Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (40 page)

This bar was not a total loss, because they had a huge promotional inflatable Dewar’s bottle. In the absence of humans to interact with and girls to put my penis in, my next favorite thing to do is to steal worthless shit. I decided the Dewar’s bottle was coming home with me. Junior and I went off into a corner and concocted an elaborate plan. It consisted of me grabbing it, then running out of the bar.

Thankfully Junior can charm the habit off a pissed-off nun. He and Amir engaged the bouncers in conversation long enough to distract their focus and give me the time to turn the corner and get away. I waited for them to meet me at the car, but after like ten minutes I got frustrated and drove around the block to go pick them up.

I pull up to a scene from
The Warriors
. Junior, now by himself, is squared off against four guys who are all swinging at him and trying their best to kick his ass. I debate driving up on the sidewalk to save him, then realize that not only am I not Jason Statham, but I would run over Junior in the process. I consider getting out of the car, but two on four isn’t much better than one on four. So I start honking. That distracts the dudes just long enough for Junior to jump in the car and for me to step on the accelerator.

Tucker “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED!?!? They fought you over an inflatable liquor bottle? Really?”

Junior “No, we were outside talking to the bouncers, and fucking Amir grabbed some girl’s ass, and the guys she came with all jumped me.”

Tucker “Where is Amir? Did he get knocked out?”

Junior “NO!! HE GOT BEHIND ME AND THEN FUCKING RAN OFF AND LEFT ME TO FIGHT THEM BY MYSELF!!”

Junior was pissed. I think he wanted to kick Amir’s ass for starting this shit and then running off, but Amir is not only his cousin, he’s also just little. Junior decided to take his anger out on the guys who jumped him—sort of. He told me to circle the block and come back outside the club. He’d seen what kind of car the two guys with the girl drove up in, and he was determined to get revenge on it. Think about this for a minute—his plan was to drive around in LA, looking for a random car. Don Quixote has formulated better revenge plans. We drove around for a fucking hour as I mocked him, but then, lo and behold—we found it!

Junior pulled up next to it, popped his trunk, pulled out a golf club, then jumped on top of the car and started smashing his golf club into the window. It was like watching a fraternity destroy an old car with sledgehammers for charity. Except this was a new Mercedes, and the world’s orphans were going to be just as broke and hungry as they were yesterday.

By the time he got back to the car, he was sweating profusely and laughing his ass off. And the iron he used was FUCKED up. It was a parody of a golf club.

Tucker “Dude, you just destroyed your club.”

Junior “I can’t hit my 4-iron straight anyway.”

We decided to pick up some beer at the 7-11 and go back to his place to gamble more. I crack the first one before we even get in the car. I immediately spit it out. Junior tries one, and agrees—it’s skunked. I look at the “Born On” label—it’s like six months expired. I take the beer back in to return it. Unfortunately, the dude behind the register is an FOB Indian, and this turns into a whole fucking debacle:

Tucker “I want to return this beer, it’s bad.”

Indian “No bad. Beer fine. I see you drink.”

Tucker “It’s expired, you know, like milk does.”

Indian “Is not milk!”

Tucker “I know it’s not milk motherfucker! But it is expired, like milk does!” Indian “No! No! Is NOT milk!”

Tucker “You’re fucking killing me Apu—look at the fucking label!! The beer is skunked!”

It went back and forth like this for five minutes. He refused to give me my money back or let me exchange the beer, and I was too drunk to cogently explain my position to someone who learned English from watching game shows. Eventually I gave up and left. I think I may have smashed one of the bottles on the floor in anger, but since I paid for it already, I assume the clerk was OK with it.

Thankfully, we knew Amir had another bottle of vodka stashed in his room at their place, so we drank that. It seemed like a fair trade, considering he sexually assaulted a girl and then left his cousin to deal with the consequences.

We started gambling again and got HAMMERED, again. We’d already been drinking all day; this just put us over the top. At some point I went to take a dump, and I have no idea why, but Junior decided that this meant he should open the window of his second floor apartment and yell out at the top of his lungs.

“WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO!”

He wasn’t even saying anything; it was just a primal, drunken scream of triumph, repeated over and over again, like a train whistle. When I finally came out of the bathroom he still hadn’t stopped.

Tucker “Junior, what the HELL are you doing?!?”

He burst out laughing. He looked like a pothead watching “Looney Tunes”. We immediately went back online, and it was only a matter of time before we won big again. Junior went to the window and started yelling again.

Junior “WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO!”

This time he wouldn’t stop for anything. He wasn’t even responding to my cursing at him. I looked around the apartment for something that might break his fixation, like you’d try with a tired baby. I found an easel over by the front door (it was Amir’s).

I picked it up, grabbed it by the legs, and started smashing it over Junior’s back as he leaned out the window. Junior is a strong dude, and this was not a very well made easel, so it shattered into a million little pieces. We laughed our asses off at this as we chucked the wood around the apartment and out the window.

Junior “WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO!”

Still, Junior kept yelling. I threw water on him. This cracked him up for about five seconds, then he started yelling again. I had no idea how to stop him, and he went on and on. Mind you—it was now 4am.

All of the sudden, this blond master-race looking guy appeared on the sidewalk below Junior’s apartment. He looked like a henchman from
Die Hard
. In the most heavily-accented Hans & Franz tone you can imagine, he looks up at Junior and yells:

German “Mahn, vhat ze hell mahn?!? Ahr you creh-zy??”

I laughed so hard I almost puked. Junior laughed so hard, he did puke. He lurched outside, threw up on the landing, and then fell down the stairs. I think the German guy thought Junior was coming to fight him, because he ran off. This made me laugh so hard, I ended up having to piss in a potted plant because I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.

The next thing I remember is waking up. More specifically, being woken up by Junior shaking me violently. It had to be noon at least. I was passed out on the sofa. The TV was still on, blasting horse races. The apartment looked like a trailer park after a tornado. Junior looked as confused as I’ve ever seen him.

Junior “Tucker—why am I covered in bruises??”

JUNIOR AND THE FRENCH WHORE

Occurred, Summer 2000

During the period I visited him in LA, Junior was quasi-dating this French girl he met at a strip club down there; I think it was Jumbo’s Clown Room. Naturally, he took me to meet her for the first time while she was working. Hey, if you’re gonna meet your friend’s special someone, she might as well be topless, right? She came out on stage, and I have to admit: She was stunningly hot. Perfect body, perfect tits, like she was carved out of pink marble. I might have even been a little bit envious.

Then she sat down to talk.

FrenchWhore “Allo June-ya!”

Her accent was so preposterous, I honestly thought she was kidding at first, that she was mocking the way French people talk.

[Read her dialogue in the most cartoonish, ridiculous, Pepe-Le-Pew-style French voice you can imagine in your head. Seriously, that’s what she sounded like.]

Tucker “Do you have any hot friends for me to hook up with?”

FrenchWhore “Ook up? What does thees mean?”

Tucker “You know, boom boom sexy? Me love you long time?”

FrenchWhore “Boom boom sexy? What does thees mean?”

Tucker “Sex. Fucking. I know you do that.”

FrenchWhore “Ooh yes, I like zah sex.”

Tucker “Right, I know that. How about someone who wants to like the sex with me.”

FrenchWhore “Noh, I only have zah sex weeth June-ya.”

Tucker “Dude—is she kidding with this shit?”

Nope. She’s just a fucking retarded frog.

I was astonished by what a colossal moron this girl was. We were sitting in a strip club, IN LOS ANGELES, and she was so dumb she stood out among the other spectacularly stupid whores. That’s so stupid, it’s an achievement. People get Wikipedia pages for less.

Tucker “How do you deal with this girl? I mean—what do you guys talk about?”

Junior “We don’t talk much.”

Maybe I’m being unfair to her. Maybe her English was so comically bad, it was just the language barrier that was preventing me from seeing her subtle and nuanced genius…AHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!

Here, judge for yourself. These are some of the exchanges I can remember:

Tucker “So what do you think of the Germans?”

FrenchWhore “I like Germahny.”

Tucker “You aren’t mad that they invaded you and stole all your croissants and snails?”

FrenchWhore “Noh. Zhat was befohr I was born.”

Tucker “Really? So if I rape you and steal all your shit, then your kids should be cool with it?”

FrenchWhore “I do not have children.”

Tucker “Do you wear deodorant?”

FrenchWhore “Dehodorant, yes.”

Tucker “Isn’t that how you shower? By just spraying perfume on? That’s how the French bathe, right?”

FrenchWhore “Noh. We use shower, like you.”

Tucker “Well then why do French people smell?”

FrenchWhore “Who smells?”

Tucker “How long have you been in America?”

FrenchWhore “A year, I sink.”

Tucker “So why don’t you speak better English?”

FrenchWhore “I try to. It es hard, English.”

Tucker “I don’t understand, I thought all French kids learned English in school.”

FrenchWhore “Yes, we do.”

Tucker “So what happened to you? You were too busy smoking cigarettes and eating baguettes to pay attention?”

FrenchWhore “It es very hard for me.”

Tucker “So you have a bunch of problems with the language, yet decide to come here to live? Makes total sense.”

Tucker “What’s the French word for “hard work”?

FrenchWhore “I don’t understand zis.”

Tucker “Exactly. I bet you know the word for ‘strike’ and ‘smelly cheese’ though don’t you?”

The next day she came over to Junior’s apartment to hang out. She had this annoying little yippy dog with her named “Killer.” It was ridiculously undisciplined and paid no attention to anything she said. All she did was chase the dog around the apartment, saying its name in her cartoonish French accent.

FrenchWhore “Kee-lah, Kee-lah, no Kee-lah, come here Kee-lah.”

I love dogs and I love hot girls, but this stupid frog and her yippy dog annoyed me so much, I nearly curb-stomped her and punted that dog out the window. Junior was amused by my anger, but it was no match against perfect French titties. It wasn’t long before he got horny, took her into his room and started fucking her. Super. Now she’ll smell like sweat, perfume, AND sex. A few minutes later, Junior comes out of the bedroom with a disgusted look on his face. FrenchWhore follows behind, looking very sad.

FrenchWhore “I sorry. I eat Mexican food for lunch.”

Junior sits there looking pissed off and ignoring her for an hour. I am confused, but don’t really care enough to ask. She finally gets the hint, and, after chasing “Kee-Lah” around for ten minutes and finally catching him, she leaves.

Tucker “So? What happened?”

Junior “Well, right in the middle of sex I hear this ‘psssssssssssssttttt’ noise. She stops and says, ‘Oh no…I fhar-TED.’ And then I smell the most rancid fart smell I’ve ever smelt. Tucker, this wasn’t a fart. This was a felony. It smelled so bad I gagged. I became totally flaccid dude. I just rolled off her and lay there, waiting for the smell to go away. But it wouldn’t. I was disgusted. She lay next to me for about two minutes, not saying anything. Then—get this—with the stink still choking the life out of me, she turns towards me, gently puts her hand on my shoulder, and whispers in my ear, ‘What’s wrong? You no think I’m sexy?’”

To this day, whenever a girl does something disgusting in our presence, Junior and I will say in the thickest French accent we can muster, ‘What’s wrong? You no think I’m sexy?’”

About a week later, she comes over again and the three of us are hanging out in his living room watching TV. Junior decides he wants a Gatorade, so he says he’s going to 7-11, and asks us if we want anything. Neither I nor FrenchWhore want anything, so he heads off by himself. [FYI—This isn’t weird behavior from Junior at all, the dude has serious ADD and goes to 7-11 like five times a day.]

About thirty minutes pass, which is a bit long for Junior to be gone. Then my phone rings: It’s Junior.

Junior “Are you in the living room?”

Tucker “Yeah of course.”

Junior “Go in the bathroom and shut the door.”

Oh no. This is going to be bad.

Tucker “OK, I’m in here. What’s up?”

Junior “I need you to help me out.”

Tucker “What’s wrong, you OK?”

Junior “Oh yeah, yeah—I met a hot girl at 7-11, I’m going back to her place. I need you to cover for me with FrenchWhore.”

Tucker “WHAT? Is this a joke?”

Junior “I’m totally serious, you gotta help me out.”

Tucker “You’re going home with a girl you met at the 7-11? What the fuck? Did your eyes meet over the corndogs and you knew it was true love?”

Junior “AHHAHAHAHAHA—no, but that’s close. We were both looking at the wine, and I started talking to her about it, and now I’m following her to her place.”

Tucker “You have to be kidding. What am I supposed to tell this stupid frog?”

Junior “I don’t know, just tell her I went to jail or something.”