LittlestRanger [Taking the play dumb page out of the Duke defense lawyer theory told to me earlier that night] “Ma’am, I don’t know. I was talking to a friend, I turned around and it, it just happened. I’ll move the truck; we don’t want any trouble. And I’ll make sure he stays in the hotel for the rest of the night.”
BullDyke “You goddamn better! I should have your ass right now. Fucking pulling that sort of shit…”
LittlestRanger “Ma’am, YOUR TRUCK!”
The BD had gotten out of her rent-a-cop vehicle so fast she didn’t put it all the way into park and it was starting to roll away. She started running as fast as her fat dyky legs would carry her (about two miles an hour) after it. After about a minute, she reached her vehicle and put it in park. I try not to laugh as all of this is happening and somehow succeed.
BullDyke “You see how mad I am.” [Like I really give a shit, I think, as she huffs and puffs from the 200-meter dash she’d had back to her truck. All this isn’t helping me not to laugh at her.] “You better move this goddamn truck or I’m gonna…”
LittlestRanger “I’ll move it right now.” [I cut her off getting in the truck, hoping you didn’t piss on the door handle as I do it. The BullDyke is muttering something under her breath the whole time.]
I get the truck back to its original parking spot and start looking for you. After checking for you in the restaurant by the hotel I see you walking back toward the truck. I give you the short sketch of what happened; this would now be the third time I saved your ass tonight night. You just chuckle as we head up to your hotel room.
I get you up to your room and give Mike the keys. Looking him dead in the eyes as I do so. “Don’t give these to him until tomorrow morning,” I tell him. I get a North and South from Mike. He’s on the phone and, since he’d mentioned her earlier, I ask him if it’s the calming goddess Bunny. He says no, prompting you to ask if I’d like to speak to her. Not giving me a chance to answer, you call her up yelling “Wake up or I’ll cut you bitch!” by way of greeting.
A “here you go bro” later and your phone is to my ear. She sounds dead to the world.
Wednesday, March 1st: Bloomington, Indiana
KungFu Mike did a recap of the funny parts of the night. Here it is:
Motherfucking Bloomington, Indiana. I really don’t think I’ll ever be able to think about that city without putting a “motherfucking” in front of it after this book signing tour stop gone wrong. But there are two incidents that are worthy of extended mention:
One of the Sigma Chi boys that came with us to the bar, Jacob “ShirtFag” Phillips, decided that he was going to wear the gayest shirt he could possibly find: a vertically striped button-up dress shirt—with a floral print covering the entire thing. This thing was a gay designer’s abortion. Tucker, Soylent, and I could not help but dog this motherfucker about it for hours.
Tucker “Seriously, do you realize that you look like a faggot? Actually, that’s not true, gay guys are great dressers. You look like a retarded faggot.”
KungFu Mike “I didn’t realize that the Christoper Lowell estate sale was held in Bloomington. Did you get any other nice things?”
Soylent “Hey, Brokeback Mountain …I JUST CAAAAN’T QUIT YOU UUU!!”
As we ripped on him, Tucker came up with a brilliant idea to make the shirt acceptable:
Tucker “Dude, cut the sleeves off and you will look like the fucking MAN. No bullshitting; you’ll go from a poorly styled metrosexual to the guy cool enough to cut his shirt up at the bar. YOU’LL BE A STAR!”
ShirtFag “No, man. I like this shirt, I think it looks OK.”
Tucker “YOU ARE WEARING A STRIPEY SHIRT WITH A FLORAL PRINT! YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT! I CANNOT EMPHASIZE THIS FACT ENOUGH!”
KungFu Mike “Hey, Clay Aiken called…he wants his stage wardrobe back.”
Soylent “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”
Tucker “I’m going to get a pair of scissors right now. You are either going to cut your fucking sleeves off or you are not sitting at our table. You’re going to at least PRETEND to be a man.”
This went on for hours. We even went as far as to order him a Blowjob Shot with a Cosmopolitan back. When they were placed in front of him, he got all huffy-puffy and told us that there was no way he was going to drink that “foo-foo shit”…but we dogged him until he picked up the Blowjob Shot and began to take it down in an egregiously homo-erotic fashion; he inserted the glass halfway into his mouth, effectively smearing whipped cream all over his lips and chin, held the other half of the shotglass by making a ring with his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to lovingly fellate it, moaning like he was being paid per money shot. He even pushed his tongue on to the back of his teeth to make the gurgling and sucking sounds. This wasn’t amateur hour, folks; this was the work of a seasoned veteran of the cocksucking community. After he finished his Shot and began to sip his Cosmo, the berating continued.
Tucker “So would you say that you’re more of a Carrie or a Samantha? I think I’m a Charlotte.”
KungFu Mike “You ever just stay home, slap in a Spartacus DVD, and drizzle baby oil on your chest as you finger fuck yourself to sleep? I miss those days…”
Soylent “I’ve fucked teenage girls more masculine than you.”
By this point, not only were ShirtFag’s frat brothers shitting all over him, but random strangers that were listening from adjacent tables were chiming in with gay jokes. Even our waitress was fucking with him; it was marvelous. He just sat there, clutched the scissors in his hand, stared into his fancy pink drink and took it, refusing to cut his shirt. It got so bad that ShirtFag actually ran out of the bar without saying goodbye. The dude just bolted.
Jacob “ShirtFag” Phillips left an event that his own fraternity set up to save what is quite possibly the gayest shirt ever fabricated. Everyone who knows him: keep ripping on that kid. NEVER LET HIM FORGET. I want the words “ShirtFag” printed on his tombstone.
After that was over, I figured Tucker would just grumble about being too old for this and go to sleep, but he wasn’t finished yet. Tucker, Soylent, two of the waitresses, and myself were hanging out at our table, steadily drinking. There were a few people standing around the table looking on, one of them being a brunette living the unfortunate combination of having both a great rack and a face that looked like she fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Tucker caught a glimpse of the SeaHag that lay before us.
Tucker “Why is God so cruel?”
Waitress “What do you mean?”
Tucker [pointing at SeaHag] “Why would He make a girl with such great tits on top of an ugly face like that?! It’s just not right. Oh well, at least she’s fat.”
Little did Tucker know, SeaHag actually possess a very keen sense of hearing.
SeaHag “…Oh. My. God. Who said that?”
KungFu Mike [getting up to go to the bathroom] “That’s the guy right there. His name is Tucker Max. There was no mistake made, he said that on purpose. He hates you, you should kick his ass. Seriously, he’s a bad man.”
SeaHag “Are you talking about me?! What did you say?!?”
Tucker “You heard me, bitch. Your stomach isn’t hanging over your ears like it is your belt.”
SeaHag “You are a fucking asshole. I can’t fucking believe you said that.”
When I returned from pissing, our table consisted of only Tucker and Soylent (and a few frat boy hangers on). As it turned out, the waitresses that we were drinking with thought that Tucker was so awful that they got up and moved to another part of the bar. I was disappointed because I was having a blast groping the tits of our brunette waitress and, other than those two, there was no other noteworthy chick in that entire place. Once again, Tucker had taken my chance to spray demon seed all over a well-tanned bosom and defecated all over it. Thanks asshole.
As we sat at the table and drank, SeaHag was storming all over the bar, going up to every guy she could find and trying to conv
ince them to beat Tucker up. Every guy she went up to either just shook their heads “no” or began laughing in her face. It was glorious. Eventually, she sauntered back to our table for the final battle.
SeaHag “You got a fucking problem or what?!”
Tucker “You’re the one that keeps coming back here, not the other way around.”
SeaHag “You got a problem, motherfucker?!”
Tucker “Uhhh…do you have a hearing problem or are you just stupid?”
The SeaHag, exasperated and battle weary, spit right at Tucker, but missed his face entirely, instead hitting his left shoulder. She waddled off, steam still coming from her ears, the table erupting in laughter.
Tucker “The sad part, I really didn’t mean for her to hear what I said, but if she wants to give me attitude, fuck her. Oh well…there’s another girl who will never recover from an ill-fated attempt to cross me.”
Post-Trip Recap
Total # of books sold: ~1600
Total # of books signed: ~2220
Total # of alcoholic drinks consumed: ~300+
Total # of pictures taken with fans: ~500+
Total # of girls I hooked up with: ~30
Weight at the beginning of the tour (2/3): 189.6
Weight at the end of the tour (3/6): 198.2
I think I’ll end with this email I got from PissGirl a fews days after the end of the tour:
From: PissGirl
To: Tucker Max
Date: Mar 9, 2006 6:25 PM
Subject: Congrats
Tucker,
I hope your having a wonderful vacation and I just wanted to tell you some good news. I had to get tested for stds this week and im clean, which means your clean. i dont know how u did it. You actually managed to do a book tour and hook up with a lot of girls and come back clean. Your pretty much amazing….
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 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: 0-star (aka wildebeest): The lowest of the low. A 1-star (common-stock pig) with a terrible personality qualifies as a wildebeest. 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.
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
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
Becom
e 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
CITADEL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2006, 2009 Tucker Max
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
CITADEL PRESS and the Citadel logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2005934008
ISBN: 978-0-8065-3593-7
Tucker Max, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell
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