Assholes Finish First (32 page)

Stupid, silly girls. I started with a round of Brutal Hammers (vodka and red wine) and then went shot for shot with them, picking awful things like Cement Mixers, while doubling up on their beers. They bravely tried to keep up with me for a while, but my victory was wrapped with a decisive moment:

After a particularly vicious shot (Rumple Minze I think), the Oklahoma alum got up from her chair, claiming she had to go to the bathroom. She stumbled along toward the ladies’ room, bouncing from wall to wall, until she tripped and began to fall. As she fell, she put her arms out to
break her fall, but literally missed the floor. How do you miss the floor? I could not have answered this question before that night. As she fell, she reached her arms out like she was trying to grab something, but she was so uncoordinated from all the drink that she ended up flinging her arms around her body, putting herself in a bear hug. Luckily for her, she was able to break her fall with her face.

The sight of her forehead smashing into the hardwood floor of the bar—in addition to the loud CRACK sound it made—brought everyone rushing to her aid. Everyone except me. I went into uncontrollable spasms of laughter. I completely lost it. Even if it does make me the bad guy… that shit was FUNNY. I could see a honey badger wearing a top hat and monocle attacking a bus full of Chinese exchange students, and I wouldn’t laugh as hard as I laughed then.

This incident was all the proof needed that I’d buried these girls like the kindergarten drinkers they were. So much for the Big 12. At least kids from the South would’ve tried to fight me after they lost. These pussies just got mad at me because I laughed at the traumatic head injury of a drunk slut. Whatever. When you can throw’em back like a real drinker, come back and see me. No wonder SEC schools win the BCS national title every year.

Easy victory in hand, I led some of them back to Colleen’s place. I decided that my victory entitled me to a threesome and picked one of the hot, sloppy drunk friends. Apparently that was a no-go, because she had a boyfriend who “lives in Toronto.”

Tucker “HAHAHHHAHAHA! You HAVE to be kidding me. You have a boyfriend in Canada? Get the FUCK out of here.”

MizzouGirl “I DO!!”

Colleen “She does!!”

Tucker “Did you stop learning new lies in high school? You’re going to have to come up with a better reason than that not to have a threesome.”

Her phone rings at that exact moment; it’s her boyfriend. She holds the phone up for me to see, and her friends seem to think this is proof that
he loves her and she shouldn’t cheat on him. I take the phone from her, still ringing, and answer it:

Tucker “Do you really live in Canada?”

Boyfriend “What? Who is this?”

Tucker “I didn’t ask you about your problems, buddy. Focus: Do you or do you not live in Canada?”

Boyfriend “Who the fuck are you? Put MizzouGirl on the phone.”

Tucker “Oh dude, sorry, she can’t come to the phone. She has something in her mouth.”

I hang up on him. As you can imagine, this causes all sorts of comedy. MizzouGirl just about knocks me over taking the phone back and calling him. Then she spends an hour trying to convince him that “Tucker Max was only kidding about me giving him head!” I know it’s possible for girls to hang out with me and not have sex, because it happens all the time, but apparently he did not. Poor insecure Canadians. No wonder your Winter Olympics sucked so much.

At this point, I’m ready to fuck. Colleen is a screamer, and because her bedroom is right next to the living room where everyone is hanging out, she wants us to fuck in the bathroom down the hall. She whispers this to me conspiratorially, like we are doing something crazy. Bitch, please. I get up from the sofa, grab her hand, and in front of all her friends:

Tucker “Excuse me ladies, I’m going to muddle up her vagina.”

I bend her over the sink, and things are going fine for a few minutes. Then I hear chaotic stumbling coming down the hallway toward us, and I assume her friends are going to bust in on us and take a picture, like it’s high school or something. Fine with me; I actually start to prepare for them and shift myself so I am facing the door. That way I can smile and give a thumbs-up as I plug her from behind. You know, to optimize the picture, because there is a 100% chance they’re putting it on Facebook.

But instead of the door slowly opening and a camera popping in, there is a huge crash, the door flings open, and the roommate hurls herself
directly into us, separating me from Colleen’s vagina. She tries to grab the sink but misses, and instead falls onto the floor, all while projectile vomiting. Everywhere.

ALL OVER THE FLOOR, ALL OVER MY LEGS, ALL OVER EVERYTHING.

Nasty, brownish puke, stinking of cheap shots, sushi, and bile.

Tucker “Are you kidding me? Yeah, you ladies can really drink. Legendary. I can’t handle this crew. I surrender.”

Colleen “Shut up! Help me clean this!”

Tucker “Are you fucking retarded?”

I don’t even do my own laundry, and this bitch wants me to clean some OTHER person’s puke?

Look, if I was some horn-dog 18 year old and just happy to be getting ass, maybe. If I was 22 years old and stupid enough to think I could still pull a threesome out of this, maybe. 26 year old Tucker Max would have played it right: He’d take a steaming dump on the roommate’s bed as retribution for interrupting his coitus, and been so proud that he meted out proper justice that he’d drunk-dial his friends to tell them about it. Then he’d pull Colleen out of the bathroom by her hair after she washed herself off, fuck her until she had multiple organ failure, cum on her face, drink all her beer, and then piss it out on the puking roommate passed out in the bathtub.

But 30 year old Tucker just gave up. I used her expensive down comforter to wipe the vomit off my legs, then walked home without even saying good-bye. Nothing but a boring night destroying amateurs, ending with ruined jeans and my dick in my hand. No steaming dump, no drunk dials, no facial, and no karmic, retributive pissing.

I have put up with some stupid shit in my life for pussy, but this was too far. Even I have a line, and this bitch vomited all over it.

W
HY
Y
OU
D
ON’T
F
UCK
USC G
IRLS

Occurred—March 2008

As a group, college girls are pretty stupid. They don’t realize this because, compared to college guys, they seem smart and mature (sorry, guys, it’s just true, the same thing applied to me at that age).

Some schools are worse than others. I could probably write a separate book about all the stupid FSU girls I’ve met in my life, but it would be annoying and repetitive, just like their sloppy blowjobs. I have nothing good to say about Notre Dame girls (or guys), but that’s pretty common; when I was in Ireland, even the actual Irish told me they hated the Fighting Irish. But there is one school whose female population stands out to me as possibly the worst in the country:

The girls from USC, the University of Spoiled Children.

I dealt with USC girls when I lived in LA. I fucked a bunch of them because they are, as a group, pretty fucking hot, and were often an easier and better option than normal LA girls. That’s not really a compliment, though. It’s like saying they were the best toilet to lick.

But it was because of a USC girl that I pretty much completely stopped fucking any girls I met in LA. It started with this email:

“Dear Tucker,

I just finished reading your amazing book and read it through twice because it was so so funny. And you are hot! But I think I can totally drink more than you! I am in college and all we do is drink! I am the best of my friends and you can’t hang! lol! Let’s hang out so I can drink you under the table, then crawl under
there with you! Plus I go to school at USC in Los Angeles! It’s perfect!”

And led to the following email exchange:

Tucker: “If you read my book, you should know that no words you can write will ever be as important as the pictures you take. Send them.”

USC Girl: “Well duh i do NOT want to be like the time you fucked a fat chick on purpose… HA!… and refrain from giving you pics for a while. In fact i apologize for not including pictures in my first e-mail that is simply unacceptable. Anyways, I have attached a few for your viewing, hope you like them. and truss me im that hot in person ;)”

Tucker: “You’re cute. I’ll drink/hook up with you. I’m free Wednesday.”

USC Girl: “TUCKER MAX! i am pausing a drinking game to respond to you right now bc i am so excited!! to be honest, i wish you could cum out tonight because although it is easter, it is my birthday and I want u to give me my gift and i am going out. and i will be drunker than u. however wednesday AND thursday work for me!! lets do this!! u better be ready i am going to bury you and then hop on!!! lol!!”

I know what you are thinking, and you’re right. Even at the time, I knew it: This girl is a dumpster fire of emotional baggage. I’d be safer entering the core of a nuclear reactor than I would be entering this girl.

But I met up with her anyway.

Why, even fully realizing the high probability of disastrous failure that these emails are indicating, would I STILL willingly and recklessly place myself in the path of this whornado?

You know the answer is pussy. There is no other possible defense.

She walked into the bar, and even before I talked to her, I knew I’d made a bigger mistake than I’d calculated. She had one of those goofy perma-smiles, like the kind worn by people who watch
The 700 Club
without irony. You know, that girl who, when you’re talking to her, leans in and just stares at you like you’re speaking another language? Yeah, her. Even if I ignored her until it was time to go home and fuck, this girl was still going to be a handful.

I watched her ping-pong around the bar looking for me, like a giant superball made out of glitter, stupidity, and the freshman fifteen. I groaned and considered my options. She’s not hot, but she’s cute enough. She doesn’t have a very good body, but she does have nice tits. She’s way too immature and is going to be annoying as hell, but still… I’ll be drinking, and she’s definitely going to fuck. I’m already here, all the work is done… I guess I’ll fuck her.

It’s pussy, right? What did I have to lose? You know, besides my dignity and self-respect?

USCGirl “Tuuucker Maaaax! Oh my God! I’m so going to drink you under the table!

Tucker “Sweetie, the only way you could drink me under the table is if I go there to hide from you.”

USCGirl “Are you drunk yet?”

Tucker “I just got here.”

USCGirl “So what!?! You need to catch up!”

Tucker “Have you been drinking already?”

USCGirl “Nope, so let’s do shots!”

Tucker “Shots are for frat boys and fat girls. If you really want to drink, let’s get doubles instead.”

USCGirl “What’s a double?”

Tucker “Are you joking? A double vodka soda? You don’t know what that is?”

USCGirl “No.”

Tucker “You claim to be this crazy drinker, and you don’t know what a double is?”

USCGirl “No, I’ve never heard of it!”

Tucker “You can’t even figure it out from context?!?”

She goes on to tell me other gems, like how she won’t eat Italian food anymore because her aunt died from choking on a bay leaf. She doesn’t mean this to be funny at all, but I can’t stop laughing at this. Taking this unintentional comedy as a sign that she is actually funny, she starts telling me her “Tucker Max” story that she promised was SO hilarious.

USCGirl “OK, so one time I was giving this guy a hand job.”

Tucker “A hand job? When was this, high school?”

USCGirl “Well, yeah.”

Tucker “You know how to give the best hand job ever? Use your mouth.”

USCGirl “No wait, listen, so I was giving—”

Tucker “Here’s a great story: I knew this girl once, and I told her to go get me another double vodka soda, because I needed to get drunk to fuck her. You want to guess how it ends?”

USCGirl “Ugh, fine!”

We play this game for three more doubles, and she is getting seriously shit-canned. She goes to the bathroom to punch herself in the cunt or whatever it is women do in there, and I hear a crash. Mind you, this is a pretty small bar, and the bathrooms are right next to where people sit, so everyone hears this. A woman goes into the bathroom to see what happened, and a few seconds later emerges, helping USCGirl walk out of the bathroom, explaining to me that she fell.

Tucker “Are you that drunk?”

USCGirl “No! I’m fine, I can drink way more.”

Tucker “OK, I think we need to have sex now, before it’s too late.”

USCGirl “I know, I’m so turned on too.”

Tucker “Not really what I meant, but let’s go with it.”

USCGirl “We are going to have so much fun!!! But wait—you aren’t going to write about me, are you?”

Tucker “No way. We’re just drinking and fucking. No one gives a shit about that. At this point in my life, you’d have to do something really ridiculous to get me to write about you. From what I can tell, you’re just a run-of-the-mill drunk slut.”

USCGirl “Cool!”

I have a long history of making wildly extravagant predictions, both about myself and the world. Many have come true, some haven’t, but I’m never scared to go out on a limb. So of course, the one time I make a prediction as conservative as I am capable of, it blows up in my face. Whom the gods wish to make a fool, they first make certain.

Instead of narrating what happened next, I will give you two things written that night. The first is from Nils, who was at my house when we got back from the bar:

“They stumbled in around 1:30am. I say “they” because it is hard not to stumble when you are trying to herd a drunk, babbling, 5'9” college girl up your stairs and through your front door. Tucker straddled her as they entered, like the parent of an infant who’d just learned how to walk and is a little too excited and overconfident with her new ability. Had he not been in that toddler-safety-net position, she would probably have taken a header through the wrought-iron screen door or taken a bite out of the front porch.