Girl “Why are you so mean to people?”
SlingBlade “That’s the only thing that gets me up in the morning. The opportunity to blow someone else’s candle out, so that mine can shine that much brighter.”
Girl “You like to be mean to people? Why would you do that? What made you so angry?”
SlingBlade “It started when I was 6, and realized the The Neverending Story did, in fact, end.”
Tucker “No no, there is a real reason he’s like this. And it’s a woman’s fault. It’s not your fault, but he takes it out on all women because he’s a fucking dumbshit. Let me explain …”
I gathered the entire group of girls together, about five of them, and told them the whole story about him, basically, his high school girlfriend cheated on him and broke his heart and he never recovered (the same story in “Everyone Has ‘That’ Friend” in IHTSBIH).
Because I am an awesome storyteller, by the time I was done all the girls felt genuine sympathy for him, and were actually on his side. He fixed that shit real quick.
Girl1 “That’s so sad. I’m sorry.”
Girl2 “Did you ever try to get back with your girlfriend?”
SlingBlade “Yes, after she’d had more men in her than a submarine, I was eager to reconcile.”
Girl2 “I was just asking.”
Girl1 “So you never saw her again after that time in her dorm?”
SlingBlade “Oh no, I hung out with her a lot after that, but only because I hated her. That’s the reason I hung out with her, actually—I wanted to get her drunk and insert a two-liter bottle of Coke in her vagina and then leave. I wanted her to wake up and realize what a worthless whore she is.”
This conversation was going nowhere—i.e., they weren’t going to fuck us—so we decided to head to another bar where a girl PWJ wanted to meet out was drinking with a bunch of her friends. Not really paying attention, I started to walk out of the bar with the glasses in my hand.
Bouncer “You can’t take those drinks with you. That’s against the rules.”
Tucker “No, you don’t understand: The rules don’t apply to me.”
He firmly places his hand on my chest.
Bouncer “You’re not leaving with them.”
He’s a big dude. I think maybe I should obey him. Then I remember that I’m Tucker Max—these drinks are coming with me.
I look into his eyes. He’s serious. The scars on his face seal my decision: I will avoid a physical solution. That’s fine. I’m smarter than this motherfucker, so I should be able to outsmart him.
I look him in the eye for an extra second, and then pound both drinks as fast as I can. Then I enthusiastically football spike the glasses into the garbage can next to the bouncer, like an offensive lineman who’s just scored the only touchdown of his life.
Tucker “I told you I was leaving with those drinks!”
The bouncer just stared at me with a mix of shock and confusion. In that extra second before his brain processed it all into a violent rage, I got the fuck out.
We tried to get into the next bar, but as we were going in, SlingBlade made a joke about the girl coming out. He pointed to her stomach and said:
SlingBlade “When’s the baby due?”
Bouncer “You can’t talk to girls like that. You can’t come in here.”
SlingBlade is the only person I’ve seen who can get kicked out of a bar before he even gets into it. Actually, kicked out isn’t even the right word. He got kicked away, like a gypsy beggar.
PWJ goes in, gets the girl he knows, and we bring her with us to another bar. You should have seen this girl. Was she hot? Yes. Was she such a fucking disaster that even I could see the looming carnage from miles away, like a tsunami of big-tittied self-delusion? Fuck yes.
Because this girl was an insecure nutcase, the first thing out of her mouth to us was to tell us about all the fancy and important shit she’d done. She was a student, a model, a sportscaster, a filmmaker, a non-profit organizer, an astronaut … blah, blah, blah. If history has taught us anything, it’s that there are only two ways to deal with a tsunami: Make a run for it to higher ground or dive right into its face. Well we’d all had enough to drink by this point that none of us was in any condition to run anywhere. It only took about five minutes of this bullshit before SlingBlade, Dirty, and I laid into her.
Dirty “You’re a model? Yeah.”
CrazyGirl “I am so a model! I’ve been in magazines!”
SlingBlade “Were you lying on top of a low-rider?”
CrazyGirl “No! Real magazines!”
SlingBlade “Those are real magazines. That’s were I see all the new styles of Dubs.”
Tucker “I bet she could model. You know those ‘before’ pictures in the gastric bypass ads? Someone has to pose for those.”
CrazyGirl “I’m not fat!’
That’s true—she wasn’t fat in the least, I was just saying that to make her crazier. I can be kind of a dick like that.
CrazyGirl “I’ve been on TV too, you know!”
Dirty “Was this the type of show you pay for with a credit card over the Internet?”
SlingBlade “Technically, porn doesn’t count as modeling.”
CrazyGirl “No!”
Tucker “I could see it. They use plain looking women in TV commercials, too.”
Dirty “She probably starred in a commercial where naughty children are baked into pies.”
She got pretty flustered, and the wheels started to come off. It crashed and burned when we got to the reason why PWJ was even fucking her to begin with.
SlingBlade “Well, you’re just a joy to hang out with. Christ, I wonder what mood enhancing cocktail PWJ had to dull himself with to stand talking to you long enough for you to let him shoot his load in you.”
Tucker “I can just picture it: PWJ all hunched over, sweat glistening off his pasty white nakedness, desperately humping back and forth, his awkwardness making him look kinda of like a crippled dog trying to bury a treat. His hot pink tank top on the floor, his jean shorts around his ankles, face scrunched up right before he cums, so tight you can’t see his eyes.”
PWJ “SHUT UP YOU’RE FREAKING ME OUT!!!”
CrazyGirl “That’s not what it was like!”
SlingBlade “Is it romantic? I bet it is. I bet PWJ looks deeply into your eyes as he uses your vaginal cavity for a masturbatory aid.”
Tucker “Did he punch you right after he came? He’s into that.”
Dirty “That sounds like fun, PWJ. I wanna fuck a girl until she screams in ecstasy and then punch her in the mouth.”
CrazyGirl “He didn’t do that! He’s not into that!”
Of course he isn’t into that (I don’t think), but they pretty much left the bar after that. If she’d stayed much longer, I’m fairly certain we could have broken her down so completely that she’d emotionally dissociate and attack us right there in the bar. That’s usually what happens when narcissists get confronted with a reality that differs from the one they’ve constructed in their mind.
We eventually start talking to these other girls. Pretty cute, typical young professional girls, a few years out of college, etc. Since they were all in the same sorority together in college, they had that false confidence those types of girls get when they travel in packs. Like hyenas with mascara. I forget what I said that pissed one off, but this exchange is really what got us in:
Girl “Does this work? Going around insulting girls?”
Tucker “They’re only insults if you have no sense of humor.”
Her friend thought I was hilarious and we hit it off. She was clearly the naughty one of the group, and I was all about it. Somehow we got on the subject of sex, and what these girls counted and what they didn’t, how they counted vacation sex and one night stands differently from their “real” number, etc., etc. A totally nondescript conversation, except of course SlingBlade was with me, and this is one of his hot button issues with women.
NaughtyGirl “I’ll be right back
, I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
SlingBlade “If you fuck a guy in the bathroom, will it count?”
She scowled at him as she walked off.
SlingBlade “You’ve outdone yourself with this one, Tucker.”
Tucker “What? She’s hot.”
SlingBlade “Jesus Christ—she’s a preposterous whore. Just give her two sour apple martinis, and she’ll go supine faster than a boneless cat on heroin. I’m sure you’ll love her.”
I thought the girl had left, but she was talking to her friends on the other side of me and heard this. She got pissed.
NaughtyGirl “Excuse me! I’m not a whore! Or a slut! Or anything! I have standards!”
SlingBlade “Since you’re talking to Tucker, I guess your standard is ‘He doesn’t hit me after sex’?”
NaughtyGirl “First off, I haven’t agreed to sleep with your friend!”
SlingBlade “Oh please. You’d fuck a one-legged homeless man if he had a penis and told you that you were cool.”
Apparently, this hit her anger g-spot, because the girl went fucking nuts. She lost her fucking mind at him, screaming and yelling and cursing and all kinds of shit. I honestly can’t remember what she said; I just remember it was a flurry of words that were both angry and barely intelligible. I’m fluent in whorespeak and I still missed most of it. I do remember the final exchange, because I laughed so fucking hard I nearly blew a blood vessel in my eye.
Girl “So? What do you have to say for yourself?”
SlingBlade [sarcastically] “You make me feel small inside.”
Girl “Good. You deserve it, you fucking piece of shit.”
SlingBlade “Sorry, I’m out of silver bullets and holy water. I’m defenseless against you.”
Girl “I knew you wouldn’t have anything to say, I know guys like you.”
SlingBlade “I’m curious—the abortion where your soul should be: Is it filled with human excrement or dog excrement?”
She pretty much had to be physically separated from him at that point, lest a fight break out.
Tucker “Dude, that’s the second girl you’ve driven to the point of violence tonight. You gotta stop that shit.”
SlingBlade “If I can’t make fun of disgusting whores, then what’s the point of America?”
Right around then, Credit, Jojo, and Hate showed up. And they were fucked up. As were we. After two near-fight experiences—with girls, no less—I was pretty much done with trying to get SlingBlade to talk to women, so to entertain ourselves, we decided to play a game called “Expose Yourself.” It’s exactly what it sounds like. For example, my finest contribution was betting I could walk from our table to the bathroom and back, with my dick out, without anyone noticing. I did it successfully. Everyone laughed. I felt like a god. Then Jojo had to ruin it:
Jojo “Tucker, don’t get too excited. Maybe the fact that no one noticed your penis is a bad sign.”
Tucker “FUCK YOU!! THIS IS WHY NO ONE LIKES BLACK PEOPLE!!”
We get more and more fucked up, and the ugly girls get more and more attractive, and of course, since I am perpetually horny, I make inroads with a girl who, four hours earlier, I would only have talked to if I needed to pull a plow. And of course, my friends mocked me ruthlessly about it.
Hate “Max, out of all the things you’ve tried to put your penis in … this one is the most unfortunate.”
Tucker “There is an upside; I forgot to wear deodorant.”
Jojo “How is this different than any other night?
Credit “Max, I lived with you for two years; I’m just happy that you’ve learned what deodorant is.”
Hate “I don’t know dude. She’s not good … at attractiveness. Or skinniness.”
Credit “I bet she’s good at football.”
SlingBlade “That would be the only way I’d pick her. If I was choosing sides for tackle football.”
Their arguments were persuasive. She was not attractive.
Tucker “Yeah, it might be time to bail.”
Jojo set his drink down in frustration, let out a sigh, then took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes and gave me his very best Morgan Freeman voice:
Jojo “Tucker—there’s no such thing as a lukewarm hell.”
That instigating motherfucker! He ALWAYS does this to me. Now I HAVE to fuck her—when you’re drunk and a mystical Negro tells you to walk a path, you gotta walk it.
Even if it means waking up next to a Missouri sea-donkey on the morning of your friend’s wedding, and then escaping from her house without your underwear or any money, so you have to walk the five miles back to your hotel.
EL BINGEROSO’S WEDDING — LAWRENCE, KS
Occurred, June 2001
As crazy and ridiculous as his bachelor party was, El Bingeroso’s wedding was pretty normal. It was a huge wedding at a massive chapel with 300+ people. Mermaid, Dirty and Tully had all been given STRICT instructions by many of the wedding-goers to be on their best behavior, and the rest of us were sufficiently scared of El Bingeroso’s father that we were unwilling to do anything that might make even the slightest scene.
The reception was pretty basic, and God, were the speeches boring. I mean, wedding speeches are always boring, but these were particularly brutal. Ever been to a third grade piano recital? That’s a fucking tweaker rave compared to this shit.
SlingBlade “I would rather watch the amputee Olympics than this.”
Tucker “Who are you kidding? The amputee Olympics would be awesome!”
Credit “Is there such a thing?”
PWJ “Yes. It’s called the Paralympics.”
Tucker “You’re kidding. There’s an amputee Olympics? How did I not know about this? WHY IS IT NOT ON ESPN!?!?”
Hate “SHHHHHH!”
Since the speeches weren’t holding my attention, I became obsessed with coming up with new TV ideas.
Tucker “Seriously, how do blind people know when to stop wiping their asses? There’s got to be a TV show idea there. You could do it like “The Price Is Right.” Before they took dumps, the blind people would have to guess how many wipes it would take without going over. Whoever gets closest wins. If they get it exact or within one wipe they win BOTH prizes. The loser gets their living room furniture rearranged.”
SlingBlade “Listen to yourself.”
Tucker “DUDE—Retard porn! What a great idea! We’ll be rich!”
SlingBlade “You’re dead to me.”
Then El Bingeroso’s crazy uncle got up, started rambling about nonsense, and dropped possibly the greatest gem in the history of wedding speeches:
CrazyUncle “Ah, the memories. I can remember it just like it was yesterday, when I taught El Bingeroso the best way to kill a rat is to stick a rusty nail in a 2 × 4 and whack’em with it … but that’s not what we’re here to talk about. El Bingeroso and Kristy, have a good life, Live Long and Prosper.”
Then he made the Vulcan sign and started crying. I wanted to stand and applaud.
I assumed that after the speeches, everyone would get drunk and the fun would start. El Bingeroso had assured us that he put his foot down with Kristy and her family about the absolute necessity of having an open bar. Unfortunately he didn’t really pay much attention to the details after he won that battle, and as we all know, that’s where the devil is.
The “open bar” was a joke. The ways we got fucked were numerous. First, it didn’t open until after the speeches. Second, someone decided that the open bar would consist only of domestic light beer, well whiskey, and white wine. I’m not even kidding—those were the only choices. Third, there was ONE bar. For 300 people. Fourth, and possibly most ingeniously, the bar was staffed by two kids who’d never actually poured a drink in their lives. When I first went up there and ordered a light beer, I got back a cup of foam.
Bartender “Sorry, this is my first time working the bar.”
Tucker “You don’t know to hold the cup to the nozzle and tilt it at an angle?”
> Bartender “I’m only 18, I can’t even drink yet.”
Whatever, I was getting free beer, and the bartender was a cute girl, so I wasn’t going to complain. Much.
SlingBlade on the other hand, was not as forgiving. He orders a whiskey and ginger ale. This girl does her very best to get the drink right, painstakingly mixing what she thinks are the proper amounts of whiskey and ginger ale, softly inserting a stir stick, and then delicately placing it on a napkin and handing the drink to SlingBlade. This was like only the third mixed drink the girl had made EVER, and since this was the Midwest, she took pride in her work and eagerly awaited SlingBlade’s response, hoping for at least a nod of assent on a job well done.
He took one sip. His head tilted to the side and his jaw shifted. Oh no—I know what that look means. In the most sarcastic possible tone, SlingBlade says, “Oh that’s great,” then slams the ginger ale in the trashcan and walks off. The poor girl looked like someone just stabbed her new kitten.
Tucker “You ruined her whole month.”
SlingBlade “She’s an idiot.”
Tucker “Come on, let’s go hit on some girls.”
SlingBlade “I’m going to sit at the table by myself. There’s not enough liquor here for me to be social.”
Sadly, there were very few targets. Most of the attractive single girls there were Kristy’s friends from college and she went to one of those schools where women go to get their M.R.S. degrees, so pretty much every one of them had her serious boyfriend/fiancé/husband with her.