Assholes Finish First (17 page)

Only one final question. I got on bottom and had her ride me. Despite my best drunken attempts, I was unable to spin her like a top on my penis. It might have worked if my dick was longer, but alas, I am an average white guy.

She passed out when we were done, and I joined the party that was still going. Flush with excitement and pride, I triumphantly threw my hand in the air and yelled across the apartment:

Tucker “RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU’VE EVER FUCKED A MIDGET!”

The other two midgets raised their hands.

Tucker “FUCK YOU BOTH!”

POSTSCRIPT: The Odds and Ends

—Later that night, after the excitement from my tiny little conquest finally died down, DolphinMidget came up to me and Soylent.

DolphinMidget “Hey man, can I borrow twenty bucks? That taxi driver I called is out front.”

Tucker [
to Soylent
] “Is a crackhead midget hitting us up for a $20? So he can smoke some rock?”

DolphinMidget “I really need a hit, and I lost my wallet, man. Please.”

Tucker “Oh my God. He is. He really is.”

Soylent “You live a blessed life.”

I don’t think I gave DolphinMidget any money, but the next morning I was missing like $60 from my wallet. I am not going to accuse him of theft, because my wallet never left my pants and I can’t imagine midgets are very good pickpockets, you know, with their stubby sausage fingers and all. But then again, you never know. Maybe he used his massive forehead to magic the money out of my wallet and into his tiny little crack pipe.

I figured out later why DolphinMidget was so intent on smoking crack: Apparently, it is quite painful to be a midget. Lots of them have various degenerative joint, bone, and organ problems, and sometimes the only way they can deal with the pain is to resort to illegal drugs. Who knew?

—When we were at the hotel bar after the dance, there was another hot midget in a backless red top. She was sitting by herself on one of those really tall bar stools that are basically full chairs with extra-long legs, and out of nowhere, she fell off. That was funny enough by itself, but not nearly as funny as what happened next: She decided to get back up on the stool by herself. Do you have any idea what it looks like when a drunk midget tries to climb into a chair that is literally twice her size? I’ll tell you what it looks like: It looks EXACTLY like an orangutan in a slutty club top. It was awesome. Thank god she wasn’t Persian, otherwise I would have had to go in for a closer look to make sure it wasn’t an actual orangutan.

—Random quote from the night:

Jessie “Some of these midget dudes are ripped!”

Tucker “No, you don’t understand. They have regular-sized muscles and tiny little arm bones, so they just look ripped.”

Nils “They’re actually crumpled.”

E
VERYBODY
F
AILS

I get a lot of email from guys, especially younger guys, telling me how amazing and perfect I am, and how they worship me because they see me as a god of drinking and sex. And not just a few emails—tens of thousands of them, all day, every day.

This has never made sense to me. My stories started as emails to my friends, and the point of them was never to impress or brag, but to entertain. No one is a hero to his friends, least of all me. The stories should not make people worship me; they should make people laugh—with me and, sometimes, at me. Though there are other things going on here—deeper meanings behind the laughs—humor and entertainment are the basic points of my writing. Not bragging or hero worship.

Don’t get me wrong. I fully believe I’m fucking awesome, but not for the reasons that so many of these young guys seem to think. I’ve done many impressive things in my life, but going out with friends, getting drunk, acting like an idiot, and having tons of sex aren’t impressive by themselves. And it definitely doesn’t make me a god—it just makes me a pretty normal guy.

And just like every other normal guy, I fuck up. A lot. I feel like I wrote about many of my numerous mistakes in the last book (the post-op story, shitting myself in the hotel lobby, the girl playing me over the STD test, being so drunk I danced with myself in a mirror, etc.), but this time I am going to make it even more explicit. These stories are some of my favorite examples of me not just failing, but failing in lame and pitiful ways.

E
VERYTHING
G
OES
W
RONG

Occurred—June 2006

My friend and I were out one night, and as per my usual routine, I was piss drunk. We were crassly objectifying various girls from the sidelines, when one in particular struck my fancy. My friend was unenthusiastic about her appearance, and let me know:

Friend “No. That girl is hideous.”

Tucker “Whatever. She’s good enough for the dick.”

Friend “Your dick needs glasses.”

Undeterred, I approached her:

Tucker “You are so hot that if you were dead, I’d still fuck your corpse for a month.”

Her eyes widen in shock, and she leaves without a word. I thought it was funny.

Tucker “You’re not better’n me!”

It was apparent I was too shit-faced to succeed with anything that was alive, so I went home alone. I started scrolling through my phone looking for booty calls and came across a girl I used to hook up with, but hadn’t talked to in about a month. I called and woke her up:

Tucker “Come over. I want to see you.”

Girl “Tucker, I’m not going to come over to sleep with you.”

Tucker “Well, just come over… so we can talk. I want to talk to you… you know, hear about your day.”

Girl “You want to hear about my day? At 3am? Right.”

Tucker [
long pause
] “You aren’t hot enough to have this much self-respect.”

Sometimes shit like that works. Not this time.

Tucker “Hello? Hello!?”

I still ended my night like a true winner:

By drunkenly passing out in the middle of a halfhearted attempt at masturbation.

Nothing really crystallizes how pitiful your night went like waking up at your computer chair, mouse in one hand, dick in the other, with
www.fuckmyhugetits.com
staring back at you.

T
HE
O
VERSELL

Occurred—November 2005

Back in my Chicago days, I convinced my buddy D-Rock to go to some fucking atrocious Lincoln Park bar full of Trixies, because I heard hot girls went there. D-Rock rewarded my choice by hatefully running up my tab. After he was sufficiently shit-housed, combative D-Rock came out:

D-Rock “MAX! Those four girls at that table are eyeing us.”

Tucker “No dude, I don’t think they are.”

D-Rock “THEY ARE! Let’s go fuck them.”

Tucker “I think we need to talk to them first.”

D-Rock “Correct. That’s where you come in. Do the talking. Make them like you. Then introduce me. Then sex.”

When D-Rock gets into this sort of state—when he’s at the cognitive level of an angry toddler—there are only two courses of action:

1. Just stop arguing and do what he says, because once he’s engaged with an idea, he focuses like a pit bull on a pot roast, or

2. Tell him you’re going to the bathroom, then leave.

I almost picked #2, but if I had, I’m pretty sure this story would have ended up like the last time I did that: with him stumbling into my place at 4am, falling through a glass coffee table, and tracking a pint of blood all across my apartment as he looked for a Band-Aid. #1 it was.

The one ugly girl in the group got up and went to the bar to get a drink. I walked over next to her and started a conversation. She seemed interested, the conversation was going great, and she invited me and D-Rock over to her table. We were literally a second away from going over, I was just waiting for the bartender’s attention to get a drink.

Tucker “This is so comical. I love how male bartenders always ignore dudes. Maybe I should go to gay bars, then I’d get served.”

As any good salesman knows, once you get the sale, you stop selling. This is because everything you say once the customer has agreed to the sale doesn’t make any more sales, but does risk losing the sale you already have. A lesson I should have applied. Instead I kept talking, and this came out:

Tucker “I almost wish I was gay, I feel like my life would be a lot easier. Women are crazy. That, and pussy has a troubling power over me. I’ll do anything for it.”

Her face transformed from the encouraging “I’m totally into this guy” look to the “Oh no, I attracted another dorky weirdo” look. It was obvious I was losing it. I racked my brain trying to think of a way to recover from that stupid fucking statement, and ended up here:

Tucker “Actually, I wish I was attracted to dogs. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with men or women, because let’s face it, people suck. Plus dogs are so obedient.”

I don’t blame her for leaving in disgust. I’d have left too.

D-Rock “You’re an idiot. We were in.”

The funniest part is that SHE WAS UGLY! How sweet is that irony? I flubbed an easy layup with an ugly girl. What a moron.

H
ELLO
, N
URSE

Occurred—February 2002

When I was living in Florida, I got into a bar fight one night. That story may sound good, but it’s not; it’s just as lame as every drunk bar fight with guidos. What happened the next day at the clinic, however, is worth writing about.

It’s always been something of a dream of mine to pick up a doctor or a nurse, in the office, during an exam, and hook up with her right there on the exam table. Sort of like real-life porn, except without having to fuck a used-up porn star with her “handler” watching from behind the camera. I was waiting in the exam room to get my hand looked at, and lo and behold, in walks a hot girl:

Tucker “Hello, nurse.”

Intern “I’m not a nurse. I’m a fourth-year med student interning here.”

Tucker “Oh, sorry. Well, nurse, intern, whatever you are, hot should be in the title.”

[
Intern looks at me with a raised “are you kidding?” eyebrow
]

Tucker “What, does ruthlessly hitting on you violate some doctor-patient code?”

Intern “No. It’s just kinda lame.”

Tucker “Well, excuse me, Miss I’m-Hot-and-I-Know-It, I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

Intern [
smiles reluctantly
] “OK, well, thank you. So, you are here because you think you broke your hand?”

Tucker “Yeah, I think.”

Intern “Where did you break it?”

Tucker “On some guy’s face.”

Intern [
she can’t help but laugh
] “Let me guess: You’re in a fraternity?”

Tucker “Why does everyone always assume that?”

Intern “I wonder.”

She then took out a Y fork (basically just a medical tuning fork), hit it on her thigh, and put it on my swollen hand.

Intern “Tell me if this hurts.”

Tucker “OWW! Yes! So, what do doctors look for in a patient?”

Intern “One who is mature enough not to get into drunk fights at frat parties.”

Tucker “Nice. In case it matters, I’m not in a frat, nor was I ever. This happened at a bar.”

Intern “Glad to hear you’ve matured since college.”

Tucker “So, how am I doing?”

Intern “Well, you have at least one and possibly two broken metacarpals.”

Tucker “No, I mean with you. Like, us.”

Intern “Us? Huh. I’ve seen terminal cancer patients with a better chance than you.”

Tucker “All right, all right, but have you seen terminal cancer patients as hot as me?”

She stopped and looked at me as if she just could not believe I said that, like it was almost beyond her ability to comprehend.

Intern “I’m sending you down to get some x-rays.”

Tucker “You’re sending me away? No further examination? No sponge bath?”

Intern “No. You’ll be just fine.”

Tucker “You took chemistry to get into med school. We should go out sometime.”

Intern “How about we make an appointment a month from now?”

Tucker “A month? Why that long? You have a boyfriend to dump?”

Intern “No. That’s when your cast will come off.”

I went back in a month, expecting her to be there, and I would get a chance to seal the deal. She wasn’t. Some male nurse took my cast off. And he mocked me ruthlessly for how badly I did with the intern during my last visit.

Nurse “She specifically took today off when she saw you were on the calendar.”

Tucker “Fuck you. I’ll recover from this and fuck a hotter girl; you’re always going to be a male nurse.”

Nurse “Yeah, but I hooked up with her.”

I gave up. He won.

M
Y
21
ST
B
IRTHDAY

Occurred—September 1997

Everyone has those drinking nights that are complete disasters—I’ve made a living writing about mine. Perhaps one of my worst was my 21st birthday.

Growing up, I always hated my birthday. I can make up some bullshit reason why, but it wouldn’t be true. The reality is that I grew up in a broken home with an unstable mom, an abusive, alcoholic grandmother, and an absentee father. Birthdays for me were not about celebration and enjoyment of the day of my birth; they were about facing these painful realities head on. Who the fuck wants to do that? Not me. I avoided them and refused to have parties.