Assholes Finish First (47 page)

Not only that, but the next morning I fucked both of them again individually, and then they got up, got dressed, and left. No barking from the dog, no smog, and momma cooked the breakfast with no hog. I gotta say it was a good day.

I walked out of my room to find my roommate, GeneralsDaughter, sitting on the couch, watching TV, and brooding.

GeneralsDaughter “I hate you so much. This is so ridiculous, I cannot even believe it happened. And to you, of ALL people.”

Tucker “What do you want me to say? I’m just that awesome.”

GeneralsDaughter “Go fuck yourself. You don’t fucking deserve this.”

Tucker “I guess assholes do finish first.”

GeneralsDaughter “You’re just saying that so you can put it in your book. Fuck you! END YOUR BOOK WITH THIS INSTEAD: FUCK YOU, TUCKER MAX, FUCK YOU AND THE WHORES YOU RODE IN ON!”

THE END

P
RELUDE TO
H
ILARITY
E
NSUES

When I signed the deal with my publisher for
Assholes Finish First
in early 2007, I thought this would be my last book. But when I sat down in late 2009 and started looking through everything I had written over the past two years, I realized I was wrong. I had well over 800 pages of good stories, maybe more. This wasn’t just one more book, it was at least two more books (and maybe even three).

As you read this, my third book is almost done. It’s called
Hilarity Ensues
and will be out at some point in 2011. And there may end up being a fourth book, if I think there’s enough good material left (I’m not promising anything). As soon as I make those decisions, I’ll announce them both. (And no, you can’t see any of it early. Unless you’re a hot girl and want to be part of the next book… then maybe. Email me, [email protected], we’ll figure it out.)

Hilarity Ensues
will include some of my favorite stories:

• “The Cancún Story,” about what happened when I lived in Mexico during my second semester of law school and how exactly I pulled off such a feat.
  
• “Meet My Friend Hate,” where I delve into the life of the angriest man I know, my old law school roommate, Hate, and outline everything Credit and I used to do to try to make him erupt in anger.
  
• The story of how Iron Chef Morimoto got me kicked out of my own charity event.
  
• A collection of stories about the ridiculous shit that happened at the bachelor parties and weddings of all my law school friends.
  

—Each of my books so far has had an anchor story;
IHTSBIH
had “The Austin Road Trip Story,” and
AFF
has “The TuckerFest Story.”
Hilarity Ensues
will be anchored by one of the most incredible stories I’ve ever lived, a story that quite literally made U.S. legal history: “The Miss Vermont Story.” The very first iteration of that story is on my website, and because of that, you may think you know the story… but you don’t. The version in
Hilarity Ensues
will be fully revised and updated, complete with artwork, legal briefs, and so many things not in the original story. There is SO MUCH more that hasn’t been seen, and it’s good.

—
HE
will also have the follow-up to the last story in this book, called “The Ex-Girlfriend Threesome Fallout.” That last story is not over. I left the aftermath of the story out of this book on purpose—because I wanted to end the book on the perfect quote by my buddy GeneralsDaughter, but also because… well, you’ll have to read my next book to find out why. I’ll give you a hint:

Assholes may finish first… but nothing that good comes without a price.

All details for the release and subsequent book tour will be posted on my website,
www.TuckerMax.com
, so go there and pick your favorite way to be notified once the release date and book tour are set—email, Facebook fan page, Twitter, whatever.

Or, like SlingBlade used to say, “Just follow the trail of Chick-fil-A wrappers and funny-walking whores, you’ll find Tucker at the end of it.”

What you’ve just finished reading is my part of
Assholes Finish First
. My work is done.

But there is more. Other people who were involved in these stories have perspectives of their own. Of course, they can’t write as well as me, and I don’t really care what their perspectives are, so I left them out of my part of the book.

But some of my fans may be interested in what they have to say, so I decided to include this bonus section of stuff that other people wrote about what it was like to be involved in the stories you just read.

T
HE
S
EXUAL
T
O-DO
L
IST

“The Midget Story” was originally on my website, and of course it caused a little stir. Here are my two favorite midget hate mails:

From: [redacted]

To: [email protected]

Date: Aug 10, 2006 9:46 AM

Subject: The Midget Story

You said you looked forward to “tiny little emails, full of tiny little rage” telling you how awful you are for writing the “midget” story. Well, here’s one:

I have never been one of your fans, nor will I ever be. I heard about your “midget” story through a so-called friend who thought your story was hilarious. Well, I read the whole thing. I read it in utter disgust. I honestly feel sorry for you and the brain you have been dealt in life.

First of all, we “midgets” prefer to be called little people or dwarves. I equal the word “midget” to the word “nigger.” It is offensive, and reminds us of days when we were considered beneath other human beings.

Secondly, the ways in which you describe little people are truly revolting. How can you rip on entire group of people who can’t help the way they are? I can’t even begin to fathom your sick mind. Finally, I was there at the Little People Convention in Milwuakee, and I wish that I had seen you and known what you were doing. I guarantee that you would have been thrown out of the hotel.

Oh, by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, which I would not be surprised, I am a little person. I graduated valedictorian in my high school class this year, and I am majoring in film at college. I look forward to showing you what a real little person can do in life, but I am sure that whatever I accomplish in life, I will become more successful than you in more ways than one.

From: [redacted]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Midgets

Date: Aug 11, 2006 04:46 PM

Subject: fuck you

Hey asswhole,

Did you even go to college? Let me guess some fucking crappy college right because you are too fucking stupid for any good college.

Guess what asswhole, midgets are doctors, TV executives (btw—never want any gigs from CBS—you have just been banned), and lawyers (which I am sure you will come in
contact with soon!). They have better jobs than you and obviously a better education.

You are an ignorant ass who should donate his time to the military. I heard Bush needs some good bullet shields in Iraq, your background matches the job.

T
HE
T
ATTOO
S
TORY

I promised Jess, the girl who got the “I fucked Tucker Max” tattoo, that I would publish her version of the events and any commentary she had along with mine, so here it is, totally unabridged:

“Given the chance to refute a Tucker Max story, any friend of mine could tell you that I’d cum in my pants. But, alas, here I am, my Holy Grail before me… and I can’t get it up. I am rebuttal-y impotent.

Everything Tucker has said about that night is true.

In my head, I feel as though I was less of a verbal dick-sucker than he makes me out to be (although that Jesus quote is actually verbatim). I’m also sure, though, that in his head, I actually was that much of a verbal dick-sucker. It is Tucker, after all; don’t we expect him to think that way? It’s pretty irrelevant either way—whether I was or was not fellating his ego as much as reported—but I make issue of it for one major reason: to illustrate the fact that, while he is, and for a long time has been, my idol, I am not in love with Tucker Max.

Let me repeat that.

I am not in love with Tucker Max.

That’s not what this tattoo is about. It is not an attempt to charm him, wow him, make him my husband, boyfriend or even friend (though at this point, the latter is more or less inevitable; as Max himself has said, for better or worse, we are now inextricably linked). It is not, and was not, an attempt at anything, except proving to Tucker that I am a no-bullshit sort of girl. If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it, even if I only said it in passing. Go back and re-read Tucker’s story. He called my bullshit. That is the only reason that I now have a badass little, black, Bank Gothic inked brand of “I Fucked Tucker Max” crowning the kitten (that, coupled with the fact that I did actually fuck him). In no way was this tattoo premeditated. It was an impulse purchase. Kind of like gum. And, while I may one day choke on my gum and damn myself for ever having bought it, at present I have no regrets.

No bullshit.

Tucker left Sunday morning, and having had my tattoo for a full 24 hours, I decide I have healed well enough. The first booty-call I get, I am all too eager to comply. It’s time to take my new puppy out for her first walk around the block.

I head over to this guy’s house. Not because I come when he calls, but because I want to maintain some semblance of class and don’t want to make the poor bastard lay in Tucker’s and my sex sheets. I walk into his place and we start fooling around, when I suddenly realize I have not properly prepared myself.

I have a brand-new tattoo an inch and a half away from my vag. Razors and fresh needle-punctures do not mix. I haven’t shaved. Fuck.

Granted, this is not a major embarrassment (and at least my legs are smooth). Nonetheless, as we grope our way into his
bedroom, I hit the light switch on my way in. Stubble is slightly less noticeable in the dark. So are tattoos.

Again, I have not properly prepared. The events of the entire past 24 hours run though my head and I start to think that I may actually be mildly retarded.

He reaches over to his nightstand to get a condom when I stop him. “Let’s do this with the lights on,” I say. I am shameless, as well as on a mission; he has to see this tattoo.

I guess guys get kind of excited over the idea of fucking with the lights on, because he literally bounded to the wall and flipped the switch again. He was Bambi-bounding back to bed when he skidded to a halt, cracking his shins on his own footboard.

“Wha… what… what the fu… who the fuck… ? ”

Mission accomplished.

I fake a confused look, when he turns around, sits down on the foot of his bed, and puts his head into his hands. At this point, I start to worry. I’m not afraid that this tattoo is going to cost me sex (and I plan to prove that in the coming months), but the prospect of having to deal with all of the guys’ emotional issues upon revealing to them my little battle scar is more than I can handle. Just as Tucker said, I have serious emotional issues—mostly of the “attachment” sort. I’m not really interested in being attached to anyone at the moment, and as such have developed the lovely skill of being able to emotionally detach myself from sex. It’s not love. It’s fucking with a good friend, a drinking buddy, whatever. I like to tell myself that all of my fuck buddies feel the same way. But if this tattoo is going to shatter that illusion, if by turning on a light to show off my tattoo I have
begun to drag their emotional issues out into the bright light as well… I have ruined my favorite pastime.

What have I done?

As I lay there sulking, the guy turns to me. Here we go.

“Who is Tucker Max?”

“This guy… he has a website.”

Kid marches right over to his computer and Google’s “Tucker Max,” obviously pointing him in the direction of the site. At first I ask him what he’s doing. He tells me to hush; he’ll read some stuff and if he thinks “the guy is money, we can still fuck.” He reads for a while, ten or fifteen minutes, snickering occasionally. Then he stands up, gets a condom, turns the light back off, and pounces. Crisis averted. After we’re done (we fucked, in case that needed to be spelled out), he speaks for the first time since surfing Tucker’s site.

“That guy is fucking funny. I’ll take his sloppy seconds. And if you still talk to him, you can go ahead and tell him I said that.”

Then we had pizza and watched SportsCenter, and I went home.

To wash my sheets.”

T
HE
V
IRGINITY
P
ARADOX

When I sent this story to my friends to get feedback, almost to a person they wanted to know more—more about the virgins, more about why they
did this, more about what it was like, more about everything. The problem is, I don’t really have much else to write about the virgins other than what I wrote.

Then I remembered Sharon. She was the third or fourth girl who came to me to lose her virginity, and she was actually a really pleasant girl to hang out with, enough so that she became one of the few virgins I slept with multiple times. From my perspective, nothing really happened that was worthy of a story. But from HER perspective… well, you can judge for yourself.