Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (49 page)

Sippy “I think you have some of it still on your chin. Oh, wait, no—it’s just your other chin.”

Pamela “Oh, I get it. Very original.”

Sippy “There’s no reason for you to open your mouth. There’s no cake here.”

Pamela “Ha. Ha. I’ve heard them all.”

Sippy “It’s a good thing you’re fat, actually. You keep thousands of people in the junk food industry employed. If you went on a diet, McDonald’s would go out of business.”

Pamela “I don’t eat McDonald’s.”

Sippy “Then why do you look like a fire hydrant? If you were red, dogs would piss on you. Why can’t you be anorexic like all the other girls I’d rather have sex with? It worked for Tracey Gold and Karen Carpenter.”

Pamela “Isn’t Karen Carpenter dead?”

Sippy “Better than being fat!”

Pamela “Uh, not really.”

Sippy “What possible benefits do you think there are to being fat?!?”

It was clear that the only reason she couldn’t come back at Sippy effectively was because she really was insecure about her weight, and he was ruthlessly hitting that nerve. It wasn’t until this exchange that I had any idea how bad it would be:

Tucker “Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with?”

Sippy “I’d never fuck her!”

Pamela “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last person on earth!”

Sippy “If we were the last two people on earth, you’d probably eat me!”

Pamela “I don’t get you. Look around here—there are fat girls everywhere, are there not? Obesity is normal in America.”

Sippy “No, being fat is not OK. Society doesn’t like fat people. Look at
Maxim
.”

Tucker “Society? Sippy, shut the fuck up. You’re one to talk. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Especially when those glass houses let us see how stupid and awkward you look all the time. Do I need to point out that you look like an anorexic flamingo? I’d plant you in my front yard to scare away all the other birds if I wasn’t worried your ugly fucking face would lower the property value. Don’t let me get started, I will ride you like a rented mule.”

Pamela broke up laughing as Sippy meekly dipped his head, like a whipped puppy.

Tucker “And
Maxim
? Really? You’re telling me that because some gay art director at some crappy magazine likes photoshopped pictures of waifish girls that remind him of little boys, it means society wants girls to look like concentration camp victims? Fuck that. Even I reject that shit.”

Pamela “Thank you!”

Tucker “Hold on, you’re still fat. Let’s put Sippy’s juvenile bullshit to the side for a second, and actually look at the issues here: Do you think you’re overweight? Honestly.”

Pamela “Yes.”

Tucker “OK, fair enough. But here’s the important issue: Do you really care? At the end of the day, it’s your life, not mine or Sippy’s or anyone else’s. You’re right, you are objectively overweight, but if you’re fine with how you are, fuck everyone else’s opinion.”

Pamela “No, I don’t like my weight.”

Tucker “OK, that’s fine. Pericles said, ‘There is no shame in poverty, there is only shame in not taking action to escape from it.’ If you don’t like your weight, why haven’t you done anything to change it?”

Pamela “I have.”

Tucker “Really?”

Pamela “I tried the South Beach Diet.”

Tucker “The South Beach Diet? That’s heroin and champagne. It only works if you want to end up a strung-out junkie. You haven’t done shit have you?”

Pamela “I’ve done other things too!”

Pamela kinda took a breath to respond, and I gave her a “don’t bullshit me” look that forced her eyes down toward the floor in knowing shame.

Tucker “You need to go on The Tucker Max Diet. It’s a very simple combination of introspection, honest self-evaluation, and action.”

[This is the part I don’t have any notes for, and I can’t fucking remember what I said to her. It wasn’t even that amazing of a speech to me that I remembered it or even thought to take notes; I think it was about twenty minutes of pretty simple analysis of her life choices that led to pretty obvious conclusions. I really wish I could remember it, because it would make her subsequent email to me so much better. Whatever it was I said, she ended up so fucking scrambled that a while later, we saw her eating bar fruit. Seriously—she was chowing on martini olives and maraschino cherries. It was awesome.]

Sippy “I’ve never seen a girl eat bar fruit before! You’re in her head!”

Tucker “Maybe she’s just hungry. Offer to get her some food.”

Sippy “Where I am going to find a whole cow at this hour?!?!?”

The rest of the night was not eventful. A week or so later, Pamela sent me this email:

“I know you get this all the time, but here it is from me:

I know you boast about the ‘destruction left in your wake,’ but I can say that the experience of meeting you last week has been a positive one for me. I assumed the risk for everything that took place and I am dealing with that. I am dealing in that I am working to be different. I am starting Weight Watchers, for one. I am not doing it so that I can be more attractive to you and your cronies, but I am doing it because I will never attain the level of respect that I want and deserve if people perceive me as being negligent when it comes to maintaining myself.

Alcohol is my demon. I will never be respected so long as I am allowing my personal affairs to be jeopardized by my drunken foolish behavior. Every once and a while is one thing, but I have been living a VERY unhealthy lifestyle void of balance for the past year.

If you were just a drunk, the story would be different. Any dumbass can get drunk and tell funny stories—you’ve got something else. I mean, here I am telling you how addicted I have become to your presence that I am having difficulty pulling away—and this is after being publicly embarrassed (although that could have been way worse…thanks for that).

I suppose my point here is the ultimate irony of the situation: On one level, you take pride in destruction of other people; on my level, your propensity for destruction has altered my life habits for the better. Here’s the thing I was missing, and I think most people miss: It’s not a malicious destruction. It’s a creative destruction. You are a complete dick, yes, but you’re also a truth teller. Everyone else is so fake and lies to your face and pretends what’s plain as day doesn’t exist. You just stand up and say that the emperor has no clothes.

I will continue to be fascinated by who you are and I look forward to watching how you evolve. I hope to continue learning from you in the same ironic way I have thus far. I hope to maintain contact with you and I trust that if you decide to publish this email, I trust you will edit in good taste—well, I hope so anyways.”

GIRL DETERMINED TO FUCK TUCKER

Occurred, June 2003

My buddy Ryan and I began this night at some shitty bar having $1 You-Call-It. A $25 tab later, I called it Getting Real Drunk.

I don’t remember much, but I do know that my time in the bar was a success, mainly because there were at least eight girls pissed at me and half a dozen guys who wanted to kick my ass. I do remember this one ugly monster acting like a bitch and pissing me off. Someone had to put her in her place—who better than me?

Tucker “Do you have a pen?”

Girl “No. Why?”

Tucker “I want to get your autograph.”

Girl “Who do you think I look like?”

Tucker “The Incredible Hulk.”

Girl “OH MY GOD!”

Her fat friend made the unfortunate mistake of coming to her defense.

Fat girl “How could you say that? I think she is very good looking.”

Tucker “Are you kidding? I can’t even feel my eyes anymore.”

Fat girl “What a fucking asshole!”

This particular fat girl apparently was a big fan of the Navy, because she had on this weird looking quasi-sailor suit that was way too tight for her.

Tucker “Ahoy, set sails for the Port of Mayonnaise! Petty Officer Puddingtime is out of Oreos!”

Fat Girl “You can’t say that!”

Tucker “I can’t? I just did. You mean I shouldn’t?”

Fat Girl “No, I mean—”

Tucker “It doesn’t matter, you aren’t hot enough to talk to me.”

Fat Girl “Yeah, well YOU aren’t hot enough to talk to ME!”

Tucker “OK, if I’m not hot enough, then why are you still talking to me? Shouldn’t you be with the hot people? Oh wait, that’s me. Go on, the uglies are over there waiting for you. They saved you a spot under the table.”

Fat Girl “Fuck you!”

Tucker “So you ready to get out of here?”

Fat Girl “What! I would never hook up with you!”

Tucker “Hook up? No, no. I need to plant some corn, and with those shoulders you have to be able to pull the shit out of a plow.”

Needless to say, when 2am comes and everyone has to leave the bar, I am without female accompaniment. Outside, I notice this hot girl staring at me. Just fucking around, I point at her and motion for her to come over to me. She does. Then she starts talking to me like she knows me. Fine with me, whatever turns her on, right?

Not even two minutes later I suggest she get into a cab with me, she agrees and as we are waving one down, three of her friends rush over and pull her away, castigating her for almost leaving with me.

How weird was this? Whatever, I just ignore them. It’s never good style to sweat pussy. Nothing smells worse to a woman than desperation. Plus, I don’t really give a shit either way.

I look over about three minutes later, and no surprise, she is staring at me again. I smile, she smiles, and I motion for her to come back over. She walks right to me, but once again, her friends follow her over and try to pull her away.

Ryan tries to intervene like a wingman should, but there was nothing he could do. It was like one man trying to block the entire Baltimore Ravens defensive line: he didn’t have a chance. The girls swarmed around him and attacked me.

The girl hugged on my arm while her friends pulled on her and yelled at her to get away from me. I half-heartedly tried to make fun of them—“Shouldn’t you worry more about that muffin top spilling out over your jeans and less about her sex life?”—but they eventually won. They had to peel her hands off of me finger by finger—she was holding on that tight—but they did manage to pry her away from me.

They carry her—literally pick her up and carry her—to another taxi. Ryan and I are laughing at this scene, though I’m slightly pissed about losing such an easy thing. Of course, I didn’t have to work for it, but still—found money is always the best. They push her into the back seat of a taxi, and then pile in after her. Then we witness one of the most miraculous things I’ve ever seen: She climbs across the back seat, opens the other side door, and steps out. Her friend who got into the cab after her lunges across the seat at her, grabs hold of her shirt, but the girl pulls her shirt, breaks free, and SPRINTS over to me.

I am in shock. The scene looks like a Benny Hill skit. I have never seen any girl NEED to get to me this badly. I couldn’t have thrown a boomerang and had it come back to me any faster.

I immediately grab her, hop into a cab, and laugh as her friends, who are running after the cab screaming, trying to wave it down.

We had lots of drunk sex, and the girl left in the morning.

Tucker Max: 1

Cock-blocking bitches: 0

Postscript

There is a back-story to this night that I was completely unaware of when it was happening. Initially, I had no idea who this girl was. I was pretty sure I’d never seen her before in my life, which was part of what made these events that much weirder to me. I thought maybe she recognized me from my website—and being that my site hadn’t even been up for a year at this point, that was unlikely—or she just thought I was hot. I also thought her friends were trying to keep her away from me because, well, I’m me, and girls should keep their friends away from me.

Wrong.

In reality, it had nothing do with any of those things. It turns out I actually had met the girl before, briefly, while out drinking with some friends one night, and that she had a boyfriend, who her friends were trying to keep her from cheating on. With me. I didn’t find this out until the next day when I called Ryan. He told me:

“Dude, you missed the best part. When her friends came to get her the second time, the girl I was talking too said ‘I’m going to call her boyfriend, he’ll come get her. She’s going to do something bad, I just know it.’”

I wondered why she acted so weird the next day. Sobriety brings consequences.

But that’s not all. I had some friends in common with her, and I eventually found out that not only did she have a boyfriend, but I knew her boyfriend…and her boyfriend HATED me.

You want to guess why she was so eager to fuck me?

Apparently her boyfriend had done something that really pissed her off—I never found out exactly what, but I assume he cheated on her—so when she saw me out she decided to get back at him by fucking me.

I feel so cheap and used!!

FUNNY ODDS AND ENDS

This is a random assortment of small, funny anecdotes that I had left over.

This one girl who emailed me to hook up was obsessed with the idea that most people you meet on the internet are serial killers. I tried to explain that hooking up with me was safer than hooking up with someone she met at a bar. With me, she knew what she was getting into and people could always find me. With some dude at a bar, you don’t know anything about him.

She still wanted to meet me in public first, with her friends there, and she would only go back to her place to fuck. Whatever, she was really hot, so I dealt with it. We met out at a bar, and were fucking within the hour.

The whole time, her phone was blowing up with texts from her friends, asking about me, etc. After we were done, she went to the bathroom, so I took her phone, and sent a mass text to her whole address book:

“Help!! LOL!”

Then I turned the phone off, and set it face down on the table. I giggled about this, but didn’t really think much more about it, and we got back to fucking some more.