I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (24 page)
Read I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Online
Authors: Tucker Max
The next morning Melissa and I start catching up on everything w
e
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 som
e
great stories about her students. Sometimes when she gets frustrate
d
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 ou
t
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
!
Waveto the people dying for your country!" and they all run to the windo
w
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 creativ
e
grammar to get them to understand what she wants them t
o
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 emotiona
l
outbursts of the kids. Many of them have severe behaviora
l
problems, and sometimes they just flip out. She's had to learn severa
l
effective ways to "restrain them without leaving marks." One of th
e
best ways to control them is with sugar. Her quote, "Retards will d
o
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 face.
"
Me "Do you ever mess with them in a mean way, like tell them tha
t
God hates them because they're retarded?
"
Her "NO!
"
Me "You ever put signs on their back 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 retarde
d
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 tard
s
when the girl she was staying with got up and started cleaning th
e
apartment and talking to Melissa. Then she abruptly turned to me, an
d
said, "I'm sorry, who are you?" Melissa cut in and explained, "Oh, thi
s
is Tucker. He was too drunk to find his apartment last night, so w
e
came here." This explanation satisfied the girl. Later in their conversatio
n
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 m
y
cousin's place. I changed clothes and we headed out for the pre-gam
e
partying at the lacrosse house. On the way to the party, my cousin an
d
I stopped at a liquor store to pick up some hard stuff. I go in while m
y
cousin waits in the car, talking to someone on his cell phone. He late
r
described the next scene as such
,
"I knew it was going to be trouble when Tucker came out of the liquo
r
store giggling like a 12-year old girl.
"
I had purchased Everclear, which is pure grain alcohol. 190 proof. Th
e
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 Re
d
Bull, and poured all of it into my CamelBak. I come prepared
.
We arrive at the lacrosse house, and I begin sucking back th
e
Everclear/Gatorade/Red Bull mixture, which I will hereafter refer to a
s
"Tucker Death Mix." It tasted like ghetto romance. It was awesome
.
The lacrosse house sits in a busy corner on campus, and has a hug
e
wraparound porch, where me, my cousin, and a bunch of lacross
e
players and lacrosse-stitutes were hanging out. The only problem
:
Everclear doesn't get me drunk. It turns me into a raving lunatic. It ha
s
the same effect as a nail gun to my frontal lobes. I became Phinneu
s
Gage; I lost what little social tact I have, and shouted anything rude
I
could think of. Starting with a 10 person audience, I started making fu
n
of everyone that walked by the porch. I was too drunk and maniacal t
o
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 PILLSBURY 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 sun dresses, 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 d
o
you root for, the rapists or the murderers? I hate both teams. I figure
d
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 workin
g
the counter that she looked "like a Hallee Berry posta." Some guy a
t
the game almost tried to kick my ass when he was looking for hi
s
girlfriend, and I told him, "Your girlfriend left with a bunch of black guys.
"
This one girl, after drinking deeply from my CamelBak, informs tha
t
she is not in a sorority. Why? Because she was kicked out for leavin
g
dirty condoms outside her room. She got mad when I asked her wh
y
she didn't just save everyone the trouble and tattoo 'I'm a whore' o
n
her forehead
.
My idiot cousin had spent the entire pre-game, and game itself, tryin
g
to get laid by offering pulls from my CamelBak to every girl at th
e
game. I thought this was no big deal since alcohol kills bacteria an
d
germs. Yeah, well, apparently not these germs. Before halftime, I wa
s
carrying the entire plethora of viruses, germs and bacteria of ever
y
cocksmoking whore at UT. By the time I left the game I was so sick m
y
lymph nodes looked like I had goiter
.
My cousin, a friend and I find my car, which was parked on a sid
e
street, completely boxed in. The car behind us pulled up literally to th
e
bumper. Still feeling the effects of the Tucker Death Mix, I get in my ca
r
and start alternately backing into the car behind me and bumping th
e
car in front of me. This doesn't bother me because I got this car fo
r
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 yellin
g
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 5 seconds, staring at me
,
and then raised a large piece of posterboard that had, "Not So Fast M
y
Friend!" written on it. I hate Lee Corso, so I backed into her car a fe
w
more times just for spite, and drove off
.
I was home at 6, and by 8, 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
.
E
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 18-21 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 declined 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 the whole time; 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 shithoused 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. 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 5 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 wet
s
his bed
?
No. I decide to stand against the gods, to deny them pleasure at m
y
expense and to change their bankrupt prophecy. Tucker Max does no
t
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, th
e
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 ha
d
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 reached down and touched the sheets, "OH M
Y
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 s
o
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 m
y
laughter anymore. I came back to my bedroom and she was standin
g
there, in utter disbelief, staring at the bed, nearly in tears. She turns t
o
me and says
,
"I can't believe I drank that much last night ... I still have to pee righ
t
now! How could I pee all that out in my sleep and still need to pe
e
more in the morning???
"
I almost lost it again. I had to leave the room, pretending to be in ange
r
but nearly biting through my hand to suppress the laughter. I got int
o
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 i
n
the washer, on top of my piss clothes that she didn't notice. Sh
e
apologized about 100 times, wrote me a check for a new mattress, an
d
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.