by Tucker Max
In my narcissistic line of thought, this seemed brilliant. I had a famous website, it was about 10 months after I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell had come out and made the best seller list, and of course, since I knew who I was, everyone else should too. Plus, I wouldn’t even have to get a costume—I’m always in costume. What a great idea!
In my mind, I saw the night going like this:
Girl “Did you come as Tucker Max?”
Tucker “Yep.”
Girl “I love him!! He’s so cool, I bet his poop tastes like candy!!”
Tucker “Well you can find out if you want—I’m the REAL Tucker Max!”
Girl “OH MY GAWD!!!! BATHE ME IN YOUR SPLOOGE THEN SHIT IN MY MOUTH!!”
It didn’t work out like that. There were three problems:
Going out on Halloween wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans doesn’t say, “I’m someone famous going as myself.” It says, “I’m not wearing a costume.”
I wasn’t anywhere near as famous as I thought. The most common response I got when asked about my costume was, “Who the fuck is Tucker Max?”
Going as yourself—even IF you’re actually famous—is still really fucking stupid and lame.
Here’s the thing: I could’ve lived with all of those problems, because for the most part, I don’t give a fuck. But the truly bad part about having such a lame costume was that I couldn’t really even participate in the best part of Halloween—making fun of other people’s stupid costumes—because they had a trump card to play: “Where’s your costume?”
I figured out a way around it. Any girl that would point that out, I would re-direct with such ridiculous, nonsensical shit, she’d lose focus on my costume. Some examples:
A girl in a brightly colored dress with a unibrow painted on her face:
Tucker “What’d you come as, an Armenian?”
Girl “NO! What about you, what did you come as? Nothing?”
Tucker “Don’t you worry about me. Who are YOU supposed to be?”
Girl “I’m Frieda Kahlo.”
Tucker “Who’s that?”
Girl “She’s only one of the greatest painters ever!”
Tucker “Oh hell, I don’t pay attention to all that artsy crap. I only like vaginas and violence.”
From a sexy witch:
Girl “I don’t get what your costume is.”
Tucker “I’m a magician.”
Girl “You aren’t really dressed up as one.”
Tucker “Well, I only have one magic trick. I drink 15 beers and talk about myself a lot.”
Girl “That’s not magic!”
Tucker “Then how else do I wake up next to girls I don’t remember meeting?”
This girl looked like a slut, so I thought she was not in costume like me.
Turns out she came as Christina Aguilera. It went downhill from there:
Christina “What is your costume?”
Tucker “How can you not like my costume?”
Christina “You don’t have a costume.”
Tucker “Yes I do, you just haven’t figured out what it is.”
Christina “What are you, a frat guy? A normal dude? A bad dresser?”
Tucker “Do you want to have sex?”
Christina “No!”
Tucker “Then I’m not telling you what my costume is.”
This girl was hot, and had an awesome anime costume on that showed her tits off:
Tucker “Come over here and tell me about your sexy outfit.”
Girl “You can’t hit on me, you don’t even have a costume on. That’s lame.”
Tucker “Well now … I’d call you a cunt, but I don’t think you have the warmth or the depth.”
Girl “You can’t just say the c-word to me! You need to apologize!”
Tucker “OK, I’m sorry that you’re such a cunt.”
She went BALLISTIC. It was awesome. I’m truly unsure how I didn’t get kicked out of the bar for that one.
That kind of shit is funny for a while, but it doesn’t help with the end goal of Halloween: hooking up. D-Rock was with me, and we decided to try being nice. It didn’t last long. This one girl was dressed as a monkey (NOT a slutty monkey, much to my disappointment), and kept asking everyone what their favorite animal was.
Monkey “What about you? What’s your favorite animal?”
Tucker “The hooker.”
Monkey “That’s not an animal!”
Tucker “I’m not talking about fancy expensive escorts, I’m talking about the street hookers you see on ‘COPS’, the ones sucking dick for crack, those.”
Monkey “What are you talking about? Those are people!”
DRock “Have you ever watched ‘COPS’?”
Monkey “That’s ridiculous! What’s your favorite ANIMAL.”
Tucker “Fine, fine. Then I guess … retards would have to be my favorite.”
Monkey “RETARDS?!?”
Tucker “Oh Christ, you aren’t going to claim they’re not animals either, are you!!”
She found my jokes unfunny and offensive. In fact, she threw a fit, which was made funnier by the fact that one of her friends (who was laughing) came as a Catholic priest with a cabbage patch doll tied face-first to his crotch.
D-Rock was aghast at her hypocrisy. It’s very difficult to argue with D-Rock—he’s ridiculously smart, tenacious, and takes joy in crushing the half-baked mush that most people consider “thoughts.” Her efforts to defend her position were made more difficult by the fact that she was an idiot.
D-Rock “Hold on—so it’s not OK to make fun of retards, but your friend can mock the throat rape of a child?”
Monkey “That’s different!”
D-Rock “How? Don’t get me wrong—that is a brilliantly funny costume your friend has—but making light of the traumatic sexual misconduct of hundreds of Catholic priests upon thousands of innocent and defenseless children is at LEAST as offensive as implying that mentally handicapped are animals.”
Monkey “How can you say that about mentally handicapped people?”
D-Rock “You mean, aside from the fact that ALL human beings ARE animals? Well, the fact is, most of the mentally handicapped have IQs that are commensurate with dogs, dolphins and chimps. I’m not making a joke about it; that’s just a fact. Just like your friend’s costume is joking about pedophilia—also a fact. Both jokes are predicated on the same idea—transgression of the obvious but unspeakable, and you are a hypocrite for liking one and not the other.”
Monkey “No, it’s different!”
D-Rock “Enlighten us how.”
The crazy thing is, he was piss-wasted when he said this. Dude’s ridiculous.
She tried to stammer through some preposterous whore logic, but D-Rock methodically shredded her. They went on like this for five minutes, and though it started out funny, it quickly became time to invoke the slaughter rule. I tried to help.
Tucker “Look, there’s got to be some middle ground here: we can all agree that it’s funny to sexually abuse retarded children, right?”
Even her friends laughed at that. She did not. If it hadn’t been held together by her skull, I’m pretty sure her brain would’ve exploded. For a second I thought she was going to cry.
Tucker “Now now, don’t cry—it’ll be OK. My penis will solve all your problems.”
Monkey “Fuck you and [to D-Rock] fuck you and fuck your terrible jokes!! I hope you die!”
Tucker “I must be reading you all wrong—are you saying that you don’t want to hook up?”
D-Rock “Tucker, the only way she’s gonna give you any pussy is if you adopt her cat.”
Monkey “You are the most disgusting and vile thing I’ve ever met! I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole!!”
Tucker “It’s a shame that you don’t feel the same way about carbs.”
The fat joke lost her friends. Hit too close to home, I guess. Gluten addiction—the silent cock-blocker.
The best costume in the bar w
as this girl in a zombie outfit. The way she did it was amazingly elaborate and convincing, and she was pretty cute too.
Tucker “That’s a great outfit.”
Zombie “Thanks, I worked on it for a while.”
Tucker “Do you think Jesus was the original zombie?”
Zombie “Jesus, like Jesus Christ?”
Tucker “No, Jesus my gardener. Of course Jesus Christ. You know, with the rising from the dead and what not.”
Zombie “OH MY GOD YES! What a great idea!”
I was just trying to make a funny joke so she’d have sex with me, but she went nuts about all the similarities between Jesus and zombies, going on and on about Max Brooks books and Shaun of the Dead and basically giving me a tour of modern zombie scholarship, and where she thought Jesus could fit into it. She really knew her shit. This was 2006, when the zombie craze was still kinda new and cultish, and at that point, I’d never met anyone so obsessed with the subject. I’m sure if I were a zombie nerd too, I’d have been in love. Unfortunately, I don’t give a fuck about mystical creatures that don’t exist, whether they are made up by religious fanatics or by sci-fi nerds. And I was too drunk to pretend otherwise.
Tucker “Look, I don’t really care about the undead. I really only care about what your vagina feels like. You ready to get out of here?”
Zombie “What … no.”
Tucker “PRAISE HIM!”
D-Rock and I drank a bunch more and acted like stupid jackasses to different groups of girls with varying success, until this one girl who was dressed as some sort of slutty pirate bumped into me. She was kinda cute, so I handed her my camera.
Tucker “Will you take a picture of me? Just me?”
Pirate “Are you kidding?”
Tucker “I don’t joke about these things.”
She thought this was hilarious. Game on. She and her friends were really cute, and started talking to me and D-Rock. Slutty Pirate was into me, and we were all having a good time—except for one girl. She was dressed as Velma from “Scooby-Doo”, and was that one girl in the group of friends who is angry and rageful to the world, and expresses it through bitchiness to guys who try to talk to her friends. Even though she wasn’t a traditional cock-block, just an angry bitch, girls like her can be as poisonous as an intentional cock-blocker. I start off by deflecting and parrying with her for a while as I hit on the slutty pirate.
Velma “Are you trying to flirt with my friends?”
Tucker “Of course I’m flirting with your friends. How else can I find a girl to have some crazy, hanging-from-the-chandelier-type sex with me?”
Pirate “Do you even have a chandelier? If not that’s just false advertising and setting me up for disappointment.”
Tucker “Well … no, actually I don’t. And no one has ever pointed that out before. But I do have a pull-up bar. We can tie some string around my wine glasses, throw’em over, and I’ll fuck you as you hang from that.”
Pirate seemed into it, but Velma came back at me even harder.
Velma “What a ghetto chandelier. Not much of a baller, are you? Is that why you didn’t wear a costume, you couldn’t afford it?”
This was the line in the sand moment. With girls like Velma—the ones who have a confrontational, challenging approach to guys—you can’t hesitate or back off. They set ego ambushes for men, and then emasculate them at the first sign of weakness. Not a problem for me, I could easily verbally destroy this girl. But I’m trying to seal the deal with her friend, so I can’t be too mean, or I’ll lose that hook-up.
Tucker “You know, the real Velma had a reason to be angry: She was a closeted lesbian who lived in a van with a dirty stoner, a talking dog, a closet homosexual, and his fag hag. What’s your reason?”
Velma “I’m not angry.”
Tucker “Oh please. You’ve been pissed off since we got here. What is it about your life that’s making you so angry? Don’t like your job? College jeans not fitting any more? Mom being overly passive-aggressive? Got played by a guy and can’t get over it?”
The look in her eyes and her friends’ reaction gave it away.
Tucker “That’s it! You got played!”
Velma “No! No I didn’t!”
Tucker “What happened, tell us. Come on, we’re guys, we’ll give you the perspective you aren’t seeing.”
Her friends filled us in as she pretended to pout, but of course she loved the attention and interrupted them to make sure every fucking detail was precisely correct. I don’t remember the specifics of the story—like all girls, they endlessly elaborated on meaningless bullshit and made a two-minute story into a thirty-minute epic poem—but from what I recall, Velma really liked this guy she was casually seeing, but when he found out she was sleeping with other guys, he said mean things and there was a bunch of drama and the cow jumped over the fucking moon.
They could have summed up her problems with one sentence: Velma is a batshit crazy whore who is unwilling to accept the consequences of her actions, and instead decided to lash out at other people so she wouldn’t have to face the reality of her broken and dysfunctional emotional life. I never understand why women think drama and bullshit are attractive to guys. They’re not. I’m going to be real clear about this, ladies, so pay attention: Prince Charming doesn’t come to rescue cunty lunatics.
Tucker “Everything that dude did seems reasonable. I don’t see what the problem here is.”
Velma “We weren’t even officially dating! He should accept me exactly how I am and not care how many other guys I may be sleeping with or what else I do!”
Tucker “You don’t see how someone could think you were being slutty, and be turned off by that?”
Velma “No!”
Tucker “Look, I’m not trying to judge you about it. I’m slutty sometimes too. And personally, I like sluts; they’re the most fun. But if you’re going to act like a slut, you should be ready for some guys to call you a slut.”
Velma “I’m not a slut!”
Tucker “You’re not a slut? Really? If you told your dad how many dicks have been in your mouth, what would he say?”
Obliterated. Verbal headshot, through the scope and out the brain, Carlos Hathcock style.
I wish I had video of her facial expression. You know that episode of “The Simpsons” where Ralph starts “dating” Lisa and tries to hold her hand, and she screams out in front of everyone, “I’M NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!” Then Bart plays the tape of it back and points out precisely where you can see Ralph’s heart break? Her expression was like that: rage, contempt, anger, and deep sadness, all rolled into one. Not only did this exchange crush Velma to the point where she basically stopped talking, but her friends thought our little exchange was hilarious and essentially chose US over HER.
We spent the rest of the night drinking with them. The slutty pirate—who had no issue owning her sluttiness—led the mutiny and let me know pretty quickly that we were going to fuck.
Tucker “I have to warn you though; I like to take things fast physically, but slow emotionally.”
Pirate “How fast and slow?”
Tucker “Well, for example, I’ll fuck you in the bar bathroom right now, but won’t tell you my middle name until at least our third date.”
Pirate “So we’re definitely going on dates?”
Tucker “Please … don’t make me lie to you so I can sleep with you.”
Pirate “Hey now—I never said I wanted to go on a date. I’m just making sure you aren’t one of those guys who’s gonna drag me to some shitty restaurant just because you feel guilty that we had sex.”
Tucker “AHHAHAHAHHAH—oh, honey. We’re going to get along great, don’t you worry.”
High on my victory, I must have ordered eight rounds of shots for me and all the girls, even Velma. And of course I gave toasts every time, each one more ridiculous than the last. This is the only one I remember:
Tucker “Every man dies … but not every man truly drinks!!”
&nb
sp; Pirate “ We still have a ghetto chandelier to fuck from. You aren’t going to get too drunk to fuck, are you?
Tucker “Don’t you worry about me—I don’t get drunk, I get awesome.”
Silly, overconfident Tucker.
Slutty Pirate and I stumbled out at about 3am, and since Chicago is a 5am bar town, D-Rock wanted to stay out. I just gave him my credit card.
Pirate “You’re leaving your credit card with him?”
Tucker “I have to. He only has cash on him, and he’s gonna spend it all on alcohol. If I don’t leave him with something, he’ll end up taking an ambulance home.”
Now, I knew Slutty Pirate was slutty when I met her—that’s one of the things I liked about her—but I was not prepared for what her actual vagina would feel like. She was so loose, when I got inside of her my penis was confused. I had been intent on fucking the hell out of her, but once I actually started, all I wanted to do was find a vaginal wall to rub against to create some friction. You can’t start a fire by jabbing a stick in the air, no matter how fast you do it.
I don’t remember finishing or what happened to solve the issue. We were both so drunk, I’m pretty sure I was just happy to be alive. I drank so much that night, it took five weeks off my life.