by Tucker Max
ABSURD #6: METASEXT
WHY HALLOWEEN IS AWESOME
People always ask me what I think is the best night of the year to party. The usual suspects can be easily dismissed. New Year’s Eve is amateur hour at its worst. St. Patty’s Day can be fun, but any day that celebrates a bunch of drunken, wife-beating bog-people has a built in ceiling (for a fun St. Patty’s day trick, go up to hammered people dressed in green and say, “Thank you for your service.” Have fun watching them try to explain that they aren’t in the military, they’re just drunk idiots).
There are other nights that have their pros and cons, but if you’re like me and go out to have fun—with getting laid and emotional escapism as a secondary goal subordinated to the primary goal of entertaining yourself—then you know there is only one real choice: Halloween.
Halloween revolves around delicious candy, excessive alcohol, and horny women dressed as sluts. This also describes my vision of Heaven.
That being said, I have a special place in my heart for Halloween for one reason: I get to make fun of people’s costumes. The great thing about Halloween costumes is that they’re a window into the hearts and souls of the people who wear them. Well guess what—most people are delusional idiots. There is no greater canvas on which to paint a masterpiece of caustic, Tucker Max-type humor than the immense plaid ass of a fatty who thinks she can pull off a Naughty Schoolgirl outfit.
Over the years, I’ve had some great Halloweens. The absolute very best is told in the “The DC Halloween Party and the Worst Girl I Ever Fucked” story in my last book, Assholes Finish First. These are the rest:
HALLOWEEN 2002, PART 1
In 2002, TheRoommate and I went on a Halloween pub crawl. For my costume, I wrapped a red ribbon around my shirt, topped it off with a red bow on my shoulder, and put a card on the ribbon that said, “From: God, To: Women.”
Get it? God’s gift to women (this was 2002, when that was still a fairly original idea).
TheRoommate wouldn’t tell me what his costume was going to be until about an hour before we left. He walked out of his room sporting a Carmen Miranda/Chiquita Banana Lady costume and in a pathetic Hispanic accent asked, “Do you want a banana?” I was laughing so hard, I almost had a seizure.
TheRoommate “Help me zip up the back, I can’t reach it.”
Instantly, I stopped laughing. There is nothing funny about touching another man’s back hair.
The pub crawl was a typically awesome Chicago bar event: tons of girls, everyone drunk, everyone having fun, no bullshit or assholes. Except, of course, for me.
One girl came as Punky Brewster (for teenage readers: she was a television character from a creepy 80’s sitcom premised upon an old man living with a very young girl; lots of clips on YouTube).
Tucker “How good is your costume? Have you had breast reduction surgery?”
Punky “Can’t you tell? Look at them.”
Tucker “I said ‘breast reduction,’ not ‘breast elimination.’”
Punky “Come on.”
Tucker “That’s all the Punky Brewster jokes I have. Unless you want me to put you in an abandoned refrigerator.”
Punky “You need more game to get me.”
Tucker “Well, when you get bigger tits, I’ll break out the bigger game.”
She was not pleased. Whatever—what kind of Punky fan doesn’t remember the “hide-and-go-seek gone wrong” episode, anyway? Apparently the flat-chested kind.
I eventually came across a girl in a princess costume who looked way too uppity for my taste. You know that saying, “no matter how hot she is, someone somewhere is sick of her shit?” Yeah, well this was the type of girl that had a lot of someones in a lot of somewheres. I decided to try my most sophisticated, suave approach:
I walked up to her, pressed my hand on my ass, then put it up to her face.
Tucker “What’s that smell like to you?”
Her face crinkled into complete shock.
Tucker “I think it smells like pineapple, but my friend says it smells like wet dog.”
Her expression morphed into disgust and contempt.
Tucker “What? You don’t like dogs?”
She walked off.
Tucker “Oh, so I guess you’re not [air quotes] ‘into farts’?”
At some point, I went to the bathroom, and the guy next to me at the urinals was dressed as Julius Caesar. When he was done, he shook off for what seemed like forever.
Tucker “Better get that checked.”
Julius “No man, I’m just afraid of dribbling on my toga.”
Tucker “I don’t know … I bet you have prostate cancer.”
Julius “DUDE—WHAT THE FUCK?!?”
I thought for a second I was going to have to fight a guy in a bed sheet, when, right at that moment, another guy—who didn’t seem to have a costume on—stumbled into the bathroom, drunk as hell. He saw us standing there, facing each other with our dicks in our hands, and stared at us with the kind of confused look I’ve only ever seen on a dog and a guido. He quickly snapped out of it, and his face lit up in a smile as he turned around to show us his back. A piece of bread was taped to his ass.
Guy “HEY LOOK—I’M ON A ROLL! GET IT!?!”
My outfit was not much more creative. It was basically just a device to get women to come up and ask me, “What makes you God’s gift to women?” Which is pretty much the perfect costume for me since it’s a great set-up for jokes. Some of my responses:
“I love romantic comedies and listening to rambling, disjointed rationalizations.”
“I’m a convicted sex offender.”
“I don’t know. What do you think? Tell me your thoughts, feelings, and opinions. I love to listen.”
“I have 20 million dollars and terminal cancer.”
“I won’t judge you for the things you are going to do later and not tell your girlfriends about.”
“Bend over and I’ll show you. Though some girls think 13 inches is too big.”
“I’m a plastic surgeon and I can fix everything that’s wrong with you.”
Sadly, most of the girls that approached me weren’t cute. That’s OK though, I devised the perfect solution: After I made myself laugh with my response, I just stopped talking to them.
Happily, I was able to meet a few cute girls who also thought my responses were funny and were into me. This is good. The problem is, this is Halloween: THE prime hookup night of the year. There are willing targets everywhere, but unless I know for sure that my penis is going to be inside a girl’s vagina THAT night, I’m not going to waste even two seconds listening to how she wants to cure pediatric cancer or help rescue cats from blenders or whatever specific whore prattle she’s spouting to avoid facing her obvious and crippling emotional issues.
I quickly figured an easy way to feel girls out. Each one I talked to, I would ask her what her costume was, even if it was patently obvious. Then, no matter what she said, I gave my interpretation:
Tucker “What are you?”
Girl “I’m an angel.”
Tucker “I think you’re a slutty angel.”
Tucker “What are you?”
Girl “I’m a sexy nurse.”
Tucker “I think you’re a slutty nurse.”
Tucker “What are you?”
Girl “I’m a tree.”
Tucker “I think you’re a slutty tree.”
Not very subtle, but very effective. I’m sure there were some girls that would have been more than willing to hook up, but seemed a bit ambivalent, so I moved on. Rolling the dice is for craps, not Halloween night.
Tucker “What are you?”
Bee “I’m a bumblebee, obviously.”
Tucker “Yes, but are you a slutty bumblebee?”
Bee “I’m not a slutty one … at least not yet.”
Tucker “Well how much sugar and vodka will it take to transform you into a slutty bumblebee?”
Bee “Good question. How about we get some and see?”
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We talked and hung out for a while. She was definitely very cute and she seemed nice enough. Okay, maybe “nice” isn’t exactly right. Perhaps “willing” is the proper adjective to use here, but whatever—point is, she was down to fuck. After an hour or so of aggressive drinking, she did a shot of something and staggered a bit.
Bee “Well, I think we found how much alcohol it takes to turn me into a slut.”
Tucker “Sweet! It’s time for you to see my penis.”
We stumbled back to my place and sloppily hooked up. I immediately understood why this girl was dressed in a costume that allowed her to hide her midsection. Her face, arms and legs were totally normal, the same as any girl—but her torso was huge. It was ridiculous and made no sense, like someone had glued four broomsticks on a keg. How does that even work, physiologically? Mr. Potato Head is more proportional than this girl.
Whatever, we’re both naked and horny, and I’ve fucked way worse. No turning back now. When you try to jump a lake of fire you don’t take your foot off the gas once you’ve hit the ramp. Plus, I was so drunk, I figured I would either pass out halfway or not remember it the next day. Win-win.
For some reason I woke up early the next morning, still drunk and groggy, and noticed the girl wasn’t next to me. There was some noise or something in the living room, but I just assumed she was going to piss or was leaving, so I went back to sleep. My head was killing me, and I wasn’t excited by the prospect of fully waking up and dealing with the worst hangover since Jesus woke up on Easter.
When I did finally rise from the dead, KegTorso was gone. I went to breakfast with my roommate and the girl he hooked up with. When it came time to pay, I realized I had no cash in my wallet, even though there should have been $40. What the fuck?
I was desperately poor at this point in my life, and like all poor people, I was acutely aware of precisely how much money I had at any given moment, down to the penny. The event last night was open bar, so I know exactly what I spent on drinks. Plus, I walked home and we didn’t stop for food—there was no way for me to have spent that $40. I checked everything at my place—it was gone.
Then I remembered the girl rifling around my apartment that morning.
Holy shit! KegTorso stole $40 out of my wallet!!!
I was kinda in shock. I’m not sure what happened. Maybe she thought I underperformed, and this was her way of paying me back. Maybe she wanted to buy 40 things on the McDonald’s dollar menu. Who knows, maybe she just needed the cash. But couldn’t she have gotten that much by just taking her torso to the Liquor Barn and getting her deposit back?
HALLOWEEN 2002, PART 2
After the previous night, I was dragging ass all day, which was fine because it was a Sunday and not much was happening. By late afternoon I’d decided to just nurse some beers and call it a night. That was when I got a call from my friend “Jerry.”
Tucker “Yo.”
Jerry “RRRRRAAAWWWWWWFFFFFMMMMMMGGGGGGAAAAA!!!!
Dude!”
Tucker “What the fuck?”
Jerry “HAHAHAHAA RRRRAAAAWMMMGMGGAAAAGGGG!!! Sluts!”
It took me a second to translate from Drunken Retard into English, but finally I got the gist: he was telling me to come to his place because there were hot girls and a full keg. I was reticent, but I decided to go—technically, this was still Halloween weekend, which meant there were still drunk girls in slutty outfits looking to fuck. What man in his twenties says no to that? Not Tucker Max.
I arrived at his apartment, which was this really cool 4-bedroom in Wrigleyville. He was technically right; there were a ton of girls there. They outnumbered the guys like 3 to 1. But he neglected to mention anything ABOUT the girls, like for instance, what species they belonged to.
I’ve been writing professionally now for several years and I have never struggled with the description of a scene the way I have with this one. I don’t think even William Faulkner could find the words to accurately describe the quality of the girls at Jerry’s party. It was a menagerie of the abysmal. I wanted to put strychnine in the feedbags of every horse-faced she-pony there. Had I the proper munitions, I would have set off a bomb in that apartment whose explosion you could have seen from space, to save the human race from the potential that these things could ever breed. The only thing that prevented me from committing felony assault on Jerry was the fact that there was a full keg of good beer there.
Let me give you a brief rundown of the girls:
In one room, there were three girls—none looked over 19—dancing wildly to a boy-band song as the flowing velvet and satin of their Renaissance Faire costumes twirled into a kaleidoscope of blubbery foulness. Each girl had at least one major deformity. One was so short and squat she looked like a bowling ball on top of an exercise ball. Another had eyes so far apart they were on different sides of her face; all she had to do was move them independently and I’d have bought car insurance from her. The third girl had the worst teeth I’ve ever seen, like she had a mouth full of antlers.
Down the hall in another room I found three blondes who, from 25 feet away, were potential Hooters calendar girls. From five feet, they looked like used-up day shift strippers. The cutest one (or should I say, the least used-up) was into me, but she was a good ten years past her prime, and I was far too sober to pretend it wouldn’t be like fucking a mayonnaise jar.
The room where the keg was stashed was no better. I met a girl who was four months pregnant, a girl who had a scar on her face that made her look like Tony Montana, and another girl who’d recently undergone breast reduction surgery to alleviate the chronic back pain that is often associated with being a big fat pig.
Most of these girls weren’t even wearing Halloween costumes any more. Unless you consider adipose tissue a disguise. The apartment was like a Salvador Dali painting set inside an M.C. Escher print, all come to life. Really, it was that surreal. I’ve run out of adjectives.
At this point there was nothing else to do besides camp out around the keg and start drinking. And drinking. After an hour of focused aggression toward my bottomless Solo cup of beer, I finally came up for air and saw a girl wearing a Halloween mask so horrifying I jumped from fright.
Then I realized she wasn’t wearing a mask at all. That was just her face. It looked like it had caught on fire and someone beat it out with a rake. Apparently my reaction was not an uncommon one, because when she saw me jump back—LITERALLY jump back—as she walked in the door, she said, “Did I scare you? It’s OK, I get that reaction a lot.”
To her credit, she was actually cool. This girl understood that when you look like you came straight out of George Lucas’ imagination, you better have something else to offer—deep thoughts, deep pockets, or deep throats. Plus, she had a great dominatrix costume on, which made her tits look good, so there was something else to look at while I talked to her. Her roommate was there too, and it was actually him that uttered the words that would change the night.
Guy “Yeah, it’s interesting living with a dominatrix.”
Tucker “I’m sorry … what did you just say?”
Guy “She’s a dominatrix. That’s her job.”
Tucker “That’s not a costume?? Your actual JOB is to be a dominatrix??”
Dominatrix “Yep.”
I spent the next hour peppering her with questions. I learned several things:
She makes $200 an hour beating men up. She doesn’t even have to take her clothes off, much less fuck them.
Her client list includes several rich and famous people, including (according to her) a MAJOR Chicago politician and a fairly well known actor. The Chicago politician enjoys having clothespins stuck to his balls and the actor prefers slave/mistress role-playing.
She got into the dominatrix business after making out with a woman who was doing it professionally. This was while she was traveling around with her heroin-addicted boyfriend, who was a roadie for Skid Row.
She has two kids to support by herself, and that’s why she d
oes it (Who had the stomach to fuck her??? Oh right … a heroin addict).
The fact that she is so ugly HELPS her in her job. Some guys like getting hurt by ugly women. I guess it makes it more humiliating?
My mind was spinning with the possibilities. What would be the funniest thing to do here?
Tucker “OK, you beat people up for money? Prove it. I want to see you kick someone’s ass.”
Much to my shock, she agreed to do it. But we couldn’t find anyone to volunteer to be her subject.
Tucker “None of you pussies will get your ass kicked by the sea donkey dominatrix? Come on!”
Dominatrix “Hey tough guy, why don’t you do it?”
Well, I guess I walked right into that. Thank you, full keg of beer.
Tucker “Fine bitch, I’m in. But don’t hit me in the nuts, or tie anything to my penis or any stupid shit like that. You can hurt me, but don’t do anything to me that won’t fully heal, or I will beat YOUR ass.”
I could see the switch flip behind her eyes as she went into Dominatrix mode. In an instant she transformed from a gelatinous heap of burn-scarred flesh to She-Ra Harpy Goddess of Pain. She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a spatula, a wooden spoon, a carving knife, some grill tongs—basically anything long and hard. She meticulously laid out her implements, and then grabbed me by the hair.