I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell
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 five 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.]
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 t-shirt 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 reaches down and touches 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 angry 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 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.
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 30-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:
1) Refuse to go anywhere, knowing myself well enough to see that this night is obviously on course to become a catastrophic trainwreck.
2) Agree to go to the hockey game, but refuse to bring along the CamelBak, because it will quite obviously result in my early demise.
3) Say “fuck it,” throw 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.
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.” They were cracking us up. Of course, we were quickly approaching Tucker Max Drunk; a dancing Teletubby 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 pseudo-intellectuals; horn-rimmed glasses, drinks Pinot grigio by the glass at bars, buys poetry books but never reads them, avoids red meat, shops at the Kiehl’s 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 t
han me because I was drunk and acting like an idiot, while he was composed and polite. Yeah, I got something for him.
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 laugh, but he just ignores 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 ignores me, so I continue] “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.”
Me “What about your wife, can you shoot her?” [he doesn’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 one-fourth 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.
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 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 picture, it was anonymously sent to 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, 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 never to 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?”
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 my old 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 Ri
ch in seven 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 two 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. Most are either 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 six beers behind each of them, and feeling the alcohol. They look like they could do an Ironman 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.