very hard.
7:32: There is broken glass all over me, and I am staring up at the roof. From the outside of the window. It takes me a second t
o realize what happened, then I understand: Nils has pushed me through the window. The fact that it took me a few seconds even to realize this makes me pause. Perhaps I should not drink my alcohol so fast.
7:34: Nils is dumbfounded by his strength: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” The taller of the two girls I’m fucking comes running over to help me. The shorter one stands there, shaking her head in dismay. The taller one is now promoted to FuckBuddy #1.
7:35: As new FuckBuddy #1 tends to my wounds, Nils writes out all his information so the manager can send him the bill for a new window.
7:40: I look at what he is writing. His name is not Larry Ellison. I am confused. Nils whispers, “This is my fake ID from college. It still comes in handy.” Nils is a genius.
7:50: Everyone in the bar thinks our clown pub crawl is the coolest thing ever. They are correct. They buy us rounds of shots and toast us. I steal someone else’s shot and do it along with mine as they toast me (and the other clowns too, I guess).
8:00: The girl whose shot I stole is mad at me for some reason. She has a lazy eye. It mesmerizes me. I focus all my attention on it. I ask her if she knows her eyeball is off center. She seems annoyed. I ask her why it’s like that. Her good eye glares at me. I suggest that perhaps it’s trying to escape from her face. She leaves. I giggle at myself.
8:08: A woman comes over and sighs loudly, fishing for attention. She is ugly. I don’t give a fuck what’s wrong with ugly girls.
8:10: UglySigher loudly tells me I am not as cool as I think I am. I correct her mistake: “I am awesome. Some people may disagree. Those people are wrong and/or queer.” She is stumped by my impeccable logic.
8:12: She recovers and starts talking about more things I don’t care about, like “respect” and “decency.” I notice her sweatshirt. “Is that the bullshit they taught you at Texas State? Is that even a real school? Why’d you go there, couldn’t get into the University of Phoenix?” UglySigher angrily lectures me about pointing out the flaws of others. She tells me that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones. I tell her they should also not use the bathroom. She tells me I am missing the point. I tell her she is a pompous cunt. She is aghast. I make a concession, “Maybe we’re both right.”
8:20: Management asks the clowns to leave. Because of me. Apparently breaking windows is OK, but refusing to put up with sanctimony from an ugly fat bitch is not.
8:21: As we walk out, I hear someone say, “Those clowns are jerks.” I beam with pride.
8:32: We get to the next bar. It is a dive bar, full of old people.
8:35: Old people aren’t impressed by clowns. This angers me. I use the bullhorn to loudly inform them that clowns are the greatest drinkers on earth, way better than crusty, decrepit old people. They refute this claim. I question their sexual preferences. They seem confused. I accuse them of enjoying farm animals in a nontraditional manner. Their anger suggests my social artillery strike has hit their private shame.
8:40: I notice one old man hunched over his drink, shaking. Stydie suggests he might be afraid of clowns. Stydie thinks we should leave him alone. “No Stydie, when someone is upset, the best thing to do is to yell at them until they come out of it. Tears mean the sadness is leaving.”
8:45: I ask the old man if he is afraid of clowns. He nods. “HEY, EVERYONE COME OVER HERE. THIS GUY IS AFRAID OF CLOWNS!!” 50 clowns walk over to greet him.
8:50: The old man’s knuckles are white around his pint glass. His shaking has become alarming. He is about to snap. I think maybe provoking him was a bad choice.
8:52: One girl does not perceive the signs of danger. She gets very close and asks him how he could hate her. He throws his drink in her face and pushes her down.
8:53: At first I am mad at him. He hurt a clown. Then I see that she is a titless hippie clown. I decide she deserved it.
8:55: We decide it is time to leave the bar. The bartender wants me to settle the tab. “I don’t have any money. I’m a clown.” He gets angry. I tell him I’ll be right back with his money.
8:56: I walk through the kitchen, out the back door, around the building, and get back on the bus. I’m sneaky.
9:00: The CamelBak is empty. If I were sober, I would think that drinking a liter of vodka in three hours was a bad idea. Thankfully, drinking a liter of vodka in three hours means I am no longer able to think.
9:20: We arrive at the next bar. I am slow off the bus and end up behind 50 clowns at the bar. I decide to be a good clown and wait patiently for my beer.
9:21: I am still waiting patiently for my beer.
9:22: I am waiting for my beer.
9:24: I am not happy.
9:25: I scream across the bar, “NILS, YOU ASSHOLE, I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN!”
9:30: The call comes for everyone to get back on the bus. I am enraged at the slow service from the bartenders and curse them abusively, loudly informing them that they are incompetent retards.
9:33: They are competent at calling the large bouncer. I quickly scurry away.
9:34: I scurried the wrong way. There is a door, but it won’t open. The bouncer is coming, and he is bringing an ass-whooping with him. I kick the door until it crashes to the ground, landing in a shitheap of wood and glass. The fire alarm goes off. Everyone panics. I run to the bus, giggling to myself.
9:35: I am the last clown on the bus. I tell everyone why I’m late. They think I may have gone overboard with the door. I think they don’t understand the context of the situation.
9:45: We are dropped off at the next bar. I can feel the six-pack of beer and liter of vodka sloshing around in my stomach. I think perhaps my fears about not getting drunk enough were misguided.
9:50: Nils buys a whole pizza for me. I take a slice and accidentally drop it on the ground. I drunkenly stare at it for a second, then pick it up and eat it anyway.
9:51: Nils knows that when I eat street pizza, it’s time for me to pass out in a bathtub. He tries to flag down a taxi to send me home.
9:55: Nils can’t get a cab. He gets angry. One taxi slows down, sees a large, angry Pedophile Clown, and starts to pull off. Nils flings the entire pizza box at the cab as if it were a Frisbee. The box flops open in midair, vomiting pizza everywhere, like a drunken cardboard Pac-Man. My last clear memory for over an hour.
10:00–11:15: [MISSING FROM MY MEMORY]
11:15: I wake up. I am face down on a hard, metal grate-type surface. My hands are bound behind my back. I have never been more confused in my life.
11:18: The floor is moving. I look around. I am in a paddy wagon. Nils is sitting on the bench above me, “We got arrested.” This is not good. Maybe if I go back to sleep, everything will be better when I wake up.
11:20pm–2:15am: [MISSING FROM MY MEMORY]
2:15: I wake up. I am face down on hard plastic. I can barely move. I feel like I’ve been in a multi-car accident.
2:18: I sit up. I’m in a plain white room, linoleum floors, lots of plastic chairs. There is a sea of brown paper towels on the ground in front of me. My bullhorn and my floaties are gone. This is the second time in one night I’ve been the most confused in my life.
2:20: I look around. There are many drunk Mexicans sitting around me. They do not look happy. This might be a bad sign.
2:22: I hear someone say, “Well look, Tucker’s awake.” It’s a cop. When you wake up in a police station, surrounded by drunk Mexicans, and a cop you’ve never seen before knows you by name, it is VERY bad.
2:24: He tells me to clean up my vomit. I don’t see any vomit. I see only hundreds of paper towels on the floor, in a circle around me. The circle is at least twelve feet across.
2:25: I pick one of them up. It is soaking wet. My vomit is underneath the paper towels. ALL the paper towels have vomit under them. I must have done this. My emotions conflict: I am simultaneously impressed and mortified.
2:30: After five minutes of putting paper towels into the trash can, I am no longer impressed or mortified. I am pissed off a
nd disgusted. I consider paying one of the Mexicans to do this for me. This plan is thwarted when I can’t find my wallet.
2:33: The cops make clown puns as I clean. “So, these two cannibals are eating a clown, and one says to the other, ‘Does this taste funny to you?’ ” and “Hey man, stop clowning around so much.” They think this is the most hilarious thing they’ve ever heard. I want to punch them in the face.
2:35: I have to use another entire roll of towels to wipe up all the vomit. I consider that I may be personally responsible for massive deforestation. I don’t care anymore. Fuck trees.
2:40: I have to piss. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. There is no clown makeup on my face. Not one single speck. This confuses me greatly. I seem to remember putting clown makeup on earlier that day. Where is it?
2:45: I still have no idea why I am in jail. I ask the desk cop:
Cop “Let me check… says the charge is Pedestrian in Roadway.”
Tucker “Pedestrian in Roadway? What the hell does that even mean? Don’t pedestrians have the right-of-way on roads? I can’t be arrested for being in one!”
Cop “Tell it to the judge, Bozo.”
3:15: They are satisfied that I am awake, conscious, and relatively sober, so they release me. The property clerk gives me back my bullhorn. It is broken into several pieces. “Yeah, that kind of thing happens sometimes when you’re a shithead to cops.” I angrily tell the property clerk to dispose of the bullhorn in his rectum. He asks me if I want to go back in the jail. I quietly leave.
3:16: I am standing outside the Travis County Jail. I have no idea where I am. I remember that I puked up everything I’d eaten the past 18 hours. I am starving. I start walking aimlessly.
3:44: I see lights. A place called Katz’s. The sign says KATZ’S NEVER KLOSES. I am overjoyed.
3:45: I see myself in the mirror as I walk in. I look like a used condom on the floor of a public restroom. The hostess gasps when she sees me, “We can’t serve you.”