by Tucker Max
Rachel “Hate, I like mayonnaise, I’ll eat this, lemme go get you another sandwich without it.”
Hate “No no.” He was forcing back his rage in the face of her genuine concern, “I’ll just eat it.”
Rachel “Hate seriously, I can go get you another sandwich, it’s fine.”
Hate “No.”
He wanted to really let loose and go on a patented Hate rage storm, but he couldn’t, not with her there. Here was this nice girl trying to put everything back together for him, and because he was such a nice guy, all he could do was swallow the rage in the face of her sincere concern. In fact, he was kind of ashamed by it.
Of course, Credit and I were still laughing too hard to even speak. Oh God, what I wouldn’t give to have a video of the next 30 minutes with Hate trying to make the best of this awful situation. He took a chip and did his best to scrape off all the mayonnaise, but you know as well as I do—getting mayonnaise off bread is the culinary equivalent of a rape shower. Scrub all you want, it doesn’t change what happened here.
With every squishy, slightly mayonnaise-flavored bite, Hate’s face contorted with indignant contempt and furious anger. It was like watching someone literally eat shit and die. Every chew was another reminder of how unfair life was, how he was always on the receiving end of the fucking, how he always got the short end of the stick. It was the perfect metaphor for his life—every bite was a reminder that he couldn’t win.
By the end of the sandwich, Credit and I were fucking exhausted. Credit even had the hiccups. Who knew that one pot-smoking sandwich-monkey could bring one man so close to complete collapse?
THE LEFTOVERS
When we were moving out of our place at the end of law school, it was a pretty chaotic scene. We were all moving to separate cities, so we had to divide up our stuff and figure out who owed what to whom before anyone left. I was leaving first because I wanted to get down to Florida early for some reason—I’m sure it involved having sex with some spirit-crushing skank—so I was basically sticking Hate and Credit with all the bullshit tasks that come with moving out of an apartment, like the fucking dick that I am.
About an hour before I left, Hate and I were running down all the stuff that had to be done and issues that had to be resolved.
Hate “What about my bucket, Max? Are you going to replace that?”
Earlier that year, my car had been stolen from the apartment complex. For some random reason, I had a bucket in my car when it happened, and when the police found my car, it had been completely emptied of everything in it, bucket included.
Hate “And you still owe like $300 for rent and bills. How are you going to pay that?”
Tucker “Well, all the furniture in the living room is mine, and my mattress is here. How about I leave that, and you can sell it, and keep all the money.”
Hate “What? Sell the furniture??”
Tucker “Hate, this is some pretty nice stuff, I mean, you can probably get more than $300 for it.”
Hate erupted at this suggestion—for obvious reasons—and went into a diatribe:
Hate “Jesus Christ, Max, this is fucking ridiculous. We still have to pay this month’s rent, we still have to rent this place out for the summer to cover our lease, we have to clean everything to get the deposit back, WHICH I PUT DOWN, we also have to—”
I’ll spare you the details. It was basically a ten-minute monologue about all the ways I have failed him as a roommate and let him down as a friend over the past few months, and everything else generally on his mind. I think that’s what he said; I wasn’t really paying attention. He ended with this:
Hate “AND I’M STILL MISSING A BUCKET! That is a lot of shit to get done! What the hell are we going to do, Max?”
His was seriously upset; the veins in his neck were pulsating, there were tiny flecks of spittle around his mouth and his lips were pursed into a tight circle. This demanded a serious response from me. I looked him in the eyes, and in the most concerned voice I could muster, I responded:
Tucker “Hate … let’s just hope for the best.”
Even Hate laughed at that. And I left.
I received approximately 20 pissed off emails from Hate over the next week, but I think my favorite was from Credit. It was about how, when they finally sold the sofa—for like $50—they found what I had been doing for the TWO YEARS we lived in that apartment:
Stuffing every single piece of junk mail I’d received behind that sofa.
Because of the way the sofa was positioned in the living room you couldn’t see behind it, so when they moved the sofa, approximately 100 pounds of direct mail spilled out. It was an avalanche of my bullshit literally dumping itself right at Hate’s feet, one last fuck you from life before he left law school.
Credit said when Hate saw the mess, he didn’t yell, he didn’t scream, he didn’t violently lash out at the sofa or the wall. He didn’t say or do anything. He just stood there for a second staring at the massive pile of mail and catalogs, then shuffled out of the apartment and went for a walk by the lake.
Credit said it took three huge garbage bags to haul away all that trash, but it was worth it for that reaction from Hate. I’d finally broken Hate, and I wasn’t even there to see it.
TUCKER RUINS A WINE TASTING
Occurred, October 2002
I let a female friend of mine sucker me into going to a young professional wine tasting event with a bunch of her co-workers. Though I love wine, I hate formal wine tastings because of the type of people who tend to go to them. They attract the worst kind of pseudo-intellectual, the type of person who knows nothing, thinks they know everything, and looks down on everyone else who doesn’t share their stupid pretensions. Fuck all of those people. As soon as I got there I realized this event would be like that, so I tried to escape, but my friend saw me.
Friend “Tucker! So happy you’re here! Thank you so much for coming. I owe you big.”
Tucker “Yeah, wine’s not the only thing you’re gonna swish and spit tonight.”
So there I am, irritated as an unwiped asshole because I am surrounded by the type of people I loathe most: uppity, idiotic, pompous douchenozzles pontificating on shit they don’t actually understand, because they think it makes them look cool in front of people they don’t actually like.
So what do I do? Shut up and deal with a few hours of discomfort in a mature, adult manner? Stand quietly by myself in the corner until it was all over? Pretend I was enjoying myself so as not to cause discomfort to anyone else?
FUCK THAT, AND FUCK THESE SHITBIRDS!
The only way I could endure this tsunami of suck is to do what I always do in these types of situations—entertain myself at the expense of the posers I hate by shattering their illusions and destroying everything they stand for:
7:15pm: I strut into the foyer. I am surrounded by people who think they’re better’n me. I decide to bust out my best redneck voice, and belt out, “Put tha women n’ chittlins’ to bed, Imma gettin’ loaded tonight!” Their eyes go wide. They’re not sure how serious I am. They will learn.
7:18: We get our tickets. It’s $25 apiece. Still in overly loud redneck voice, “TWANTY FIVE DOLLERS! Exactly how much wine is we gettin’ hur?” The woman doesn’t know I’m a fucking asshole, so she’s nice, “Well, it’s a tasting event. We encourage people to try many different kinds.” I smile, “So ike’an drank as much of tha wine as I want?” She is hesitant, “Well, yes … I guess so.” I bellow out, “SOUNDS LIKE A WAGER TO ME!!!”
7:22: I walk to the first table. A French vineyard featuring a beaujolais. I stare at the bottle, and ask them, in my best redneck accent, “How yew say that’n wurd?”
7:23: After six failed attempts at the pronunciation, they begin to suspect I am mispronouncing it on purpose. I think the realization came when I said, “So that’n thur is it like dijonnaise?”
7:24: They just pour me some. I gulp it down. “Hey Francois, tell Pierre he makes sum damn fine grape juice!”
7:27: The next table is a vineyard pouring a chardonnay and a cabernet. They politely ask what varietal I would prefer. “I ain’t sure, cause I like both colors of wine, red AND white.”
7:34: I get the cab. It’s actually really good. “Reminds me’a this’n wine I dun got last year. My cuzin made it in’iz tub. I got drunker’n fire on it.”
7:44: The next table has a truly great white. “I LIKE IT!” The vintner enjoys my excitement, and asks my thoughts on the bouquet, “Do you get the floral notes, especially the lily?” I am confused, “Lily? You mean that thar’s flower juice!?!”
7:50: I consider buying it. The exchange we have didn’t really lead to that outcome:
Redneck Tucker “Yew got a box’a thisin ik’an buy? I bet disin comes in a fancy box, don’t it?”
Wine Guy “No, only normal bottle.”
RedneckTucker “You ain’t got nuttin bigger, like a jug?”
Wine Guy “Do you mean a magnum?”
Redneck Tucker “Nah, I ain’t black.”
8:10: A new table. This wine sucks. I don’t hide my disdain, “What am I ‘posed to do with this’n stuff? Kill termites with it?”
8:12: I look at the price, “$90 a bottle?? I pay $6 a gallon for wine ’round the corner!” The table scowls at me, “So where’s the Boone’s Farm table? They know hawta price wine.” The vintner gets saucy with me, “They don’t have a table, just a couple of folding chairs and a cooler outside.” I stare at him seriously, “You thank yur better’n Boone’s Farm? Them’s fighten wurds, buddy.”
8:20: The next table has pinot noir, “Hey guys, let’s drank some shots of this’n Pie-Not-Know-Ear stuff.”
8:30: I have run out of wine vendors to harass. I start in on random groups of pretentious douchers, “So what flavor’s yer favorite?” They look at me like I’m Sarah Palin’s retarded Republican baby.
8:40: Another group of women, “Which flavor gets yew closer ta anal?” Didn’t go over well.
I thought my little act was hilarious. No one else really agreed. With all the wine snobs and the cute girls annoyed with me, I stopped wasting time on jokes, and just staggered back to the booths with good wine, and greedily poured anything I could grab down my throat. People were staring and whispering. Crowds would open wide swaths in my path wherever I walked. Judging by the general reaction to me, one might have thought that a leper was tossing stray body parts around the room.
Once I reached the fucked-in-half drunk stage, I found the only person who I had yet to either insult or piss off. She was a stunning black woman named Stacy, who looked, to me at least, very similar to Vanessa Williams. Of course, I was blitzed, so in reality she could just as easily have looked like Ricky Williams. Who knows, they all look the same to me (women, I mean, not black people). I ambled over to where she was standing, in front of a booth that had a white zinfandel:
Tucker “Isn’t this wine supposed to be over in the ‘Assorted Hooch’ section of the event?”
She giggled. Game on.
Tucker “Oh, so you think you’re better’n me? You want a straw and some ice for your fancy looking pink juice?”
She thought I was hilarious. Finally an audience!
We started talking, and somehow the topic of my employment came up. This was in 2002, like a month after I started writing full time and had just put my site up, so the truthful answer to, “So, what do you do?” would have been something like, “Not a fucking thing.”
Tucker “I am a connoisseur of opportunity.”
Stacy “Well, if you’re looking for a job, I might have a houseboy opportunity available.”
Tucker “Houseboy? What does that entail? Is it part of my job to have sex with your undressed body?”
Stacy “Well, being that I am a lesbian and live with my girlfriend, I don’t think so.”
Tucker “You’re a lesbian? Well Stacy, there’s a quick way to catch my interest.”
I asked if her girlfriend was as attractive as her. Stacy told me she was the “femme” in the relationship, and that I wouldn’t find her live-in girlfriend nearly as alluring. She even went so far as to say that her mate vaguely resembled Pete Rose. I asked if her girlfriend was a switch-hitter like Pete, and the conversation just went downhill from there. I had endless questions for her—I mean honestly, can you imagine this couple? Being a little tipsy herself, Stacy answered all of them, some with astonishing candidness:
Tucker “Why’d you go lesbian to begin with?”
Stacy “I don’t know. It was kind of an accident at first, but then I realized I liked it.”
Tucker “Are you a lesbian because you hate men or because you like women?”
Stacy “I definitely don’t hate men. I just like women a lot.”
Tucker “What’s with the butch/femme thing?”
Stacy “Hot girls are too much maintenance, and butch girls are better in bed.”
Tucker “So that means you’re high maintenance and you suck in bed?”
Stacy “Hehehehhehe. You’re funny.”
Tucker “You should see me naked.”
Tucker “Who does the housework?”
Stacy “We allegedly split, but she does most of it. I work more than her.”
Tucker “Could your girlfriend beat me up?
Stacy “Maybe. She’s built.”
Tucker “Do you two ever watch porn to get in the mood? And if so, what kind?”
Stacy “No, we really don’t watch much porn. Sometimes ‘Red Shoe Diaries’, but usually only if we’re high.”
Tucker “When you and your girlfriend hook up, is it like the lesbian hook-ups in porn movies? I mean, if I want to get a mental picture of you and your girlfriend, could I use lesbian porn as a template?”
Stacy “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t seen a lot of lesbian porn, but I can’t imagine it’s much different. Maybe different music. She likes Indigo Girls a lot.”
Tucker “Do you two use a dildo?”
Stacy “Of course. How else am I supposed to get dick?”
Tucker “Do you want me to hit that softball? Well, I guess your girlfriend is probably a better softball player than me.”
Stacy “She did play in college.”
Tucker “Of course she did!”
Tucker “So what is the dildo situation, i.e., who is the fucker and who is the fuckee?”
Stacy “It all depends on our mood, but normally I’m the one getting fucked.”
Tucker “Strap-on or hand-held?
Stacy “Both.”
Tucker “At once!”
Stacy [coy shrug]
Tucker “Stacy, you are a naughty little monkey! And I mean that in the non-racist way.”
Tucker “So what type of dildos? Like, different colors and types? Different sizes and textures?”
Stacy “Yeah, I have a lot. My favorite is the one made of Pyrex.”
Tucker “She fucks you with a measuring cup?”
Stacy “No, it’s shatter-proof glass.”
Tucker “I know, I won the chemistry award in my high school. So what about anal penetration?
Stacy “Of course, but only with the smaller ones. And I need to be drunk.”
Tucker “Alright, but here’s the big question, at least for me: Is your girlfriend with the dildo better than a guy with a penis?
Stacy “Oh yes, definitely. Dildos are the shit. The dildo lasts forever, does exactly what it’s told, can change sizes, is disease free, won’t get me pregnant, and my girlfriend’s only concern is making sure I cum. Can you show me a penis that does all that?”
Tucker “I now have a new a goal in life.”
Tucker “Do you and your girlfriend ever include guys?”
Stacy “No. She’s not the ‘include a guy’ type.”
Tucker “What type is she?”
Stacy “More of the ‘shot and a beer after the game’ type.”
Tucker “So you’re dating a guy without a penis?”
Stacy “Sometimes I feel that way.”
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Tucker “Do you date the ‘include a guy’ type?”
Stacy “I have before.”
Tucker “So, is this lesbian thing permanent, or are you just a tourist?”
Stacy “I don’t know. Maybe. I just kind of go with what feels right.”
Tucker “You want to hook up with me don’t you?”
Stacy “You have to start at cabana boy, and work up from there.”
Tucker “Just get me the coconut oil, and I’ll get started.”
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to a woman than I was to Stacy at that point. I’m not exactly sure why. It might have been her rare synergistic combination of startling physical beauty and sagacious wit. Perhaps it was because she had just discussed anal sex and lesbian threesomes with me. Maybe it was the three gallons of wine I had in my system. Probably a magical combination of all of the above.
In one of the greatest coups of my life, Stacy wrote down her number (her cell phone, not her home phone), and told me to call her, that she thought I was hilarious and would love to hang out with me.
And in perhaps one of the biggest disappointments of my life, at some point later that night, I lost Stacy’s number. I couldn’t leave my apartment for like three days after I realized what I had done; I was that upset.