by Tucker Max
Tucker “Yeah, El Bingeroso’s still asleep … no vomit in the trash, but there is something on the floor by the end of his bed … that’s got to be vomit I guess … I mean, it has to be vomit, it can’t be poop … I mean, it’s right here on the edge of the bed, and there’s no trail of anything to the bathroom or any liquid around it and it’s all dry … has to be vomit, or food I guess.”
Hearing my conversation, El Bingeroso starts to wake up, pauses, then shoots up in bed in utter confusion:
El Bingeroso “Where am I? Why am I naked!”
Tucker “Uhh … you’re naked?”
This was pretty awkward. Neither of us really knew what to say at that point; I’d had no idea he was naked until he said it, because he was under the covers. He couldn’t figure out why his clothes were off.
El Bingeroso “What happened?”
Tucker “You don’t remember?”
El Bingeroso “No!”
Tucker “Anything?”
El Bingeroso “I remember throwing a champagne glass at your car.”
I recount the whole night to him as I throw a towel at him.
El Bingeroso “Wow. I did all that? I was out of control.”
Tucker “And then there’s this on the floor over here. I guess you decided to throw up off the edge of bed instead of into the trash can I set out for you.”
He took a shower and, after finding his clothes tangled in the covers of his bed, got dressed. Apparently he had taken them off in the middle of the night. Then he started to clean up the puke at the end of the bed.
El Bingeroso “Uhh … Tucker … I don’t think this is puke.”
Let me tell you something: There is nothing more disturbing than a pile of shit where it doesn’t belong.
Tucker “Wait a minute. Wait wait wait. That is poop? YOU TOOK A SHIT ON THE FLOOR!”
El Bingeroso “I guess so. This is definitely poop.”
Tucker “How … why … oh my God … it all makes sense. That’s why you didn’t have clothes on this morning—you took them off in the middle of the night to take a shit! But why did you shit on the floor?!?!”
He just gave me a sad, pitiful look. I lost it.
Tucker “The bathroom is FIVE FEET AWAY!! And why is it right off the edge of the bed? Look at the shit—it’s like, three inches from the bed! So let me get this straight: you woke out of your drunken stupor, realized you had to take a shit, took your clothes off, but decided that the bathroom was too far, so you copped a squat on the edge of your bed, balancing yourself as you squeezed out a huge turd, then just got back under the covers and went to sleep? And you don’t remember any of it???”
El Bingeroso [sheepish shrug] “Sorry?”
These are my friends. As he was cleaning it up, he still had the gall to ask a favor.
El Bingeroso “Hey, can we not tell Kristy about this?”
Forget Kristy, I’m telling the WORLD about that shit.
The wedding was pretty basic. I can’t remember anything at all noteworthy or funny happening before or during the ceremony. It was just a very nice, normal wedding. And PWJ’s wife either didn’t have any hot single friends, or didn’t invite them to the wedding, because there was literally not one unattached woman between the ages of 21 and 51 there to hit on at the reception. No big deal, that’s why God invented alcohol—AND FULL OPEN BARS. After the wedding I met up with some friends from high school, and then we got REALLY housed.
The next day was far more eventful than the wedding.
I woke up feeling like I needed to apologize to everyone I’ve ever met. There was a small Hispanic woman shaking me, I had french fries in my mouth, and I was lying in the hallway of my hotel with a room service tray next to me. I never really figured out if it was room service that I ordered, or if it was someone else’s. Let’s just say it was mine. Either way, I woke up in the hallway outside my room, with food still in my mouth that had come off a room service tray. Classy.
I crawled into my room and plopped down on the bed at like 6:30am. At 10:30, my phone rang, waking me up. I had a 5pm flight, and I was WAY too hung over to board a plane. So I decided on the most obvious solution: at 11:01am, I rolled into the convenient store.
Tucker “We can buy beer at 11am on Sunday, right?”
Clerk “Yeah … sure.”
I grabbed a sixer and a gallon of water and strode over the counter.
Clerk “Uhh … why do you have a tuxedo on?”
Tucker “Wedding.”
Clerk “Starting early?”
Tucker “No, the wedding was yesterday. I’m on my way to return the tux.”
I wish I had a picture of his facial expression. You’d have thought I farted on a toddler.
I drove to the mall and sat in the parking lot alternating drinking beer and water, until noon when everything opened. They had barely unlocked the door when I stumbled into the tuxedo store.
Employee “Can I help you?”
Tucker “I need to return my tux.”
She looked at me confused for a second, and then it clicked.
Employee “The one you have on?!?”
Tucker “Yeah.”
Employee “You’re … you’re still wearing the tux.”
Tucker “So? Is that like, bad or something? I’m not supposed to wash it, am I?”
Employee “No … but, well … what clothes are you going to put on?”
Tucker “You don’t have, like, stuff for me to wear out?”
Employee [look of complete shock and disgust] “No.”
Tucker “Oh … well … I’m in a mall, I’ll just go buy something.”
I was still really hung over, so it wasn’t until I was paying for my new clothes at the sporting goods store that I realized what had transpired. Initially, I was kinda confused by her reaction. It literally didn’t even occur to me as I was doing it that wearing the tux when I was going to give it back would be an issue. At the store, I asked her about this.
Tucker “Does this not happen often?”
Employee “In the seven years I’ve been working here, you’re the first person to ever bring the tux back while still wearing it.”
Tucker “Really?”
Employee “Oh yeah. That is definitely a first. I’ve never even heard of this happening.”
I then proceeded to eat enough Chick-Fil-A to kill a small child, and drove back to the hotel to pick up Hate and go to the airport. The car STUNK. If you’ve never smelled day-old vomit that’s been cooking in a parked car—don’t. We had to put all the windows down just to drive it. At the airport I dropped the car off at the rental place, and Hate was already laughing.
Hate “Max, I don’t care what kind of insurance you have, there is no way they’re letting you out of this. No chance.”
Tucker “I’ll be fine.”
At the drop off place, I am behind like three other cars getting checked in, so I just leave my keys in it and walk into the airport. I go through check-in and like ten feet from security, over the loud speaker we hear:
“Tucker Max, Tucker Max, please report to the Budget counter immediately. Tucker Max, to the Budget counter. Thank you.”
Hate “AHAHHAH—Oh boy Max, I knew it! I knew they weren’t going to like that. I’m coming back with you, I want to see this showdown.”
We get to the counter, and the woman has a look of shock on her face.
Agent “Are you Mr. Max?”
Tucker “Yep. What’s the problem?”
Agent “The car is destroyed. There is vomit on the floor, the headrest is missing and there is a hole in the door! How did this happen?”
Tucker “I don’t know. I have insurance, right?”
Agent “Well, yes, but if it’s intentional, it’s not covered.”
Tucker “It’s not intentional. Can I go now?”
Agent “No, we need a police report or something.”
Tucker “I’m confused. I told you I have no idea how any of it happened.
It
just appeared. There is nothing to report to the police. And I have walk away insurance, right, so it’s covered, right?”
Agent “Well … yes.”
Tucker “It’s not walk away insurance, if I can’t just walk away, is it?”
She was so aghast at this, she didn’t say anything. So I walked away.
THE DEATH OF SLINGBLADE — PHOENIX, AZ
Occurred, July 2007
If you’ve read my first two books, you know all about SlingBlade. I have a lot of funny and interesting friends, but that dude is on a different level. He’s not only funny and smart as hell, but he also sees the world in a different way from the rest of us. This is the email SlingBlade sent telling us he was getting married:
So I assume that those of you who are married and thus purchased a diamond for your wife are aware of how evil and corrupt the diamond cartel is. I was not. Apparently, diamonds are almost worthless other than the value attached to them by the silly tramps that DeBeers has brainwashed into thinking ‘diamond equals love.’ Congratulations, ladies, your quest for the perfect princess cut not only supports terrorism and genocide, but has managed to destroy an entire continent.
Speaking of blood diamonds, what the hell is going on here? Everyone is upset about African children losing their limbs? Perhaps I missed their concern about these same children during the Rwandan genocide. Here’s a solution: Stop buying diamonds. No no, the avarice of the entitled whore cannot be contained.
And if blood diamonds are so fucking bad, why can’t I buy them at a discount? Or at least get them with a death certificate or an appendage or some sort of cogent backstory that might indicate an actual meaning to this useless little cube of carbon. Clearly the diamond market is broken on multiple levels.
In an entirely unrelated matter, I am now engaged.
SlingBlade’s bachelor party and wedding were, well, I’m not sure how to describe them. So I won’t. There is not really even a story to tell here, just a series of barely correlated events:
There was no bachelor party. SlingBlade is a recalcitrant misanthrope, didn’t want to deal with any of the typical bachelor party bullshit, and doesn’t have any friends close enough to him to set it up anyway. It’s not that people don’t like him enough to do it—I would have set up his bachelor party in a heartbeat—it’s that he didn’t talk to any of us about it. One day out of the blue, we just got an invitation to his wedding.
The wedding was in Phoenix. To a girl that none of us had ever met. Or really even heard him talk about. I saw a picture, and she was very pretty, but that’s about it.
The wedding was at a crappy hotel, with basically no reception after. Why? SlingBlade asked his fiancée what her family could contribute to the wedding. She him gave a number. That became the precise cost of the wedding. He’s that cheap. I could write a whole other story just about how cheap that motherfucker is, but that example pretty much sums it up.
When I got to the hotel, there was a sign up about the two other groups that were also at the hotel that weekend. I swear to God one was a Special Olympics group and the other was some sort of homosexual organization. SlingBlade’s wedding was sharing the hotel with fags and retards; one group wasn’t allowed to get married, the other group couldn’t spell it.
Since SlingBlade’s wedding didn’t really have a wedding party, and he let other people handle all the wedding details (his precise instructions were “I’ll wear a tux and show up and say ‘I do’ and that’s it”), the rehearsal dinner the night before didn’t include anyone except for some family and one friend. There were only about 30 people at the wedding to begin with.
This did not sit well with me. I gave SlingBlade and his wife cash as their wedding gift (I did this with all my friends; it’s the best gift). But I took the amount I was going to give them, and subtracted out the cost of the meal from the night before the wedding, when they were at the rehearsal dinner.
I met SlingBlade’s wife the day of the wedding. She seemed like a very nice, sweet woman, and she was truly hot—a legit five-star.
The wedding ceremony was held overlooking the pool. During the day. When a bunch of gay guys were hanging around. Making out in the background. Of the wedding ceremony.
It was just a weird, strange wedding all around. But that’s not why I called this section “The Death of SlingBlade.” I did that because the marriage has worked out great for him. He’s still very much happily married, has two kids that he adores and dotes over, and he’s happier than I’ve ever known him to be. The guy who was such a misfit that he had to talk in a SlingBlade voice at bars in order to talk to girls—he’s dead. This is all great for him as a person, but this kinda sucks a bit for me, because he’s nowhere near as funny as he used to be when he was depressed and angry. When I talk to him now, he makes jokes about punishing the weeds in his garden. Hence, the death of SlingBlade.
But you know what—he’s my friend and I’d rather see him happy and unfunny, than depressed and hilarious, so good for him, seriously. I still have never hung out with his wife (because of his job, they live very far away from the rest of us), but I think, based on the thank-you note she wrote me, that SlingBlade married a woman who is appropriate for him:
HATE’S BACHELOR PARTY — TAMPA, FL
Occurred, October 2007
Hate’s bachelor party was fine, but wasn’t like the others. Part of the problem was, since it was 6+ years after we all graduated, everyone had kids or other conflicts with their jobs and most couldn’t make it. The only law school friends who could were me and El Bingeroso, and we didn’t know most of the other people he had coming to his bachelor party.
There is no in-between when it comes to mixing groups at a bachelor party. It either works seamlessly or fails miserably (e.g., GoldenBoy’s Vegas bachelor party). Hate had become not just a lawyer, but basically a fucking ambulance chaser. As a result, some of his friends at this bachelor party were the types of guys who buy boats on the local lake to get girls. You know the types—the ones who have white blazers in their closet. That they wear on out in public. When it’s NOT Halloween. I don’t generally mix well with those types of guys, so it was a strange dynamic all weekend, and as a result, there was nothing funny or ridiculous to write about.
The only reason I’m even putting this in here is that traveling between bars, I got a ride from the greatest cab driver of all time. There was a new rap song playing on the radio. I was drunk, of course, and I wanted to hear it.
Tucker “Yo, turn that shit up man.”
I guess he didn’t hear me, because he just kept driving. I looked at his name on his taxi license, and it was something African and unpronounceable.
Tucker “Hey Prince Akeem, hey Prince of Zamunda, turn that shit up.”
He turned and looked at me, and in a thick African accent, said:
Cabbie “Hey Lisa MacDowell, shut the fuck up!”
GREATEST CAB DRIVER EVER!!
I tipped the guy $50 when he dropped me off.
HATE’S WEDDING — PITTSBURGH, PA
Occurred, April 2008
Hate’s wedding was possibly the most boring wedding of all time. Which probably means it was a great wedding for the couple and the families, but no one really cares about that shit, especially not me. The wedding was so boring there were only a few things worth writing about:
I was talking to some random girl who was a friend of the bride. She was super mediocre in every way, but she seemed to like me, so that meant she had at least one good quality. Great, except who ever got a boner thinking about the silver lining?
Girl “What do you do for a living?”
Tucker “I don’t know. Have a lot of vacant sex with morally questionable women and get drunk every day.”
Girl “That’s not a job.”
Tucker “That’s what you think! My life is proof of your incorrectness!”
I went on to explain my book, website, etc., and she was fascinated by the fact that I was in my 30’s and unmarried. S
he was that type of girl.
Girl “Don’t you want kids? Do you even like kids?”
Tucker “Oh yeah, I love kids. I want to have a bunch more.”
Girl “You have a kid? No you don’t.”
Credit “He does have a few kids … they’re just all in the dumpster behind Planned Parenthood.”
I not only convinced this girl that I had a son, I got her to believe that I was a trying out all kinds of new experiments on him to see what happened as a result.
Girl “Experiments? Like what?”
Tucker “Well, let’s see. I bought him a cat, waited until he bonded with it, then the next time he was bad, I took the cat out back with a shotgun, and told him, ‘If you won’t clean your room, someone has to pay for your insubordination.’ Then I took the cat behind the shed and shot the gun off in the air a few times, until I could hear him collapse in tears. Then I let the cat go and it ran off, scared as shit. He promised to never let his room get dirty, and by God, it’s worked. He’s afraid to even leave his rug on the floor!”
Girl “OH MY GOD!! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT??”