Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (53 page)

Thanks, Dave! Boy, if that little bit of sage wisdom didn’t turn my life around. I’ll start down this path by writing some tax legislation, maybe that’ll make me professional! Or even better yet, I’ll become a humorless automaton and rigidly enforce meaningless, bureaucratic rules!

I am having trouble figuring out why this whole thing upset people. The statements were not offensive, and the people whose names they were in found them funny. What does it say when David is more upset than the people whose names were used without consent? If I had written something like, ‘If elected, I promise to kill all the [insert favorite racial /ethnic group],’ then the indignant lather that David and his little henchpeople got worked up into would be rightly justifiable. But not only were the statements not at all offensive to anyone, but the people that they were about thought that they were funny.

I also can’t figure out why the actual statements of intent themselves were never printed. My guess is that either the newspaper didn’t have a copy of them (coincidentally, they never asked me for copies), or the DBA didn’t want them printed, because then those of us free of major head injury would realize how ridiculous this whole situation has become.

Some other things I was surprised that didn’t make it into the
Duke Law Reporter
article: a more in-depth examination of David Dixon’s basically unchecked power over the DBA elections, how David Dixon threatened (never to my face, of course) my law school career, how incredibly funny the actual statements were, and why none of the quotes from the interviews of those the statements were about made it into the article.

The lesson to be learned from this whole fiasco is…don’t go to law school. Well, not really. The real lesson is probably something about restraint and maturity, but I never learn those lessons.”

The really ironic thing is that the editor of the
Duke Law Reporter
, Alyssa Rubensdorf, wouldn’t print my response. Why? SHE THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE LIBELOUS! I swear to God she said that. What a moron. Whatever. That is why all those losers are now miserable lawyers who hate their lives, and I’m Tucker Max.

HOMELESS PEOPLE ARE GOOD FOR SOMETHING

Occurred, July 2006

So today I am eating breakfast at Phillipe’s, a famous spot in LA. I go to the bathroom to piss, and all the urinals are occupied so I have to use a stall. As I am pissing someone calls me and instead of just waiting till I was done like a normal person, I fumble through my pockets for my cell…and drop my car keys right into the toilet bowl.

I stood there for a good ten seconds contemplating what the fuck I had done. Not only was my piss in the bowl, the water was yellow when I got there…and there were shit marks on the side of the bowl.

FUCK.

I momentarily contemplated just ditching them and buying a new car. Seriously. I am not putting my hand in there. There are some battles you just don’t want to win, let alone fight. Unfortunately, even though I am doing well financially, I’m not doing THAT well. So what the fuck do I do now? Then it popped into my head:

I went a block away to where I had seen a bunch of homeless people hanging out (LA is crawling with disgusting vagrants) and walked up to a group of them:

Tucker “Any of you want to make ten dollars? All you have to do is get my keys out of the toilet at Phillipe’s.”

They kinda stood there staring at me for a minute, then one of them agreed and followed me to the bathroom. When he saw the toilet, he paused and said, “Do you have the money?” I produced the cash and without missing a beat he reached into the yellowish brown water and fished them out like a trout from a mountain spring. Then he crossed the line. He tried to fucking hand them to me:

Tucker “What the fuck?!? Put them in the sink.”

He placed them under the faucet, I gave him the money and he left. WITHOUT WASHING HIS HANDS. Then I let the water run over them for five minutes, got a cup of bleach from the busboy, and let them soak while I ate.

This was literally the only time in my life I have ever been happy that homeless people exist.

BOYFRIEND COPIES TUCKER

Judging by the emails I get, there are a lot of guys out there pretending to be me. Not just acting like me mind you: These guys are at bars telling girls that their name is Tucker Max, and pretending that they
actually are me.

I don’t really have any cool stories about busting a guy doing this in the moment—I wish, because that would be fucking awesome—but I do get emails about it all the time. Three of my favorites:

NOT ALL IMITATION IS FLATTERING

Occurred, May 2007

This was one of the first ones I ever got like this:

From: [name redacted]

Date: May 12, 2007

Subject: Pissed off

I am perturbed. I recently discovered your site and have been reading some of your stories, because obviously that is the best method of preparation for a criminal procedure exam tomorrow, and I am becoming increasingly paranoid. I will explain:

I recently dated and broke up with a smart, funny, successful guy, who in his past (since he met me, to a lesser extent) made a habit of being the drunkest person in the bar (sometimes the drunkest person EVER to have been in the bar) and saying and doing ridiculously offensive things. He wooed me with his wit, for the most part, along with his embracing being an asshole (not to me of course), loving attention as I do, and asserting that he is smarter than other people.

Back to where you come in: I am relaying this to you, the author of your site, the only person with a real grip on how unusual your thoughts/actions/expressions are…

• he consistently says, if they can’t take a joke, fuck ‘em
  
• favorite words = Open Bar
  
• favorite book =
  Confederacy of Dunces
  
• uses term “*HIS NAME* drunk”
  
• tells a story about thinking he was doing “cheers” with himself in a mirror
  
• his epic story is about having anal sex with a girl while his friend is filming her in the closet…
  

I could go on. So…how old is your site? Is this coincidence? Are there a lot of guys out there with similar worldviews?

I can’t bear the thought that I was duped by someone copying someone else’s shtick. Insights and confidence appreciated.

I broke the news to her that my website had—at that point—been up five years and I already had a bestselling book out. She got pissed, and so I offered her the best way possible to get back at him. Fuck the real Tucker Max.

So she flew to my city and did just that. Then sent her ex a picture of us in bed with the caption:

“He doesn’t have to fake it, and for once neither did I.”

Ouch.

SO WHAT GAVE IT AWAY?

Occurred, April 2010

Another email from a different girl I kinda want to know how she “found out” it wasn’t me:

“I wanted to tell you that I’m a huge fan. You may be an asshole but I respect that…plus you’re sexy and you make me laugh. But not that long ago I was out at a bar in Pittsburgh with some friends and this guy approached me and introduced himself as Tucker Max and said he was in town on a book signing. HE LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE YOU! He was even an asshole like you. I really thought he was you. Long story short, I slept with this guy and later found out it was not you. His name is John and he is a student at University of Pittsburgh. This guy gets tons of pussy in Pittsburgh because he tells people he’s you. I wish it had been :(”

SOMETIMES THE TRUTH DOES HURT

Occurred, July 2008

This exchange disturbed even me. The thing that makes me laugh the most is how, the angrier she gets, the BETTER her spelling and grammar get. Usually works the other way around:

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

omg ur email is so on ur site liar, i knew it was im emailing u instead of txt my phone is annying… u have my number call me today lets get togethr again that was awesum. i believe all ur sotries now that i met u, u are so fun…:)

To: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: re: lets do that again

I honestly don’t know what you are talking about. I was alone last night.

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

haha, me too, i was alone with ur cock in me…seriously cum over, i am soooo horny right nowww ;)

To: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: re: lets do that again

I don’t know if youre kidding or not, but I am in Shreveport, Louisiana filming a movie, and I was alone last night. And the night before. I haven’t fucked for like four days. If you don’t believe me, check the movie site: www.ihopetheyservebeerinhell.com

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

omg. is this a joke? stop it. U werent in calgary last night???

To: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: re: lets do that again

Are you fucking stupid? Why would I EVER be in Calgary?

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

WHAT!?! THEN WHO DID I SLEEP WITH???

To: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: re: lets do that again

You have be kidding me. I hope you are just fucking with me to get a response.

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

NO! I HAD SEX WITH A GUY WHO CLAIMED HE WAS YOU! HE TOLD ALL YOUR STORIES AND LOOKED LIKE U! r u sure you werent in calgary…or maybe your cousin or some brother or something?

To: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: re: lets do that again

AHHAHAHAHAHA—only a Canadian girl.

I would tell you that if you want the real thing you can come down to Shreveport and fuck me, but I don’t really want to follow some cross-eyed Molson swilling yokel into the same pussy.

From: [name redacted]

Date: July 20, 2008

Subject: lets do that again

FUCK U… HE LOOKED JUST LIKE U! omg. omg. no wonder he told me not ot email him to call hium instead! omg, i let him cum on my face!

I had to stop emailing her at that point. This was too much, even for me.

Ladies, if you are ever out and some guy tells you that he is Tucker Max, there is a very simple test to verify that: Ask to see his ID. I will ALWAYS be willing to show you my driver’s license, and then you can know you are fucking/hating the real me.

I do realize that it’s possible to make fake IDs, but if a guy wants to go the trouble of making a fake ID just to be able to fuck girls using my name…I almost think he deserves it. That is way too much work.

THE TIME I GOT ARRESTED AT O’HARE AIRPORT

Occurred, June 1996

It is the last day of my freshman year in college, and my dorm is having a huge party. Well, sort of. About ten of us, pretty much the only ones left after finals, are getting really drunk because we are all leaving for the summer the next day, and we want to drink all the alcohol we have left in our respective mini-fridges.

Like most college dorms, the liquor that is left at the end of the year is an odd menagerie of the drinkable, the tolerable, and the barely even potable. We started by drinking normal drinks, like Absolut and cranberry. We ended up finishing with unspeakable concoctions: Triple Sec and E & J. Triple Sec was too sweet for one kid so he stuck with something more conventional—sweet vermouth. Straight. Try that one time; see if you can finish a sip without wanting to set your tongue on fire.

Of course the night descends into inebriated debauchery, replete with everything that happens when 18-, 19-, and 20-year-olds get drunk: people throw up, furniture gets broken, food gets thrown everywhere, more people throw up, urination occurs in inappropriate places (closet, empty mini-fridge), people hook up who would ordinarily not even talk to each other when they are sober. By the time we were finished, our dorm looked like a tornado had blown through a Wal-Mart.

At about 4am, I decide that there is no reason for me to sleep, because I have a 2pm flight out of O’Hare. So I continue to drink, with reckless abandon, and continue the standard Tucker Max drunk act (e.g., urinating on inappropriate surfaces). At about 7am, after everyone else is either passed out or knocked out, I decide to head for the airport, figuring I’ll sober up there.

I make it to O’Hare Airport at 8am. The airport is just beginning to come alive, and the ridiculously long lines for everything at O’Hare won’t begin for another hour or so. I check my three bags at the curb and proceed directly to security. My body is craving coffee and food and death. I get to the checkpoint, place my backpack and my carry-on on the conveyor belt, and walk through the metal detector.

I stand there, drunker than Hemingway, waiting for my bags to come out, not noticing the conveyor belt had stopped and the federal rent-a-cops were all tripping over themselves, frantically running around. I was occupied with this really hot girl walking by, trying to think of a way to get her attention. Little did I know.

That’s when I felt the first of what would be many violent blows to my skull. A large, angry Chicago policeman had given me a forearm shiver from behind, and was on top of me, beating me like I was Rodney King. As if this force weren’t enough to restrain a drunk 170-pound college freshman, three to five other CPD joined in the fun, all of them venting every bit of their working class, ugly wife-having frustration upon my drunk, pronated body. Then the group of them picked me up and began dragging me through this maze of doors and tunnels leading into the bowels of O’Hare airport. I’m pretty sure this is how Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.