Assholes Finish First (22 page)

Tucker “Why not?”

Soylent [
in a rapid-fire, terrified, raspy voice, as he looked up at me with the most pitiful, frightened look I have ever seen on an adult man
] “SIPPY’SOUTOFCONTROL! HESGOING100BANGINGHISHEADANDLOOKINGATWRECKSNOTWATCHINGTHEROAD! WE’REALLGONNAFUCKINGDIE!!!”

I lowered my head over the ledge and looked out the front windshield to see the RV swerve around a tractor trailer, missing the bumper by no more than two feet. Sippy was bobbing his head back and forth to the music as if nothing happened, then threw both hands off the steering wheel into the air to “raise the roof.” The speedometer was shaking at around the 90mph mark. He looked back at me, in the complete opposite direction of the road, and screamed with the music:

Sippy “WHERE MY HOOD, WHERE MY HOOD, WHERE MY HOOD AT!!!”

Soylent “YOUREGONNAHITTHATCAR!!!!! WATCHTHEROAD!!!! AAAAHHHHH!!!!”

Despite being so close to a fiery death, I could not stop laughing. Soylent is an ex-Marine—who’s been in real combat, with people shooting at
him—and here he was in a state of panicked fear, put there by the driving of a 22 year old entry-level consultant.

TweedleDork and TweedleDoofus were not far from Soylent’s state of mind. Obviously unaccustomed to the effects of large quantities of the drink and still severely intoxicated, they looked like the frightened refugees you see on CNN after some natural disaster in a third-world country.

TweedleDoofus had vomit matted in his hair, TweedleDork still had sleep lines on his forehead, and both kept staring at each other with a “what the fuck have we done?” look in their eyes. I got Soylent a drink to calm him down and offered them both a drink. TweedleDork looked at me like I told him to felch a rhino, and TweedleDoofus gagged and nearly threw up again.

We drank more beer—it’s amazing how much more you drink when you get your beer from the shower—and Soylent eventually calmed down. Though not before Sippy pulled the RV onto the shoulder to get past some road construction, running over two dozen orange cones in the process.

TweedleDoofus was jarred out of his PTSD when his cell phone rang. The conversation was so good, I made Sippy turn down the gangster rap:

TweedleDoofus “Hey baby… Uh, well, it’s hard to explain. I’m in an RV driving to New Jersey… No really, I… I… I don’t know. Is there any other way you can get a ride? I’m really sorry. What about April? Can she give you a ride?”

TweedleDork explained that today was the funeral for TweedleDoofus’s girlfriend’s grandmother. It was in Akron, and he was supposed to drive her.

Tucker “Wait, THAT is what you had to do for your girlfriend? You had to drive her to her grandmother’s FUNERAL? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You’re
fucked! Why did you come with us last night? You let me talk you out of THAT? Dude, how stupid are you?”

He gave me the angriest look a nerd can give someone he is afraid of, and walked into the bedroom in the back. TweedleDork turned away from us and spent the rest of the drive blankly staring out the window, rocking back and forth in the captain’s chair.

We arrived in NJ a few hours later and checked into the hotel. After putting our stuff in the room we immediately went out to eat. TweedleDoofus and TweedleDork stayed in the room. When we got back, we found this note on the bed, along with a $20 bill:

“Guys,

Sorry, but we have to go back to Cleveland. I know we were supposed to stay the whole weekend, but this wasn’t what we expected, and we really have things to get done at home. We’ll take a taxi to the bus station, and get a bus home. Here is $20, I hope this covers our share.”

There isn’t much to tell about that night. I ignored all my fans and went into the city with my real friends, got hammered, talked a ton of shit to all kinds of posers, threw peanuts at hipsters, daring them to confront me—none did, of course—and blew a sure thing with a very good-looking girl by insulting her panty hose. Whatever—let’s get to the good part.

Part 4: The Harlem RV Story

Saturday morning I woke up refreshed and ready for a big day. There were two “events” my fans had planned for that weekend: Saturday night was the party at a bar in Hoboken that they insisted on calling TuckerFest. On Sunday, I was to celebrity-judge the semi-pro wrestling bikini event, and they were all going to attend.

Jojo and Credit lived in Manhattan, so on Saturday morning, I decided to drive the RV into the city, watch the Kentucky basketball game at Jojo’s apartment, pick them up, and then drive back out to TuckerFest that night.

Around 10am, I collected Nils, TheGinger, and Sippy, and we went to pick them up. Already in the RV were Soylent, PigPen, and three of the most wretched fucking people I have ever met. Their internet names were Xgatax, Ambersnax, and Rockwolf.

Xgatax: I’m not sure I can convey in words how annoying this girl was. Sickeningly obese, covered in acne, at least three chins, with the loud, obnoxious fat-girl voice that seems to carry for miles and never stops, she smoked, and had the stupidest sense of humor since… EVER. Don’t believe me? Think I’m exaggerating? Look at this picture and tell me you can’t see that description:

Ambersnax: When I first looked at her, I had to move from directly in front of her so I could see her whole face at once—her nose is THAT big. She not only breathed and smelled with that thing, I think she took fluids and food through it too. I’m confident I could have fit my dick in it. I can’t even describe what the rest of her face or body was like; her nose overshadows my memory. The one thing I do remember was her voice. Ambersnax’s awful cackling voice pierced my spirit. If the US Army played recordings of Ambersnax excitedly telling jokes to the detainees at Gitmo, they would all break within the day. Imagine Fran Drescher, but without the class or sophistication.

Rockwolf: When I met him, he had on Doc Martens, a cheap black leather jacket, greasy slicked-back hair, and jeans with holes in them. His facial hair looked like he messily ate a Popsicle and then rolled around on the floor of a barbershop. This guy was such a tool, I had a hard time even believing it at first. I honestly thought he was kidding. About everything. He wasn’t.

After watching Xgatax’s cackling sending shock waves through her blubber, and listening to Ambersnax’s nasally shrill screeching, I had an immediate and visceral hatred of them both. These two were the very archetypes of people I hate most, and I was determined to break them emotionally. I owed it to the world.

I took a few deep breaths, broadly outlined in my head the attack strategy that would wreck them in the most brutal fashion possible, while providing the most amusement to myself and my friends, when it dawned on me: These aren’t just annoying whores who are bothering me at some bar, who I can insult, laugh at, and discard.

These are my fans.

I’d already met three of my fans from my site—Sippy, TheGinger, Soylent—and despite their quirks, they were solid enough guys. I thought all my fans would be like that, maybe a bit off in some way or another, but at least normal and fun enough to hang out with.

These three were disasters in every way possible. I know it seems like I am savaging them, but trust me—they were worse in person. The girls especially; they were the type who make you wish for Revelations to start. There was nothing redeemable about either of them…
except that they were my fans
.

I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t like any situation I’d ever been in. I couldn’t be around these three morons. I’d fucking kill them or myself. But they loved my writing, they were part of the message board community on my site, and they came here to meet me. In any other situation, I
would verbally maul people this annoying, but in this case, I just couldn’t. Still, I HAD to get them away from me.

Tucker “All right, we are going into the city. You two are in your pajamas and need to get dressed. Go, hurry up.”

Amber “OK, we’ll be fast.”

Xgatax “Don’t leave without us?”

Tucker [
blank stare
] “Go.”

TheGinger “Plus, we need more towels, so bring a bunch back with you.”

I tried to convince Rockwolf he needed to change, but he was fully clothed (in the same shit he wore the night before, he made a point of telling us). The dude was clearly a tool, but he wasn’t in the same league as the two girls, so I just let it go. As soon as the girls were in the hotel, I got behind the wheel.

Tucker “Someone get me a beer. We’re leaving.”

We weren’t there to see it, but someone told us they came running out of the hotel ten minutes later, their arms full of towels they’d taken off a maid’s cart. It would almost have been worth it to stay and see that.

Soylent took the passenger seat, and I floored it. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I was still getting accustomed to the fact that a 40 ft. Winnebago does not have the same turning radius as a domestic sedan. I ran the RV over a huge curb, sending it up onto two wheels, screeching the tires, dumping half the liquor bar onto the floor and shattering three bottles. The RV slammed back down, and everyone in the back had a panicked look on their face. I turned to them and smiled.

Tucker “What are you pussies afraid of? We have walkaway insurance. Get me another beer.”

There was a lot of traffic on the way into the city, so even though I was driving, I did what I always do to pass the time: I drank. I had no intention
of drinking very much, but when we hit the George Washington Bridge, I was already on beer five. Even I realized this was not good. In order to slow myself down, I had to find something else to occupy my attention, so I started rifling through Sippy’s CD case. The titles of his mix CDs confused me.

Tucker “‘Stydie’s Christmas Mix’? What the fuck is on there, Perry Como? ‘Stydie’s Easter Mix,’ ‘Stydie’s Summer Mix’? Sippy, what the fuck is this shit? Oh, look at this gem: ‘It Is Most Definitely On.’ You wrote that… in marker… on the CD.”

Sippy “I title them based on—”

Tucker “You have a CD called ‘Stydie’s Rockin’ Out Music.’ Stop speaking. Nothing you can say will save you now. You have lost at life.”

He meekly bowed his head and drank from his sippy cup. Out of sheer curiosity, I popped in “Stydie’s Christmas Mix.” What came on? Ludacris’s “My Business.” Then DMX’s “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Then R. Kelly’s “Remix to Ignition.”

Tucker “Sippy, what the fuck? The Yuletide rolls around, and Ludacris comes to mind? Time to exchange presents, and you think about DMX! Little cousins coming over for Christmas? PUT ON SOME R. KELLY???”

Sippy “No, I name the discs based on—”

Tucker “QUIET ON THE BRIDGE! Torpedo room?”

Soylent [
in the passenger seat
] “Torpedo room here, Captain.”

Tucker “Open outer bay doors.”

Soylent [
rolls down window
] “Outer bay doors are open.”

Tucker [
ejecting Stydie’s Christmas Mix CD
] “FIRE!”

I flung the CD out Soylent’s window, watched it skip off the windshield of another car, and everyone cheered with the type of over-excitement only boredom can cause.

Soylent “Direct hit, Captain!”

Tucker “I AM THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE!!!”

This little game helped me tolerate the GWB traffic. The highlight was getting one of the CDs into someone’s open window. I think it was “Spring Jams.”

Most of his pitiful CD collection was gone when I came across “Gonna Get Her Back.” I put the CD in and the whole thing was hard punk, hate-the-world music.

Tucker “Sippy, how the hell is this shit going to help you get a girl back?”

Sippy “Well, uhhh, umm, it’s not ‘get her back’ as in ‘get back with her,’ it’s ‘get her back’ as in ‘hurt her because she tore my guts out.’ I made that when I drove back to Dayton after my ex-girlfriend dumped me.”

Tucker “Oh wow. You really are the ghost of Eric Harris.”

The George Washington Bridge brings you into the city at around 178th Street. That is the upper end of Harlem, which extends all the way down 110th Street, the top of Central Park. Jojo lived on the Upper East Side, around 93rd. Translation: We had a lot of poverty to drive through.

We took Broadway, one of the main streets through Manhattan. I quickly noticed that a lot of people were staring at us. I didn’t realize why, until I caught a reflection of the RV in a storefront window.

7 white guys in an RV, all the windows open, rap music blaring, drinking beers and yelling at passersby. How many times do you think anyone, black or white, has seen that on 165th and Broadway?

Even though I had tried to slow down, I was probably on beer 10 or so by the time we got into Harlem. I felt fine—this was probably my drinking peak as a human, when I could pound 10 beers and still smoke a DUI test (I’d done it before, but that’s a whole other story).

At least I
thought
I was fine. Somewhere around 150th and Broadway, we pulled up to a stoplight. Next to us was an off-duty ambulance.

Tucker “Hey everyone, watch this.”

I honked my horn and leaned out the window, screaming curses at the ambulance. It took a second before the EMT in the passenger seat glanced over. He immediately did a double take, then another one, and smacked the driver as he pointed to us.