by Tucker Max
In spite of that scene, I am still starving when we get to the restaurant. I know the hot one is going to fuck me, so I want to hurry up and eat so I can get this pony in his stable. I take the hot girl by the hand and kinda pull her towards the entrance as I power walk there. She has her head turned and is yelling something back to one of her friends behind us as I walk by a light post, hear a dull thud, then a scream, “OW! MY FACE!”
I turn to see the hot girl crumpled in a ball on the ground, holding her face and moaning in agony. I accidentally walked her face-first right into a light pole. As her friends ran up to see if she was OK, I just stood there, watching my best shot of the night evaporate, said, “Well, I guess I’m not getting laid,” and walked into the restaurant.
I hope my daughters date guys like me.
After this, of course I’m the bad guy. All the girls at the table are scowling at me. SlingBlade is not happy either; apparently the girl he was assigned has had sex with another guy at some point in her life, so he thinks she is a shameless prostitute. He has issues with women. PWJ is drunker than all of us and happier than a pig in shit. I glance at SlingBlade. He and I have been picking up women together so long that we don’t even have to speak—he has found these girls to be wholly worthless and wants to leave now without even acknowledging them. I do too, but I have to make sure my other friend is taken care of.
Tucker “PWJ, I’m going to piss, you want to come with me?”
PWJ “No dude, I’m fine.”
I kick him several times very hard and in rapid succession until he gets the picture. Once in the bathroom, I lay it out for him:
Tucker “Dude, SlingBlade and I are leaving. You want to come with us, or you want to fuck the girl you’re with?”
PWJ “I don’t know man; she’s kinda fat. What do you think I should do?”
PWJ is so drunk his eyes are crossed, and he is swaying in place. Whatever I tell him to do, he’ll do…so of course I throw him under the bus. Literally:
Tucker “Dude—You should TOTALLY go home with her. She’s not that fat. She has huge tits. Shit—I’d fuck her.”
PWJ “Yeah, she does have big tits, doesn’t she? I love big tits. OK, OK, I’m going with her. Thanks man…you’re a good friend.”
We go back out to the table, I sit down for about 30 seconds, catch SlingBlade’s eye, and we both simultaneously rise and head for the door. The hot girl says, “Where are you two going?” I call back to her, “The bathroom,” to which she yells out, as we leave the restaurant, “The bathroom is the opposite direction!”
I hadn’t realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn’t get out of there.
A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, “That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy.”
I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.
THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET!
Hotel toilets are industrial-size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized dumps, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny-ass, 165-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.
I nearly panic. I let loose a flurry of unintelligible curse words at SlingBlade, punctuated by a “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” and knock over the lamp in my dash out of the room. The turtle is sticking his head out, and he is coming whether I am on a toilet or not.
I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can’t seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to the front desk, which doesn’t face the lobby. It’s about 4am, and no one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute—CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG—until some poor lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the bathroom is in the corner of the lobby.
It is hard to describe, so let me give you an aerial picture of what the lobby looks like:
I turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don’t know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don’t have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling? Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. I am literally pressing my ass cheeks together with my hands. One of the prouder moments of my life.
I nearly bust the door off its hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud, “AYYYY!!” that almost literally scares the shit out of me. I jump back to see that this is a janitor’s closet, complete with a small Mexican lady janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitor’s bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of said female janitor.
I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to crap my pants:
Tucker “WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?”
Janitor “No, no hablo Ingles.”
Tucker “WHAT?!? Huh, uh… DONDE ESTA FUCKING BANO?”
Janitor “AYA, AYA!”
She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing, at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have a large “Restroom” sign over them. Right where the front desk lady said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.
I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either sprint and hope I make it there before I shit in my boxers, or I can stick my thumb up into my ass and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom. The decision is simple: I break into a full-on sprint.
I played football, baseball and basketball in high school, and I stay in good shape. I have run from cops before, I have run from guard dogs, from a legitimate drive-by shooting once while in Kentucky, but I don’t think I have ever run that fast in my life. Nothing motivates like the prospect of being covered in human excrement.
Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:
20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my ass crack and legs get noticeably wet.
40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid-thigh. I am struggling to keep it together.
50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs of something hitting the back of my head and ears.
By the time I get to the bathroom door, I have completely lost it. I am shitting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap boxers.
I crash through the door as I step out of my boxers, shit already puddled in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slip off, because my ass is covered in slimy, runny feces. All the while, my butthole is spouting forth waste. I finally get situated on the toilet and lose perhaps 20 pounds in the next two minutes.
During a short respite in my nearly superhuman flow of crap, I notice that the toilet is almost completely full of shit, so I flush. Predictably, the toilet overflows. Great. I move to the next stall, and continue my little adventure, except this time I courtesy flush every few seconds.
By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated, and my eyes are tearing up from shitting so hard. I laugh at the inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and se
e that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of shit that my heels kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. A thick black streak leads from the top of the mirror down to my pink Gap boxers, which are crumpled in a ball on the sink countertop. This is their final resting place.
Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle. At this point, if I don’t laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the lobby, I think to myself, “Who else on earth could be having a worse night than me?”
My question is immediately answered.
I see a trail of shit, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than the small Mexican lady janitor.
Her eyes met mine. We may have been separated by numerous religious, linguistic, cultural and socioeconomic barriers, but the expression on her face crosses all boundaries.
Now really—picture this scene: I am butt-ass naked, crap plastered all over my ass, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid shit leading from her directly to me. What would you do? I don’t think there is any established etiquette for this situation.
I shrug my shoulders, say, “Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh…lo siento. Good night. Buenos noche…or whatever,” and calmly walk to the elevator.
From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her openly weeping. The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked shit up on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.
Whoops. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as shit isn’t going to be me.
When I get back to the room, SlingBlade is already in bed. He rolls over, takes one look at me and, never one for sympathy, begins laughing uncontrollably. He literally has to stop laughing because he strains his abdominal muscles. It takes him five full minutes before he can get the words out:
SlingBlade “Where…where the fuck are your pants?”
Tucker “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. This is all your fault, Mr. Rhino Dump. If you hadn’t had that miscarriage in our toilet I wouldn’t be COVERED IN SHIT!”
He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to respond. I took what remained of my dignity and got in the shower. He was still laughing when I got out, and in-between giggle fits, managed to get this out:
“This is clear proof that there is a God, and that he is just!”
Day Three: The Yellow Rose and the Arrest
I awoke the next day to PWJ coming back into the room around 10am. I recounted my shit-in-the-lobby story, and after he collected himself, he told us about his night:
PWJ “Yeah, thanks a lot Tucker, you fucking asshole.”
Tucker “Hey, it’s not my fault that you are into manatees.”
SlingBlade “Did she give a whale call when you were tubing her?”
PWJ “Fuck you.”
Tucker “So, did you actually fuck her?”
PWJ “Yeah.”
Tucker “I can’t wait until one day when The Manatee shows up with fat genius children with thimble heads and claims they’re yours.”
SlingBlade “WAIT—you fucked her? What about her promise ring?”
PWJ “She had a promise ring?”
SlingBlade “What a whore.”
Of course, this sent us into eruptions of laughter. Apparently, The Manatee had told SlingBlade (but not PWJ) that she was nearly engaged to her boyfriend, who was out of town that weekend. It turns out SlingBlade is right for once: This one really is a cheating slut.
PWJ “Now I know why she made me fuck her on the floor—her bed creaks, and she didn’t want her roommates to know she was cheating on her boyfriend.”
SlingBlade “I hate women.”
PWJ “You should have been there this morning when she dropped me off. She pulled up to the hotel and said, ‘Thanks. It was nice to meet you.’ I said, ‘Yes it was,’ got out and came up here. That was it.”
Tucker “You mean you didn’t take her to breakfast?”
PWJ “Fuck you.”
SlingBlade “He can’t afford it. He’s on financial aid as it is.”
I made SlingBlade call down to the front desk to get our toilet unclogged. About 30 minutes later, the door flung open and a woman who could have been Pootie Tang’s mother started to scream at us:
Maid “Who kilt my toilet?”
SlingBlade “That was me. I’m sorry; I’ll have a written apology to you in the morning.”
Maid “Iz aight. At least it didn’ flood the seelin so’s da people down stairs’all, ‘Why da hell shit comin’ down from ma seelin’?’”
She quickly and efficiently went to work, every few minutes yelling something barely intelligible out of the bathroom, “DAMN BOY, what’chu been eatin’? You be needin some Mylanta. Hehehehe.”
We spent the day resting up, and eventually met up with the rest of the crew at Mermaid’s apartment. We pre-partied there for a few hours, and went back out in Austin, except this time we went out on 4th Street, which is less of a college crowd and more of a young professional crowd. We started at a place called Lavaca Street because they had table shuffleboard, and El Bingeroso is addicted to that game.
Dirty and I played El Bingeroso and Mermaid, and we spent the next two hours beating them like Gitmo detainees. This absolutely incensed El Bingeroso. He is very proud of his ability at table shuffleboard, so me beating him was beyond the pale for his ego.
He started drinking…but not happy drinking. It was like he was trying to douse his anger with alcohol. Every game we won would make him drink faster. After two hours of losing, he was fuming mad and very drunk. Being a good friend, I was a gracious winner:
Tucker “I thought you were good at this game? You are a failure. Dirty and I aren’t even trying anymore. Beating you is like teasing fat people: it’s just too easy. You aren’t even a man. Did Kristy forget to let you bring your sack with you on this trip?”
El Bing “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. I’LL BEAT YOUR ASS.”
Tucker “You can’t even beat me at table shuffleboard. Do you have fucking palsy or something? Why can’t you throw the puck straight?
I’m shit-faced, and I’m better than you. You are fucked up…you can’t even out-drink me.”
El Bing “WHAT? YOU ARE THE WORST DRINKER I HAVE EVER SEEN. YOU DRINK LIKE A FUCKING SEVEN-YEAR-OLD.” Then El Bingeroso made the bet that would cause a Butterfly Effect on both our lives, “MOTHERFUCKER, I’LL OUT-DRINK YOU THREE-TO-ONE. ANYTHING! YOU PICK IT, I’LL DO THREE FOR EVERY ONE YOU DO, YOU FUCKING KINDERGARTEN DRINKER!”
I’d done it now… I’d finally pushed El Bingeroso too far. Almost immediately, Mermaid appeared with four shots of tequila. Mr. Tequila does not get along with Tucker. In fact, Mr. Tequila turns Tucker from normal-happy-drunk Tucker into violently-hurl-all-over-everything Tucker.
Tucker “I’d rather eat out a bull’s ass than take a shot of tequila.”
Mermaid [sniff, sniff] “I smell a pussy.”
I throw my shot back, and barely keep myself from throwing up. Isn’t alcohol fun? This is one of the few times I can remember where someone successfully manipulated me into something.
El Bingeroso gets through the first three shots relatively easy. Mermaid shows up five minutes later with four more shots. El Bingeroso and I stare at each other. Even though we are holding it together, we both know that if we do these shots, it’s over. I know I’m going to vomit, and he knows he’s going to go into a drunken violent rage and black out. But come on, we’re 24-year-old guys, do you really think either of us are going to back down?
I do my shot first because I figure that I have less to lose, as I am not engaged, nor do I even like myself very much. El Bingeroso does two of his shots. I run to the trash can and vomit my guts out.
Of course, El Bingeroso leads the rest of the bar in merciless taunts. I deserve it, as I have
just vomited from two tequila shots (and the 15 or so beers I already had in my stomach). My only solace came when I saw El Bingeroso do his sixth and final tequila shot. It was like watching one of those NFL’s Greatest Hits videos where they show the moment of impact in slow motion, and you can actually watch the receiver go from conscious to unconsciousness, or see the quarterback’s leg bones penetrate his sock as they compound fracture. I could see El Bingeroso go over the edge. His eyes started moving independently like a chameleon’s, his knees buckled, and he had to catch himself on the table. His fate was sealed. He quickly recovered and stood up straight again, but I’ve been drinking with him enough to know the result of that little sequence: He’s going to jail.
SlingBlade goes to the bar to get us a round of beers. While there, he starts up a conversation with an older lady who was sitting on a bar stool by herself with a poodle in her lap:
Woman “I wish I were young again, and full of piss and vinegar like you guys.”