by Tucker Max
Credit
I found Credit completely fucked-in-half drunk, to the point where he might have qualified as dead in several states. He was sitting next to a very, very unattractive girl in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit:
Credit “You better watch out. I’m a red belt in tae kwon do.”
Fattie “Oh, yeah? I’m a third-degree black belt.”
Credit “I don’t believe you.”
Fattie “I’ll count to twenty in Korean.”
Credit “I’d rather you broke my neck and left me for dead than continue this conversation.”
She actually started counting in Korean. I know a little Korean, because in boarding school I tutored all the FOB Koreans in English and chemistry. In return, they gave me bowls of kimchi noodles and taught me a little Korean. So when I say she had a GOOD accent, I know what I’m talking about. This wasn’t some bullshit she learned off the internet. Ugly or not, a white girl counting in Korean intrigued me:
Tucker “How the fuck do you know Korean?”
Fattie “I work in intelligence. Korean is my specialty.”
Tucker “Intelligence? For who?”
Fattie “The NSA.”
Tucker “You work for the NSA? Get the fuck out of here, you do not.”
She showed me her government ID card. I can’t remember if it said NSA on it or not, but I don’t think it did, because I still didn’t believe her. I called one of my friends who knows about these things and asked him how I could confirm this. He gave me a question to ask her, something I can’t remember and made no fucking sense to me at the time. Her answer, which also made no sense to me, sold him, though, “She’s a legit spook.”
Holy shit. Fattie works for the National Security Agency! That is the largest spy agency in the world, five TIMES bigger than the CIA. “Fuck a spy” is on my Sexual To-Do List, directly after “Fuck a midget.” I’ve hit the jackpot!
Except for one thing—she was not attractive. On a scale of 1 to 10, she should have hung herself. Her body looked like a nesting doll made of owl pellets. She did not have a redeeming physical quality about her, maybe aside from her vagina, if in fact she had one of those.
It quickly became obvious she would fuck me. And I desperately wanted to fuck a spy. But she was so unattractive… I almost could not look at her. Seriously, some of the women I’ve fucked should have THIS SIDE TOWARD ENEMY stamped on them, but if I fucked her, she’d be the worst. EVER.
I didn’t know what to do. Since my friends were around and would see me leave with her, I would not be able to disassociate the memory and pretend she was hot when I told them the “I fucked a spy” story later on. But this might be my only chance to mark spy off my list. I needed advice. I went to the bar and discussed my options:
PWJ “Dude, not good. Not good at all.”
Tucker “She’s not that bad. She’s fuckable at least, right?”
SlingBlade “Yes, I know Mr. Peepers, Tucker would fuck a beehive.”
Tucker “When I get to the bottom of this drink, she’ll be fuckable.”
SlingBlade “No, Mr. Peepers, I don’t think that’s a bottomless drink.”
PWJ “If you wake up next to her, you’re going to scream in terror.”
Tucker “Dude, she’s a spy! In the NSA! That’s big-time.”
Hate “You realize if she takes you home, she’ll never let you leave. She can make you disappear, Max.”
SlingBlade “That is, in fact, the only justifiable reason to hook up with her: if you decide you don’t want your penis anymore.”
Jojo, either understanding my dilemma and wanting to be a good friend, or more likely wanting me to do something so awful he would have blackmail material on me for the rest of my life, handed me a full glass of Thug Passion.
Jojo “Drink this.”
As shit-housed as I already was, chugging the Thug Passion was like throwing jet fuel on a tire fire.
Tucker “Cognac is rough. Is this why rappers act so stupid all the time?”
Jojo “Quit your bitching. Are you going to make history or not?”
Tucker “I don’t know man…”
Jojo grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and in his best Mystical Negro voice, said:
Jojo “Tucker, you’re a single, 26 year old man. At this point in our lives, it’s all about the story.”
Tucker “You’re right! I’m gonna do it!!”
I confidently marched off to secure my place in history… by fucking the ugliest, fattest spy on earth.
PWJ “If we have to go save him, we’ll need to use the reflections in our shields to conquer her.”
Hate “Gentlemen, I think this makes it official. We have lost our religion.”
Credit “We had religion?”
SlingBlade “The rest of us did, not you. You’re a Jew, you killed our Lord.”
I have only spotty memories about what happened after that. I know I left the party with her and we went back to her place together, and I’m confident that I inserted my penis into some orifice at least once, and maybe twice. I have no idea if I actually came or what the sex was like. I have a vague recollection of just wishing it would end.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover that would impress Dean Martin. It was awful. I remember lying there, not recognizing anything around me and wondering where I was and how I got there. I felt some movement next to me. It was the spy. She got up from the bed, reached over to the side wall, and turned on the light. I was immediately presented with a view of her naked body: It looked like a latex glove stuffed with oatmeal. There were two huge blotched bruises on her ass. They shuddered and jiggled as waves of motion sent her lard-packed blubber rippling. She had so much pubic hair protruding from her ass crack I thought she’d shit a wig.
All at once I pondered the metaphysical exigencies of my existence. Why I was in this room? Why I was naked? Why was I staring at this discolored bag of adipose and cellulite?
Then the smell of latex hit my nose. Then seminal fluid. Then strawberry air freshener.
I vomited.
Not the type of vomit demanded by a stomach forcefully ejecting poisonous effluvium that it thinks will cause it damage. It was a quick one; essentially the same type as two nights earlier with the Georgetown undergrad and her Three Wise Men shot. You know how people say, “I just threw up in my mouth a little”? Yeah, well, I actually did.
Except I didn’t catch it all in my mouth. Some of the puke got on her sheets and pillow. Not a lot, but enough that I couldn’t hide it and had to confess when she asked me if I just threw up on her bed.
Every time I think I’ve hit bottom, every time I think I can sink no lower, every time I think I have slammed face-first into the bedrock of depravity, I find a new low. It’s like my life is a limbo contest with the devil holding the stick—how low can Tucker go?
This morning it was waking up with the most repugnant sea donkey in the universe, throwing up when I saw what I had just stuck my dick in… and then being shamed by her for it.
Feeling guilty about throwing up in her apartment, as I left, I asked for her number. She rolled her eyes, gave me a “no one is buying your shit” look, but still wrote her number on a piece of paper for me before I left.
As soon as I was outside, I crumpled up the paper and threw it away.
Ungrateful bitch.
The Fallout
Over the next few days, we all exchanged emails recapping everything, filling in El Bingeroso and GoldenBoy on what they missed. OF COURSE, everyone ruthlessly busted my balls for hooking up with Shrek the Spying Sea Monster. But then, into that mix, PWJ dropped this:
From: PWJ
To: Hate, Tucker Max, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit; Jojo, SlingBlade
Subject: I have to come clean
OK, I’ve been letting Credit and Max take all the heat for the party events, but there is something I haven’t told anyone, and I have to come clean.
You see, there was a SECOND Catholic schoolgirl
at the party…
Tucker’s schoolgirl spy was pear shaped, unattractive in every way, and a complete disaster. Nothing could fix her. This other one had a pretty face. She could be very cute. However, she would have to drop a good 60 pounds first. She was an attractive bowling ball.
Nonetheless, I am talking to this well-endowed chick in this awesome Native American outfit (another story altogether) and this Catholic schoolgirl comes up to us and just sits there listening to me with this shit-eating “I love you” grin on her face. Hanging on every word. She goes to the bathroom. So I figure, what the hell. Acting purely on instinct and hormones at this point, I follow her upstairs, pull her into my bedroom, and begin to hook up with her. She is into it but makes me promise to just kiss. After about 5 minutes, I start feeling her up. She says, “I thought we would just kiss.” I pulled my hand out, rolled over, and said, “Hmmm… OK, I’m done kissing. It’s time for you to go.”
She gathered her stuff, at the door turned and said in one of the most pitiful voices I’ve ever heard, “You know, I thought you were a nice guy. But you’re just like all your friends.” She left. I chuckled for five seconds, and passed out.
Anyway, fast-forward to next morning. Bad. My sister is driving me to the airport. Tells me how glad she is I didn’t hook up with the WoodNymph, because every time she hooks up with a guy, she goes psycho and all she’ll talk about for the next two months is that guy, and my sister would never want to have to deal with that with her own brother. I sink into my seat.
Then the kicker. She starts talking about the Catholic School Girl (not Tucker’s, mine) and how she’s had the worst two years. Was engaged, fiancé was supposed to fly in from Germany, never showed up, never called, just completely ditched on the wedding. Then she found out she had cancer. It receded, but she just found out two months ago that it was back, and that party was the first time she went out since she found out.
At this point I’m ready to shoot myself. In my defense, at least it was a two-girl night. I’m rationalizing now.
The good news is that, as of now, my sister is still talking to me. Well, she is at least talking to me enough to tell me that Tucker is banned from her house and her life forever.
From: SlingBlade
To: Hate, Tucker Max, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit, Jojo, PWJ
Subject: re: I have to come clean
Oh, boy, PWJ is going to hell on a heat seeker. I remember that second girl coming downstairs looking PISSED.
And from what I can recall, the girl I hooked up with was not unattractive, definitely above average for general population and thusly a veritable goddess in that party. Although she did have kind of bad skin. And I submit for bonus points two items:
a) college cheerleader
b) shaved
And I ended up hooking up with that girl while Jojo was passed out two feet away. Which may have been a mistake as she has called me twice since Saturday to discuss her emotional problems. I feel like Tucker. I am currently trying to avoid any and all contact with her, an act complicated by my lack of caller ID, answering machine, and the refusal of Hate to tell girls that call that I’m not home. Cancer, thy name is Jolene.
From: Tucker
To: Hate, PWJ, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit, Jojo, SlingBlade
Subject: re: I have to come clean
PWJ, you hooked up with a girl who had cancer? How did you know? What, did you feel her breasts and there was a lump?
And wait a minute—PWJ dogs a girl with cancer, and I am the one banned from his sister’s house? I will never understand why people get so upset at things I don’t even remember saying.
Too many of you see this party as a disaster. I disagree. Consider what that party would have been like without the six of us:
Number of bottles of liquor brought by us: 15+
Number brought by others: 0 (seriously)
Number of mixers brought by us: 5
By others: 1 (a bottle of Sprite, which I had to look around for)
Number of shots passed out to girls by us: at least 50
By others: None that I saw, and I parked by the liquor table
Number of hookups by us with girls we weren’t dating: 6
Number of hookups by others with girls that they weren’t dating: 0
Number of fights started by us: 3
Number started by others: 0
Girls that left the party b/c of us: 2 confirmed, many others suspected
By others: 0
Number of people pissed off by us: 25, at least
By others: 1, maybe
Funny comments by us (including party MVP, Mr. Peepers): 1,345
By others: 12
Number of times cops called because of me yelling in the front yard: 1
By others: 0
Gentlemen, that is a record of our greatness. We are the champions, my friends.
From: PWJ
To: Hate, Tucker Max, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit, Jojo, SlingBlade
Subject: I have to come clean
To clarify: I had no idea the girl had a disease of any type at the time of the hookup. And she wasn’t in chemo or anything like that. Still, I am pretty sure I’m going to hell now.
Also, I forgot about this: In the morning when I woke up and went to the bathroom, this was scrawled on the mirror of my sister’s bathroom, in lipstick:
“LAWYERS SUCK.”
THE TUCKER MAX EXPERIENCE
Occurred—April 2005
A month after I finished IHTSBIH, but before it came out in stores, I got this email [edited for relevance]:
From: The Dallas Heart Ball
To: Tucker Max
Date: Tue, Apr 12, 2005
Subject: We want you to be a bachelor at our auction in Dallas
Tucker,
I have been following your site for a while after a guy I worked with forwarded me the link. I’d like to extend an invitation for you to come to Dallas for one of the best charity events of the year.
Here’s the pitch: I am on the board of the Dallas Heart Ball. We are an all-volunteer organization, and all of our net profits go to the Dallas Heart Ball Fund for Pediatric Cardiology Research at UT Southwestern and Children’s Medical Center here in Dallas. One of our premier events for the last two years has been our Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction (we are the only organization that has bachelorettes). We learned last year that having local celebrities helps us raise more money.
We would like to have you as a celebrity bachelor at our event. Basically, each bachelor/ette is responsible for getting together a date package. As for the date packages, the sky is the limit. Some include trips out of town, some are skydiving, and some are to sporting events. If you would like, we could have someone help you put a package together, but you probably have better resources than we do to solicit a “dream date” with Tucker Max.
We would love to have you appear as a bachelor. From reading your message board and blog, I get the sense that there are plenty of women out there who would purchase a date with Tucker Max. I think it would be fun to see just how much they are willing to pay.
I look forward to hearing from you and hope you decide to participate in this event.
[Name Redacted]
I think I laughed for a good hour at this. They want me to come up with my own date and then have women pay for it? Oh my. I couldn’t get my response out fast enough:
From: Tucker Max
To: The Dallas Heart Ball
Date: Tue, Apr 12, 2005
Subject: Re: We want you to be a bachelor at our auction in Dallas
I am totally in. But I just hope you know what you are asking for.
She assured me that she understood. That always makes me laugh. People think they know, but they don’t know. Like Mike Tyson says, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”
My date proposal to them:
From: Tucker Max
To: The Dallas Heart Ball
Date: Wed, Apr 13, 2
005
Subject: For the “Tucker Max” Date, how about this…
The Tucker Max Experience
You will fly to Chicago for two days of sightseeing, partying, and drinking with me, Tucker Max. The details:
—We’ll set a mutually convenient weekend for you to come up to Chicago.
—I will call at least once to reschedule because something better came along and I traded up. So make sure to keep at least three weekends free.
—We will talk a few times before you come to Chicago. If I haven’t met you yet, I will demand pictures of you, taken from multiple angles. This is not so I can more easily identify you at the airport. It is to determine if you are hot enough to hear from me prior to your arrival.
—When you get to the airport, make sure to bring a credit card, because it is highly probable that I either forgot to buy your plane ticket or made a mistake in the reservation.
—You will fly in on a Saturday morning, and since I was out drinking the night before, there is no chance I’m picking you up. Besides, O’Hare is really fucking far away.
—This is OK though, because the El train runs right to my house and is easy to use. Don’t pay attention to the scary-looking homeless guy on the train, he only wants your spare change, not your spare kidney. This isn’t Detroit.
—I will answer the door in a white T-shirt with at least one hot sauce stain on it, gym shorts, messy hair, unshaven, reeking of pit sweat, stale alcohol, and fresh sex.
—Depending on how early you get to my place, there may be a girl still there. She should be getting dressed to leave by that point. If not, just ignore her. She’ll be gone soon—this is YOUR special day, not hers.
—I will ask you what you want to do. If it’s something I don’t feel like doing, I will pretend you didn’t say anything and then ask you again what you want to do. I will repeat this until your suggestion is something that sounds good to me, or until you get frustrated and ask me what I want to do. (FYI, if your suggestion includes anything that pleasures me while requiring no work on my part—e.g., fellatio—I can guarantee I will like it.)
—If there is anything about you that annoys me, I will tell you so. You will leave Chicago knowing everything that is wrong with you. If you try to defend yourself by criticizing me back, I will quickly find your deepest insecurity and viciously attack it for a solid 45 minutes. I call this “foreplay.”
