Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (50 page)
About an hour later, there was loud and urgent pounding on the door. She jumped up, threw a towel over her naked body, and answered it.
It was the cops, with three of her friends.
So yeah, that text message maybe wasn’t the best idea.
I hooked up with this girl in LA when I was living there. I went to her place, fucked her, etc, etc. Whereas most people have bookshelves, she had this wall of DVDs—tons and tons of DVDs. Maybe not that strange, except that they were in alphabetical order, and all kinds of ridiculously obscure movie-nerd-type movies. Not the usual DVD wall for a girl. I asked her about them:
Girl “Oh, they’re my boyfriend’s. He’s such a freak about them.”
Tucker “You have a boyfriend?”
Girl “Yeah, he’s out of town this weekend.”
Typical LA girl whore. She went to take a shower, so I took a bunch of the DVDs off the shelves, took the disks out, and put them in the wrong cases. For example, I took the
Raging Bull
DVD and put it into the case for
The Godfather
or something. I did this for about 50 of them, and of course, didn’t tell her anything about it.
About a week later, she called me in hysterics.
Girl “DID YOU SWITCH OUT ALL OF HIS DVDS!?!!”
Tucker “Not all of them.”
Girl “Thanks, asshole! Now he broke up with me and moved out! This is all your fault!!”
Tucker “Hold on—you cheated on him, and you’re blaming me for you breaking up?”
I went to an expensive boarding school that cost more than most colleges and law schools. Middle Eastern sheiks, Russian oligarchs, and South American land barons sent their kids to this school. The school was dripping in wealth and privilege (not that I had any). And they named ME the most egotistical. That should tell you something.
The awful picture from my yearbook
In college, I wasn’t named anything. Not because I changed or grew up or whatever, but because I went to the University of Chicago and that is where fun goes to die. We didn’t even have a yearbook, let alone a section for superlatives.
Stuck on the south side of Chicago with a bunch of science nerds and no sports teams to follow, I got out of there a year early literally bursting at the seams with untapped collegiate energy. You know how when you haven’t jerked off for a while that first next load is a doozy? Yeah, well that was law school. A three-year doozy.
In law school I was named:
- Most Likely Not to Graduate
- Most Likely to Spend a Little Time in Jail
- Most Likely to Be Investigated by a Special Prosecutor
- Most Likely to Be Convicted of Insider Trading
- Least Likely to Be an Attorney
- Most Likely to Be Disbarred
- Most Likely to Stuff Superlative Ballot Box
And you wonder why they never invite me back for alumni events.
My third year of college, I lived in an apartment off campus, on a street where pretty much all the apartments looked the same. One night I went out—a RARE night at the University of Chicago—and got ridiculously drunk. I noticed as I walked up to my building that the lights were on in my place. I thought I’d turned them off, but I never lock my door, so it was conceivable that a friend had crashed at my place or something.
I opened the door to my apartment, and not only were the lights and TV on, there were like four people sitting in there on my couches watching TV. I had NO IDEA who ANY of these fucking people were. I’d not had a good night out, and I was really drunk, so this was the last straw:
Tucker “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY APARTMENT!! GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY APARTMENT! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!!”
I was seconds from a serious fight—these people had broken into my apartment. Though there were two girls and two guys, in my drunken mind I thought for sure I could take them all. There was some more screaming and pushing involved, and finally one of the dudes gets me to focus enough to realize something:
That wasn’t my apartment.
I had walked into the apartment building that was right next to mine. Same building design and layout, same unit, same layout in the apartment, everything the same—except I was one building off.
Whoops.
[My biggest regret was that I wasn’t sober or quick enough to drop the classic Doyle Hargraves line from the movie
SlingBlade
, “Get outta my house! That goes for cocksuckers and retards!”]
I was coming back from a bar with a girl, drunk as hell, and I came across this car trying to parallel park. I get behind him and start waving him in, kinda giving directions.
Tucker “OK dude, more to the left, to the left, cut your wheel, come on, plenty of space—”
CRUNCH. He backed right into a light pole and dented the hell out of his bumper.
Tucker “Perfect! Just buff that out, it’ll be fine.”
As I walked off the guy got out of his car, in complete shock, alternating between staring between me and his car smashed into the light pole, confused as shit. Total dick move, but that’s what you get for trusting some random drunk asshole.
SlingBlade and I somehow ended up at some random house party one night in law school. We insisted on talking in redneck voices the entire time. The best part was the people who took us seriously:
Tucker “Hay…HAY BUDDY—make this’n thang werk.”
Youth “What?”
Tucker [I point to the cover of DVD case I’m holding] “Make this’n here picture show up on that’n thar screen.”
Youth “You want me to put the DVD on?”
SlingBlade “MAKE IT WORK!!!”
Youth “You guys are jerks.”
An email I sent to my buddies when asked how I deal with dumb girls:
“As per dealing with stupid girls, I use several tactics. One, I act silly. Always cracking ridiculous jokes, being goofy, anything to entertain myself, because this girl is not going to entertain you. Most of the time, the girl is confused at first, but then joins in, and can actually be a little fun herself.
Secondly, I’ll ask them something about themselves, something that they like talk a lot about, like their problems, and then do one of two things: completely tune them out and think of other things or I make subtle jokes at their expense, ones that they don’t get. Once you make a stupid girl feel comfortable, she’ll talk till your ears bleed. At that point, your only concern is what to think of when you’re tuning her out. I usually think about how great I am.
If you are going to make fun of them, make sure that you are either way above their head with your jokes, or you do it in a fun way. Dumb girls forgive humor at their expense less easily than smart ones. Also, I’ll try the most outrageous thing I can think of. For instance, peeing on the girls in the shower. Or farting during sex. Or asking them to come into the bathroom and hold it for me while I pee. Now, if you are going to take this route, make sure and start small. Make a little burp at dinner. Then pee with the door open. You don’t want to alienate her before you get to the good stuff. Once you get her used to you doing these sorts of things, before you know it you’ll be plugging her brown hole and using her as a spittoon, all, of course, to be retold in stories to us.”
One night I was out in the city with some friends, just a typical night out drinking. I left the bar relatively early to go somewhere else, but my friends stayed behind. After I left, these two random guys came up to them and said:
“Your friend looks like a shorter, fatter version of Tucker Max.”
My friends have not let me forget about this since.
I’m walking around Chicago one afternoon and I run into a Greenpeace petition drive. For some odd reason Greenpeace decided to use five hot chicks to gather signatures. Devious bastards.
One of the hotties approaches me, and though she is beautiful, I can’t resist informing her that I am against her socialist proposal, and counter with a market-based solution. This does not go over well. She calls over a crony who proceeds to engage in a fit of histrionics that would make Gidget blush. She mindlessly spouts off the company line like she’s in an infomercial, perhaps due to the fact that she is suffering from the intellectual equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome. I offered to sit her in front of a strobe light to deprogram her, but no dice.
Then, mainly for the comedic value, I ask her if she wants to go to Morton’s with me for to get a steak. Again, no. She is “against the slaughter of animals.” I tell her that I’ll overlook the fact that she’s wearing leather sandals, if she’ll overlook the fact that I like meat. She then informs me that she is “repulsed” by me. I guess that’s a little harder to overlook than dietary choices.
SlingBlade and I almost got kicked out of a law school final exam because we had been up for like 35 hours and were so punch drunk we could not stop laughing. What were we laughing about? On this site called amithebomb.com there was this pic of two girls bent over standing next to each other, and the caption was ‘poon sammich!’
Also, there was another pic of an Asian girl climbing through a window, and it said “You no take Ming arrive!”
He would recite one line and I’d answer with the other…for TWO HOURS. Even our friends were pissed at us.
One night in law school, all of us were out drinking. Brownhole got really drunk that night. The next day, PWJ told me about their trip home.
Tucker “You have to be kidding! As drunk as he was, he
drove
home last night?”
PWJ “Yeah, it was bad. He did some whippets at the bar, and said he was fine.”
Tucker “You’re kidding. He lives a hour away.”
PWJ “Totally serious. I was drunk enough that I let him drop me off at home. Though I did insist on riding shotgun, so that in case he drove into a pole, I would get the airbag.”
I HATE beggars and make it a policy to never give them money. There is a very simple and sound reason for this: Every dollar you give to a beggar is a dollar they don’t have to work for. You are essentially paying them to beg. And don’t give me that “some people can’t work” shit. Even if that is true, you are better off giving your money to a legitimate charity. They are better equipped than you to dispense money in a way that will be effective, as opposed to giving money to some junkie who is a blight on the neighborhood.
That being said, I have given money to a beggar. Once. He was standing on a corner, looking all dopey and dirty, and he simply said,
“Excuse me sir, would you please donate to the United Negro Pizza Fund?”
I laughed out loud and kept walking, then stopped, went back, and gave him two dollars. Why?
He made me laugh, and that has value. If every bum on the street made me laugh, I might change my stance on them. Until that point, they will remain human pigeons to me.
When I was dating HotNurse, one night she asked me for a favor:
HotNurse “Would you go to my hospital’s Christmas party with me?”
Tucker “Of course I will.”
HotNurse “No, you don’t understand. These are the cheesiest, most annoying people ever. You will hate it. If you go, I will owe you big.”
Tucker “Come on, how bad can it be?”
Cut to:
This thing was a Christmas abortion. Chinese food and samosas. No beer, only cheap wine. Obnoxious fat girls in Santa hats. The hostess had everyone playing party games. My personal favorite was the one where she passed out 3x5 cards with logos on them, and we had to write down what company each logo belonged to. If we got the most right, we “won.” The final straw was Christmas Karaoke.
Tucker “You have to toss my salad tonight.”
HotNurse “I know.”
My grandfather got a bit senile and out of it before he died:
Pa “Do you have a girlfriend yet?”
Tucker “No.”
Pa “What are you, going to be a queer now?”
Ten minutes later:
Pa “So, Tucker, you got a girlfriend?”
Tucker “Nope.”
Pa “What are you, sick or something?”
While at the University of Chicago a couple of friends and I went to dinner at some restaurant in China Town night. Oblivious to the fact that my idiocy can be heard outside of a five-foot radius, I started in with the “You been here four hour. You go now,” routine. Ha ha, we all laugh because infantile racism is funny.
A little while later I walked back to the bathroom, and as I went down the hall to the “Male Room,” I passed this rickety open door. I peered in to see two little Chinese kids looking at me, holding their eyes wide open with their fingers (to give a Caucasian look), and saying:
“Hot Dogs! Baseball! Hot Dogs! Baseball!”
I laughed so hard, I almost didn’t make it to the bathroom.
You win this round, Chinese kids.
My last trip to Vegas was good. I spent three days drunk off my ass playing blackjack with a former UK player and fucking with all the Carolina alums like Joe Wolf and George Karl by reciting the Dean Smith Prayer. My buddy even had to save my ass from a stomping when I was hammered and asked Desagna Diop if he brought his goats to Vegas.
The highlight was something you couldn’t script: A SOBER Larry Eustachy playing blackjack with us, alternately losing $100s a hand and yelling at me because I wasn’t drinking fast enough. At one point I had two vodka clubs in front of me and he nearly had an aneurysm: