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 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 “lacrosse-stitutes.”
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 a while 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.
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 DUI 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 “AAY, 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 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! Wave to 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 faces.”
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 backs 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 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, m
y 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 Phineas Gage; I lost what little social tact I had, 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:
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 PILLS BURY 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 sundresses, 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. 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 Halle 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 me 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 a 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 five seconds, staring at me, and then raised a large piece of poster board 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 6:00, and by 8:00, I was dead. Saturday night in Knoxville, and I couldn’t make it out. Stupid poetic justice.
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.
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- to 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 dec
lined 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; I guess this was our foreplay.
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 shit-housed 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.