Girl 3 “You don’t have to be a jerk.”
SlingBlade “Quite the contrary, my sloppy penile scholar. Order me another drink and be quick about it.”
SlingBlade 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. SlingBlade just glared at me.
SlingBlade “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:
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. SlingBlade 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 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 whatnot. 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.”
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 anticlimactic 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 douchebags 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.
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 UNC-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. One of her sisters 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 Buchhenwald 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.
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 downstroke 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 blowjob—it 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, mainly because I don’t trust myself with a razor near my best friends. That, and I don’t want to have shaved balls like a porn star. Instead, I use a groomer and trim the area. All because of a slutty UNC sorority girl. I guess they do have a use besides a convenient receptacle for my ejaculate.
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:
11:00pm: 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 sundresses 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-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 third beer in a row, I can feel the beer sloshing around in my stomach. Drinking in the morning = bad decision.
9:17: I am on my eighth 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 HELL ARE YOU AT? YEEEEAAAAAHHH… GoldenBoy, get your ass out here. Bloody Marys, 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!!!”
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 sundress 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!”
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 OUTDRINK ALL YOU SKIRTS!”
1:10: We are asked to leave our second sorority tailgate.
br /> 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.”