The famous picture of us together at the wedding, taken only an hour or two before the above
We all eventually sit down to dinner, with MissVermont still passed out upstairs. My table is at the back of the reception hall, quite obviously the “boisterous and embarrassing friends” table. Along with me and a vacant spot for MissVermont, there is a motley crew of miscreants, drunks, and assholes: GoldenBoy’s high school friend, “TheShepherd,” a 6’4” huge Irish Catholic guy who can drink like, well, an Irish Catholic, and has repeatedly been arrested for breaking every type of law related to drinking, including public intoxication, underage consumption, disturbing the peace, bar fighting etc. TheShepherd’s sister, PornStar, a hot redhead who had the “fuck me” eyes of a bad porn actress. A couple who were college friends of GoldenWife and already so drunk they were barely able to sit up. Strangely, I was the only one of the law school group there. Total bullshit, those assholes are just as loud and drunk as me!
Or maybe not. In no time at all, the gallons of vodka coursing through my veins combined with PornStar flirting to make me hit on all the Tucker Max Drunk cylinders. I have the table in tears laughing as I’m telling them the standard stories, making fun of my passed-out date, etc. PornStar came to the wedding dateless, and at one point leaned towards me, seductively whispers something in my ear about what she wanted to do with my penis, when all of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
MissVermont “Hi.”
HOLY DRUNKEN WHORE BATMAN, IT’S MISS VERMONT!
She was putting on her best obsequious, “I’m sorry” puppy dog eyes. It was not working, because 1. I was fed up with her stupid shit, and 2. She was still too drunk to do it right.
Tucker “What are you doing up? Are you OK?”
MissVermont “Yeah. I’m sorry. I never drink.”
Tucker “Well who could have guessed? I mean, people often pass out at wedding receptions … at 7pm.”
MissVermont “Sorry. I felt better, and I wanteded to come see you.”
She actually said “wanteded.” Not stuttering or anything, she just tacked an extra syllable onto the word.
Tucker “You are either the smartest, most manipulative, most cunning woman I’ve ever met … or you’re a complete idiot. I can’t figure out which.”
Her reappearance actually made the rest of the dinner funny, as PornStar glared hatefully at her, TheShepherd quizzed her about her pageant life for the amusement of the table, and I sat back and watched it all. Needless to say, the fun was short-lived.
The next few hours are somewhat hazy in my memory, but for some reason or another MissVermont and I got into a huge fight. Well, this isn’t quite true. I can’t remember the details of what we said to each other, but I do know the precise reason we were fighting:
I was still really pissed off that she couldn’t handle her liquor and embarrassed me at my friend’s wedding, the very wedding that I’d promised would be incident-free. I didn’t recognize my complicity in her actions, because I was fucked-in-half drunk. Also, I’m Tucker Max. Nothing is ever my fault, not even the things I do wrong.
This culminated in her seeking solace in PWJ, asking him for a hug, and then whispering in his ear, “God, your heart is beating so fast.” Her self-esteem wasn’t helped any when PWJ just walked away, shaking his head. In the meantime, I was drowning my sorrows in vodka and PornStar’s tits, which were barely covered up by her sundress.
Ironically, GoldenBoy was unaware of the MissVermont theatrics because the rest of the Duke Law crew was putting on such a show that my drama was pushed off stage. One of the older female guests brought a small dog to the wedding, and Credit got the dog drunk. It was wobbling around, its barking all slurred, and the woman freaked out. Hate was dancing with several old women, throwing them around the reception tent like it was an audition for a Gap swing dance commercial, until one of them sprained her ankle. PWJ was hooking up with a college freshman in her room in the bed & breakfast while her father was quizzing GoldenBoy on her whereabouts. But alas for PWJ, this little amorous adventure came to a halt when she stopped kissing him, leaned over, and puked on his foot.
Around 11pm, MissVermont—pissed off that I was paying attention to another girl and ignoring her—came up to the bar and ordered another cosmo.
Tucker “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Haven’t you embarrassed me enough today?”
MissVermont “You’re a bad person.”
Tucker “Well, you’re a stupid person. I guess we all have our flaws.”
Rather than stay and yell or argue more, I just left. I took the keys to her Explorer and drove back to the beach house, where the post party was going to be. I didn’t know this at the time, but MissVermont completely freaked out about this, and PWJ and BrownHole had to convince her not to call the cops and report her vehicle stolen.
I got to the beach house, cracked a beer, and waited. And waited. And waited. Where the fuck was everyone? When people finally started pouring in, I found out why everyone was late: Hate had crashed the van that was supposed to shuttle everyone from the bed & breakfast to their cars. Apparently, the parents had gotten together and picked the person they thought most sober to drive the shuttle van. Somehow—much to the dismay of the Duke Law crowd—they picked Hate.
I guess they didn’t know him well enough to know that his brooding scowl is NOT a sign of sobriety. He got behind the wheel, jammed the accelerator, and immediately drove the van into a ditch filled with mud. It got stuck. With the bride, groom, and both sets of parents inside. When they couldn’t get it out of the mud (by this time everyone other than Miss-Vermont, who stayed in the van, was coated in mud), they simply walked the mile back to the gas station.
Eventually, everyone got to the house safely, and the real partying started. Thankfully, MissVermont was nowhere to be found. Someone told us that she needed to pass out again, and BrownHole had taken her to the other house to put her to bed. Of course he did. This caused eruptions of laughter.
PWJ started talking to PornStar:
PornStar “So, wasn’t the ceremony nice?”
PWJ “I don’t know, I was up there feeling nervous, trying to play guitar. I don’t remember much.”
PornStar “That was you playing guitar?”
PWJ “Yep.”
PornStar “God I want to fuck you right now. If my brother wasn’t sitting five feet away, I’d totally take you right here.”
PWJ almost sprinted the ten feet to me and pulled me out of a conver- sation:
PWJ “Hey man, we’re friends, and you owe me. That girl wants to fuck me.” He pointed to PornStar, talking to her brother in the kitchen. “She says she won’t fuck with her brother around. Hook me up.”
I had already let one friend down that night by causing an incident at his wedding, so I was determined to make up for it by helping my other friend sleep with a girl who I wanted for myself.
Tucker “Consider it done.”
I grabbed two bottles of cheap champagne, and thrust one under TheShepherd’s nose.
Tucker “You have red hair and you’re stupid, so you must be Irish. People say the Irish can drink. I call bullshit. I’m the rockstar of this wedding. Let’s see just how tough you fucking micks really are.”
I called out a 6’4”, 250-pound Irishman who’d been drinking since he was in the womb. I don’t really remember anything after that.
I have been told that I was spotted on the porch, singing Irish drinking songs with TheShepherd, making up my own words. There are also reports that we were on the roof. Apparently I tried to tackle a mailbox on the walk back to my house. I only know this because of the huge bruises on my shoulder the next morning, and the destroyed mailbox in the front yard.
PWJ got the better end of this deal. He fucked PornStar in the bathroom, the hot tub, the bedroom, and the backyard. She licked every inch of his body at least once, and, in his own words, “sucked me until there was nothing left in me to get out.” You owe me, PWJ.
&n
bsp; My next clear memory is waking up in my bed the following day. My head felt like it had been run over by a truck. I was lying with my face over the side of the bed, and there were at least six towels lying on the floor under my face, all soaked with some brown fluid. As I rolled around on the bed trying to regain consciousness and use of my limbs, I realized two things:
The room stunk. Bad.
There was vomit all over me. And everything else in the room.
I eventually regained enough coordination to walk out of my room, and found Credit and Hate. Upon seeing me, they started laughing.
Tucker “Dude, man … did last night happen?”
Hate “Oh yes, Max. You were quite the show.”
Credit “You missed the best part. After you came home and passed out, you started throwing up all over the bedroom, and MissVermont was running around the house yelling, ‘TUCKER IS DIED! TUCKER IS DIED!!’”
Hate “Does that girl know how to conjugate her verbs?”
Tucker “What did you do?”
Hate “I just told her to roll you on your stomach and leave you alone. You do this all the time, you’d be fine.”
MissVermont found me and started yapping at me about something I didn’t care about, her feelings or whatever. I just ignored her, took a long, hot shower, packed my shit and crawled into the back of the Explorer and went to sleep. I figured by the end of the 16-hour drive home, I could sleep this awful hangover off. I was rudely awakened a few minutes later:
MissVermont “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WE HAVE TO DRIVE BACK TO FLORIDA!”
Tucker “That’s what you’re here for.”
MissVermont “I CAN’T DRIVE THE WHOLE WAY!”
Tucker “The longest journey begins with the first step. You can do that.”
She huffed and puffed, but I wasn’t moving. She eventually gave up and pulled out, and I fell back asleep.
I was jarred awake not even 30 minutes later as we were pulled over by a North Carolina State Trooper, and got a speeding ticket. The violation: going 70 in a 45. MissVermont really wanted to get home, I guess.
I drifted in and out of consciousness over the next ten hours. As we drove into South Carolina, I told her to slow down, that the South Carolina State Police were notorious for their speed traps on interstates. She ignored me, so I went back to sleep. I was awakened 30 minutes later by her hysterical sobbing. She got pulled over—just like I said she would—this time for going 95 in a 65.
Tucker “You can stop crying, it won’t get you out of the ticket. South Carolina State Police don’t fall for that shit.”
MissVermont “SHUT UP!”
Tucker “I told you not to speed.”
MissVermont “FUCK YOU! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
Tucker “When are we going to fuck? We’re almost out of South Carolina.”
MissVermont “MY PARENTS ARE GOING TO FIND OUT ABOUT THESE TICKETS!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO!?!? THEY ARE GOING TO KNOW I WENT TO NORTH CAROLINA.”
Tucker “You didn’t tell them?”
I didn’t know this beforehand, but MissVermont had not been totally honest with her parents about what she was doing that weekend. In fact, she had lied through her teeth. She told her mom she was going to spend the weekend with a pageant friend in Tampa. It probably won’t come as shock, but a mother who insists that her 23-year-old daughter live at home and thinks she is still a virgin, isn’t going to be cool with her driving to a wedding four states away with a guy.
The rest of the ride home was uncomfortable. Well, it was uncomfortable for MissVermont, not really for me. I slept pretty much the whole way, only driving the last three hours or so. We got back, and she dropped me off at my place and sped off, not really saying a word.
At this point in the story, you may be feeling sorry for MissVermont. Don’t get too caught up in your pity. I did not find out about this until about six months later, when Hate and Credit told me, but after she had her little hysterical fit about me dying from vomit, she went upstairs to BrownHole’s room, crawled into his bed, and hooked up with him. He swears he didn’t sleep with her, but admits that she, and I am quoting, “gave him a terrible blow job.” BrownHole is a thief and a liar, but that has the ring of truth—the girl could not suck a dick if there was a tiara on the other side of it.
BrownHole did tell me about this: The next day as I was passed out in the back of the Ford Explorer and she was packing to leave, MissVermont left an autographed 8x10 pageant picture in the sunroof of his car. This is just absolutely fucking bizarre, as if she were saying, “Here’s some shallow representation of my image for you to remember me sucking your dick by.” She called him a couple of times over the next few weeks, sometimes for advice about me, sometimes just to talk. She told him that she got his number from my cell phone “when Tucker wasn’t looking.” She tried to get BrownHole to fly her up to DC to visit him, but he wouldn’t do it (his only goal is to snatch up my leftovers, not to fall in love with them). So before you think the shit only flowed one way in this exchange, remember: Women don’t have to be smart to be deceitful and sneaky.
After the wedding, my friends just had a fucking blast riding me about her and everything that happened. SlingBlade picked up right where he left off:
In honor of the momentously funny events of GoldenBoy’s wedding, I’ve written some new rhymes that MissVermont can use. Tucker, please forward these to her so she can accompany them with her childlike scribblings:
“I’m such a gullible sucker, why did I sleep with Tucker?”
“To feel better in the end, I tried to hooked up with his friend.”
“I wear tight clothing, because my actions fill me with self-loathing.”
“My comic is called the ‘Starrlettes,’ though it’d be true to life as the ‘Harlots.’”
“I want to put an end to my life, because you can’t turn a ho into a housewife.”
“But I really don’t think I’m a ho, just perhaps a bit psycho.”
And my personal favorite:
“There’s no Miss USA crown on my head, now I wish I was died.”
I hadn’t called her during the week after we got back from the wedding, when she called me one day at work. She apologized for her actions at the wedding, and asked if she could see me again, that she had something for me. I told her to come by the restaurant, that I would see her, but only in public. I alerted my staff that a crazy woman was coming, and to be ready to call the cops if something happened.
MissVermont showed up in a skin-tight white tank top, breasts thrust forward in a super Miracle Bra. Her yellow tennis skirt was nicely cut about five inches below her crotch. At first, I wasn’t sure if she wanted to stab me or sleep with me. Her demure smile and coy “fuck me” eyes gave away her hand: she wanted to fuck me. She got right next to me, placed her hand on my arm, her breasts slightly brushing against me.
MissVermont “I’m sorry. I brought you something.”
She handed me a picture that almost put me into shock. Let me attempt to give a fitting description of this thing:
A silver frame around a 5x7 picture of Katy and me at the wedding reception, me in my suit and her in her red dress, minutes after we arrived, and before our first drink. Across the top of the picture, painted in white sparkle paint, are the words, “Alpha Male.” There are little yellow streamers painted down the side. On the back, in silver paint, is this message:
“Tucker,
Thank you so much for taking me to the wedding! You are the best!
Love, Katy.”
I was completely befuddled. I had no idea how to react to this. I still don’t. Like I said before, this girl was either the shrewdest, most conniving woman on earth, or the stupidest human I’d ever met. I still couldn’t figure out which.
So what happened? I’m weak in the face of hot eager pussy, so of course we started seeing each other again, sort of.
Katy tried to say it was just as friends, but it only took about three days before we were fucking again. This co
ntinued, in a weird sort of dysfunctional dance, for a few weeks. One thing I can say about her, she did love to learn new things, which may have been one of the reasons she loved hanging out with me.
For example (this is important later in the story), one day I told her I knew how to shoot, and she got all excited about it, so I took her to a gun range to teach her. She had never shot a gun before, so I showed her the basic Weaver Stance and A-frame Stance, how to aim, how to load, how to fire and clear a pistol, etc. She was fascinated, and loved it so much she started going to shoot on her own.
And yes—before you say it—I fully realize how stupid it was to teach an emotionally unstable woman who was obsessed with me how to fire a gun.
One day we were lying in a slightly drunken post-coital embrace, and I said something about how fall was coming and asked when she was going back to law school. She got this sheepish look on her face and told me that, technically, she wasn’t going back, at least not this semester. She wasn’t on summer break; she had been forced to take an “extended leave of absence.”
Tucker “What did you do? Cheat on a test?”
MissVermont “No no, nothing like that?”
Tucker “Get caught fucking one of your professors?”
MissVermont “No! It has to do with my mom.”
After a long time, I finally coaxed the whole story out of her, and I have to be honest: It was so incredible and shocking that I almost didn’t believe her. I am still not even sure I believe her, but this is basically what she said: