Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (51 page)

Eustachy: “Look at that, there is moss on the rim! Are you gonna drink it or just look at it?”

Tucker: “You are the sober one, and you’re asking me if I’m gonna drink it? Shit or get off the pot, Bill W.”

Eustachy: “Why do you have two if you can’t even finish one! Christ, the ice has melted!”

Tucker: “Hey Larry, you wanna go to a frat party?”

The problem is that last night was the very definition of a “had to be there” moment. But I’ll try and give an account anyway:

We go to dinner at Gibson’s and then across the street to this old school piano bar called Jill’s. It’s mostly an older crowd but also the kind of place in Chicago where you can have a lot of fun if you know what you are doing. Jill’s signature attraction is the electric train that wraps around the entire bar and runs nonstop, open to close. Well we were pretty shitty and my buddy JD decides he wants to touch the train. He waits for it to come by, reaches up to put his hand on it, and of course knocks it off the track. Dexterity is not the domain of the drunkard. JD gets this guilty look on his face, then reaches back up to put the train back on the track.

As he touched the train, something very wrong happened: a shower of sparks started shooting everywhere. All the lights on and around the track flickered, then went off. He immediately pulled his hand away, and I fucking collapsed in laughter.

The bouncer comes running over yelling at him about how he’s going to have to pay $1000 for the train. $1000 for a fucking toy train?!? I wouldn’t pay $1000 for a REAL one!! Then JD did something that made me nearly shit my pants. With the saddest most pathetic drunk puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen, he looks at the bouncer, looks at the train, then looks back at the bouncer and points to some other dude in the bar, as if he is blameless and been wrongly accused.

I couldn’t deal with it. I damn near choked I was laughing so hard…see, you had to be there.

One night I was at a bar and had an all-around average Tucker night out: excessive drinking, rambunctious behavior, some girls loving us, some girls hating us, and everyone paying attention to us. As we leave, out front is a black Escalade, with Cadillac’s new “I have no talent, but I want to be a rapper anyway” option package-chrome 24-inch rims, solid black tinted windows, frog-eye lights, etc.

It is jerking back and forth, and a crowd is gathering around it. Everyone is looking inside, laughing, gawking, and calling to their friends. I walk over as everyone starts chanting, “GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!,” and peer inside to see some guy screwing a fat girl donkey style and pointing to the crowd gathered around his Escalade, laughing and having a great old time.

He “finishes” pretty quickly after that, then crawls into the front seat, starts up his SUV, rolls down the window, throws the used condom into crowd, and peels off. I think the condom hit someone in the head.

It’s moments like this that make me proud to be human.

I can’t dance. Outside of my six weeks in Cancun, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve danced in public. I can count on one FINGER the number of times I’ve danced with a fat girl.

Credit, Jojo, BrownHole and I were at a bar one night and we saw this group of chubby girls out on the dance floor. We got to talking about how much it would take for us to actually dance with one of them. It quickly became a contest. We each wrote down our minimum price for dancing with a certain fat girl we’d separated from the herd. The low bidder then had to dance with her if the other three agreed to put up the money.

Credit’s bid: $300.

Jojo’s bid: $250.

BrownHoles’s bid: $450.

My bid: $80.

And to think, I studied Econ in college.

They gladly put up the money. I had to dance with her for two songs and smack her ass. I danced with her for ONE song, whacked her on the ass and then brought her over to talk to Credit. She thought he was cute.

This one ridiculous JAP-y girl I met in Cancun annoyed the fuck out of me. From some Philadelphia suburb I think, really obnoxious voice, she was the type that wanted to fuck me, but didn’t want to admit it to herself. She tried to play hard to get by being bitchy, and wasn’t emotionally intelligent enough to understand this wasn’t working with me. I’ll never forget the exchange that finally shut her up. It started with her trying to deny that she was JAP-y (Jewish American Princess), and then went downhill from there:

Tucker “You are the very
definition
of a JAP.”

JapGirl “I am not! How am I JAP-y?”

Tucker “OK, let’s see…what did you tell me earlier about how you fuck?”

JapGirl “Ugh! I just like being on bottom because I’m lazy. I don’t like moving. I like the guy to do the work.”

Tucker “Yeah, you’re not JAP-y at all.”

JapGirl “I’m not! I just like to get my way and if I don’t I cry until I do.”

Tucker “You sound like a joy in bed.”

JapGirl “Are you good in bed?”

Tucker “If I cum, that means I was good.”

JapGirl “What? No, it doesn’t work that way. I want to cum too.”

Tucker “Then cum.”

JapGirl “You have to make me cum.”

Tucker “How long is it going to take for you to figure out that I don’t give a flying shit if you cum or not?”

JapGirl “UGH, fine! Well how big is your dick? Maybe if it’s big enough, I’ll cum anyway.”

Tucker “Not big. Just average.”

JapGirl “No see, I need a guy with a big dick. You need to have a big dick.”

Tucker “Comparing dick sizes is stupid and irrelevant. It’s not the size of the dick that matters, it’s who goes home with the girl.”

JapGirl “Yeah, but the size of the dick is relevant to me, because it determines whether I cum or not. Big dick, good orgasm. Small dick, fake orgasm.”

Tucker “You are talking about this like it’s supposed to matter to me.”

JapGirl “It IS supposed to matter to you. If I have to fake an orgasm with you, that means you’re lame.”

Tucker “No it doesn’t. You are missing the point. If you are faking an orgasm with me, I’ve already won. Not because you are faking it, but because I fucked you.”

One night I’m out with Bunny and D-Rock at my new favorite Chicago bar. D-Rock sees a girl he wants to hit on, and of course, I am obligated to talk to her fat friend.

But this was a different fat girl. This fat girl thought she was smart. That is a bad thing for a fat girl to think…especially when she is criminally stupid. And around Tucker Max.

She asked me what I did for a living. I told her she wouldn’t believe me. She insisted I tell her. I told her I was a diet consultant. She didn’t believe me. Then it got bad:

Fat girl “Where did you go to school?”

Tucker “University of Chicago.”

Fat girl “What was your degree in?”

Tucker “Econ.”

Fat girl “Econ? What can you do with an econ degree?”

At that point, I was laughing so hard I had to walk away. D-Rock just shook his head.

Fat girl “No really, what can you do with an econ degree?”

Tucker “You obviously went to a state school. A BAD state school.”

Fat girl “I want to know what you can do with an econ degree.”

Tucker “Do you even know what finance is?”

Fat girl “You can’t work in finance with an econ degree. You need a finance degree.”

God bless her oversized heart. I haven’t laughed that hard in months. While I composed myself, D-Rock tried to explain to her that an econ degree from the University of Chicago is one of the top five most marketable degrees, along with engineering/comp sci from MIT and maybe one or two Harvard degrees. And that a finance degree is basically just a watered down econ degree for stupid state school idiots. I finally composed myself and came back for the resolution:

Tucker “Seriously, what state school did you go to?”

Fat girl “Michigan State.”

Tucker “HAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA. I WAS RIGHT!!!!”

Unintentional comedy at its finest. It’s not easy to make me laugh that hard.

My buddy Brian and I were walking into a bar when I stopped to take a piss on a tree. These two girls walked by and gave me a sideways glance, then kept walking. About 50 feet down the sidewalk, they turned and asked us to take a picture of them, but instead of handing us a camera they just started talking to us. They were OK-looking, and at least one had some personality, so we went with it and invited them into the bar with us to get drinks.

It was painfully clear after less than a full drink that neither was going to fuck me within the next thirty minutes, which was pretty much the only justification for me speaking to them.

So I got bored. What happens when I get bored talking to marginal girls? Exactly.

I forget specifically what it was that finally crossed the line with one of the girls…I think it was when I said that her Chinese character tattoo meant “shameless whore” instead of “hell cat” as she claimed. Or it might have been when they told me they went to Loyola Law School, and I told them they’d have been better off getting their law degree in the mail. Whatever it was that pissed her off, she started castigating me and then it happened:

Girl #1 “You totally blew your chance. There you were peeing on a tree, and these two very hot girls walked in front of you and—”

Girl #2 “What hot girls?”

Girl #1 “US!”

Girl #2 “Oh…yeah.”

Tucker “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! That was going to be my question too! WHAT HOT GIRLS! HAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHA! You are the first honest woman I’ve met in years—God bless you.”

Girl #2 had one of those fleeting moments of honesty that are so rare in women. She turned bright red, tried to reverse her position, but it was over.

My night was made.

TUCKER DEBATES POSTMODERNISM, WRESTLES MIDGETS

Occurred, December 2002

One Friday I met up with some friends from college, who are all lawyers, and went to a happy hour for some associate who was leaving his firm. We began with the Jungle Fever of liquor combos—tequila and Jaeger shots—and numerous beers later, we went to this incredibly upscale yuppie bar where douchebags with 3-Series order stupid drinks like gimlets. I hate everyone and everything about this place.

Most of the people leave, so it’s me, my friend Jim, his girlfriend, two female associates from his firm, and a male associate. It comes out that Jim, his girlfriend, and I are going to midget boxing on Saturday night. This is a very abbreviated version of what followed:

The girls go ballistic.

They launch into all sorts of ridiculous histrionics about what horrible people we must be to exploit midgets in this way. Exploit? Yeah bitch, if everyone stops going to midget boxing, these midgets will suddenly become neurosurgeons. And tall. Bullshit—they just become unemployed. Plus, they’re adults, and we should treat them like adults. Tiny, little adults. If you’re a midget, and you want to box, you pretty much have to either become a midget boxer or just fight children in alleys; you’re not going toe-to-toe with Mike Tyson.

They respond with lots of fancy, meaningless words like “exploitation” and “commodification.” They also tell me I need to read some Catherine MacKinnon, some Andrea Dworkin, and perhaps even some Michel Foucault. Saying those names to me, you might as well set off a bomb in the bar.

I tried for a good ten minutes to let it go, I really did, but with Red Bull and vodka coursing through my veins, and the names of the intellectual antichrists being thrown around so flippantly, I let loose. Absolutely unleashed. I eventually started throwing out words like “fascist” and “not content to let people live their own lives” and “if you don’t like stumpy people hitting each other, don’t go see it” and “these theories only sound good or important to upper-middle-class-usually-white-people who feel guilty about their status, and have taken enough benefits out of capitalism that they have the luxury of enough leisure time to actually think about this crap and go to $35K/year schools to learn it.”

Then it got ugly. Sort of like her face.

Bitch “This persona you take on seems to be a very direct product of this culture and the construction of masculinity within this culture. You’ve done an impressive job with it.”

Tucker “Aren’t you just the cutest postmodern social constructionist I’ve ever seen!! Funny how masculinity is ‘constructed’ in just about the same way in every culture…hmmm, I smell something…not teen spirit…smells like a common cause…human nature maybe?”

We went back and forth pitting our diametrically opposed ideologies against each other on various battlegrounds, until I pull out the trump card and point out the obvious: that they were attorneys at very large Chicago firms, and if they really thought “commodification” and “exploitation” were meaningful concepts, perhaps they should look for other lines of work, and “stop being preposterous hypocrites who are milking the tit of the cow they were trying to slaughter.” This last comment hit home. The male associate (who was on my side) quickly grabbed the check before blood was spilled.

So of course, on Saturday I go to the midget boxing with Jim and his wife. The only people exploited are us.

It opens with a dwarf named, I shit you not, “Puppet the Psycho Dwarf.” He was the foulest dwarf in all of Middle Earth and he gets up on stage and starts shouting “WHO WANTS TO SEE A MIDGET BLEEEEEED TONIGHT!?!!!” into the microphone. Repeatedly. There are differences between dwarves and midgets, by the way. I didn’t know this at first, but the difference is that dwarves all live together and work in diamond mines, and midgets all punch each other in the face for money.

After getting everybody ramped up, this dwarf then goes on an unstoppable ten-minute rant. He’s pointing at girls in the audience, telling them that he could smell their pussies when he walked by, and talking about when he has them doggie-style he’ll have extra leverage because he’ll be standing, not on his knees. He’s bragging about his 12-inch inseam and how, when he gets it up, he can pole vault down the street. The girls are going nuts, loving it. I mean, what’s more of a turn-on to a woman than vulgar sex-talk from someone you’ll never in a million years wake up next to? One girl was so into it, she was offering to suck his dick at the top of her lungs. It was crazy. And it stopped there.