by Tucker Max
Tucker “So Mike, on the ride over here Doug said that his truck was a lot better than yours.”
Mike “Sheet. His little girl truck couldn’t pull a tampon out of a sick whore’s pussy.”
Tucker “Doug said that your truck is just like bad pussy—it stinks.”
Mike “There ain’t no such thing as bad pussy.”
Tucker “You haven’t had enough pussy to say some shit like that.”
Mike “Well you must fuck a lot, ’cause you ain’t had a long enough dry spell to thank pussy can be bad.”
Tucker “Touché.”
Mike “Don’t use no goddamn French round me, boy.”
Tucker “Holla.”
Mike “I guess nigger’s better’n French.”
Tucker “You shouldn’t say nigger. If you must, at least say ‘urban.’”
Mike “You got too much education, boy.”
Doug had something broken on his truck, and his buddies helped him work on it for a few hours. I just stood around drinking Keystone Light and watching, because I don’t know shit about anything mechanical:
Mike “Tucker, hand me that crescent wrench.”
Tucker “What is a crescent wrench?”
Mike “Goddamn. You bout as useful as tits on a bull. All that education, and you don’t know nothin’.”
Cliff “He sure know how to drink my beer without paying for it.”
But the highlight had to be listening to them talk shit to Doug:
Doug “I only have 40,000 miles on that thing; I don’t know how the U-joint broke.”
Mike “Right, ’cause having a dumbass driver who’s always hopping curbs and smokin’ his tires don’t got nuttin’ to do wit it.”
Doug “Fuck you, bitch.”
Mike “I hope you brought some tequila, Doug. We ain’t doin’ this for free.”
Tucker “All it takes is a bottle of tequila to pay you off? This is some serious mechanical work you are doing.”
Mike “Hell no. But tequilas the only thang that’s gonna wash the taste of dick outta Doug’s mouth.”
Cliff “You’d know bout that wouldn’t you?”
Mike “Well I was in the fucking Navy, asshole.”
After they got Doug’s truck fixed, we headed to Cliff’s house to drink more beer and blow things up. Cliff’s place was hilariously redneck. As we drive up, three dogs that look more like coyotes come running up barking and jumping around. Sitting on a nice two-acre piece of land is a big double-wide trailer, very nice by trailer standards. It is flanked by two huge storage sheds with ATVs, boat hulls, a beer fridge, animal skins mounted on the wall and all order of tools and sheet metal and whatnot. In the huge back yard is a rock pond that is really nice and well put together, with a working fountain in the middle. Next to the pond is an old three wheeler…up on blocks. No, really it was up on concrete blocks. Awesome.
All the way in the back is an animal pen that has donkeys and goats. We go to the pen because Cliff wants to show everyone something behind it.
Mike “Hey Cliff, what the fuck is wrong with that billy?”
The male goat, called a billy goat, had a torn and bleeding ear. We walk into the animal pen, and laying on the ground is a dead goat with half its face missing. Across the pen are two dead baby goats, both dirty and mangled. Everyone just kinda stands there for a second, when one of the dogs—the big male one—sticks its head through the gate, sees Cliff standing there, and takes off running with his tail between his legs. Cliff explodes.
Cliff “CHEVY GET BACK OVER HERE! YOU GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER GET OVER HERE!”
Cliff stomps across the yard after the dog. He is PISSED.
Mike “Oh shit. Here he goes.”
Tucker “Why is he so mad?”
Mike “You see the goats, Helen Keller?”
Tucker “That goat’s been dead a long time. It’s face is half decomposed.”
Mike “No no. That goat was alive this morning.”
Tucker “Then how did its face get like that? It’s decomposed.”
Mike “You dumbass. The dogs ate it.”
Tucker “NO WAY! Are those dogs wild?”
Mike “Hell no; they just normal house dogs.”
Tucker “Normal dogs wouldn’t do that.”
Mike “Sheet. You got dogs?”
Tucker “Yeah. I grew up with them and have one now.”
Mike “Well, your dogs’d do the same thang. They are all sweet and nice around humans, but you get them in a pack and they go fuckin’ nuts. Domesticated or not, them’s wild animals at heart. Chevy is the ringleader, and he’s done this before, that’s why Cliff is so pissed. He should know better.”
A gunshot rang out, and I kinda jumped. We turned towards the yard, and saw Cliff, red as a beet, screaming and chasing his dog around, a shovel in one hand and a .22 in the other. The dog was scurrying this way and that, dodging gunshots and shovel swings. It looked like a Hee-Haw skit:
Cliff “YOU STOO-PID STOO-PID DOG!” [swings the shovel and misses] “WHY THE FUCK DA YEW KEEP DOIN’ THAT!” [another gunshot rings out and misses] “GET OVER HERE AND GET’CHER WHOOPIN!” [swings the shovel and misses] “HOW MANY TIMES AM I GONNA HAVE TA BEAT YEW?!?” [another missed gunshot]
Tucker “Is he really shooting at his dog?”
Mike “Oh hell yeah. Cliff is a pretty level guy, but when he gets mad, you better watch out. He’ll calm down after he tones the dog for a little while.”
Tucker “‘Tones the dog’? What does that mean?”
Mike “Wait’ll he catches him, you’ll see.”
A few seconds later I see Cliff swing his shovel and hear the distinctive “TONG” of metal against skull as he clocks the dog flush in the head. Much to my surprise, the dog took the hit and ran off with no noticeable damage. I didn’t know whether to laugh because of the absurd comedy inherent in watching a fuming redneck chase his dog around his yard with a shovel and a gun, or be sad because some guy just hit a dog in the head with a shovel.
Mike “You hear that sound the shovel made on his skull? That’s why we call it ‘toning’.”
Tucker “Wow. I mean… I’ve never seen anyone work a dog over like that. I’ve never even seen anyone work over a person like that. Pimps don’t even beat hookers like that.”
Mike “Chevy’ll be fine. He’s tough, but he’s obstinate. Dogs is like women; sometimes talkin’ don’t work.”
After Cliff was too exhausted to chase the dog any longer, he stormed back to the animal pen, shovel in hand but no rifle, sweat pouring off his brow, still muttering to himself.
Tucker “Why is he so mad? It’s just a goat. He can buy another one.” Mike “Well, he ain’t got much money, and them goats is worth bout $150.”
Mike goes behind the animal pen to what can only be described as a small pet cemetery. There is a pine cross up with a goat’s name, and rocks over the grave. Cliff starts digging a new grave next to the old one. The digging eventually calms Cliff down and all of us start trading drinking stories. I tell them a few of my classics and they laugh.
Doug “Cliff, tell Tucker some of your stories.”
Cliff “Well, there was that weekend I tore my intestine from beer. I went into the doctor and he asked me how many beers I drank. I said I had about an average Saturday, bout 50. A pretty hairy Sunday, had bout 70. They called in two more doctors and a whole mess’a nurses. Them fuckers didn’t believe me. I asked’em: How the hell else am I gonna tear my intestine from beer unless I drank me a shit load of it?”
Tucker “You drank 120 beers in two days? No fucking way.”
Cliff “You sound like the fucking doctors.”
Tucker “That is over 1400 ounces of beer! That’s like…70 or 11 GALLONS! IN TWO DAYS!?!?”
Mike “Well thank you Mr. Wizard, we know how much fucking beer it is.”
Tucker “I am in awe of that.”
Cliff “Shit. That ain’t nothing. Around here, 120 beers is what we call ‘tha weekend.’”
/> After a while Chevy came over and sort of crawled near us but stayed out of reach, obviously not wanting to get another whipping. He laid about 10 yards away, licking his crotch.
Tucker “I wish I could do that.”
Mike “I don’t think he’d let’cha.”
Doug and Cliff digging a hole for the dead goats. Notice that Doug is “supervising.” He’s such a lazy shit.
Cliff finished digging and paused to stare at the dead goat for a minute.
Cliff “I kinda want to keep that goat head and mount it above my fire-place…but I cain’t.”
Doug “Why not?”
Cliff “Cause evertime I look at it I’d hit my dog.”
We threw the goats into the grave, and Mike jokingly took a full Keystone Light and threw it in the grave before he filled it in.
Mike “That’s for the trip, you stupid goats.”
Cliff “The sad part is, when I’m broke jones’in for a beer, I’m gonna dig that motherfucker up and drank it.”
Mike “Boy, that’d really git your goat.”
Cliff “Fuck yew.”
Mike “Cliff, you feelin alright? You look like you just buried a goat.”
Cliff “Im’ma tone you in a minute if you don’t shut da fuck up.”
THE WORST TUCKER STORY EVER
Occurred—April 2005
Written—April 2005
[WARNING: If you enjoy carefree, guiltless sex with multiple partners and want to continue having lots of it, stop reading right now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.]
I know I say things like, “Is this my life?” all the time, but honest to fucking God, every time I think my life is as weird and perverse and fucked up as it can possibly get, I trump myself. It never fails. This just happened on April 3rd, 2005 as I was finishing up the material for this book:
“Sarah,” one of my regular fuck buddies, calls me and asks if she can come over and spend the night. It was a Sunday and I was going to stay in to do some work anyway, plus she is real cool and laid-back and doesn’t require any attention from me except for sex, so I agree. Sarah said she’d be over around 9pm. Right after I got off the phone with Sarah, I got a call from an irregular booty call of mine, “Mimi.” Mimi was very drunk and making all sorts of promises about coming over. She gets hammered and calls me all the time promising to come over and never shows, so not taking her inebriated call seriously, I tell her she can come over.
Sarah gets there and instead of fucking, she wants to talk:
Sarah “Tucker, I went to the hospital yesterday. I’m five weeks pregnant.” (We had been fucking for at least two months.)
Tucker “Aren’t you on birth control? You told me we didn’t have to use condoms because you were on birth control.”
Sarah “I was. I still am, but remember when I got pneumonia from you? The doctor said that the antibiotics messed with my birth control, and I guess I got knocked up.”
We talked about our options for a while. I am always hesitant to say anything in these situations, for many reasons, but Sarah made it easy on me:
Sarah “Well, no matter what, I have to get an abortion. I don’t really have a choice.”
Tucker “I mean, OK, but what do you mean you don’t have a choice?”
Sarah “Well, I start chemotherapy next month.”
Tucker “Chemotherapy?”
Sarah “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but…well… I have ovarian cancer. I found out two weeks ago.”
Tucker “Fuck. You are having a great month…are you going to live?”
Sarah “Yeah, I should be fine. But I obviously can’t be pregnant during cancer treatment.”
The great irony in this: The entire reason she found out she had ovarian cancer early enough to treat it was because she was fucking me. It is pretty rare to get ovarian cancer that young (she’s 20), but it’s even rarer to catch it early enough to treat it effectively. We had unprotected sex because she was on birth control, but after considering the fact that she was fucking me without a condom, she kinda freaked out and went to her OB/GYN for a complete STD test and pap smear. Turns out she has no STDs, but came up positive for cancerous cells. I guess sometimes fucking me can actually be healthy.
But this wasn’t all:
Sarah “You don’t know any private abortion clinics do you? I need to go soon.”
Tucker “You don’t have insurance?”
Sarah “Yeah, but I am on my parents’ policy. If I use my insurance, they will find out and flip on me. I’m not sure I even have enough to pay for it.”
Before I can even recover from the cluster bombs that Sarah dropped on me, an enfilade is fired at me from my flank: Mimi picks tonight to actually make good on a booty call promise. Oh boy…this night just got as awkward as a mule on rollerskates.
Still very drunk, Mimi crashes into my place and falls on the floor. Maxie (my dog) licks her face until she gets up onto the couch, where she proceeds to lay a litany of her own problems on Sarah and I. Well, she doesn’t actually tell us per se; she calls some other guy she is fucking and we learn these facts from her loud and drunken conversation with him:
She was five months pregnant, but just had a miscarriage four days earlier. (Which is the truth. We have many friends in common, and I saw her a few weeks before and she was clearly pregnant. Now she clearly wasn’t, and our friends had told me about her miscarriage yesterday.)
Her husband blames the miscarriage on her.
She is pissed at her husband for blaming the miscarriage on her.
She is very unhappy with almost everything about her three-month-old marriage, and thinks she wants a divorce. [Yes, she was already two months pregnant when she married him.]
She admits that the baby might not even be her husband’s.
She says that the only reason she married her husband was because she was pregnant, not sure who the father was, and he had the most money of anyone she was fucking at the time.
She is at my place to fuck me mainly because her husband hates me. (He hates me because I once embarrassed him at a party).
Wow; this night just went from awkward to full-on Tucker Max surreal. There isn’t this much concentrated misery in a pediatric burn unit.
But even beyond the wretched circumstances surrounding these girls, I really don’t know what to do. Both girls are totally fucked up and both want to fuck me. How do I resolve this situation? I was totally baffled. I don’t even know what my options are. Could I just leave? Could I call the cops and pretend one of them hit me, and have her taken away? Could I somehow turn this into a perverted, prego-threesome?
Remembering that the only way to defeat an ambush is to charge into it attacking, I decide that fucking at least one of them is the solution. But should I screw the slut who is cheating on her husband and just miscarried a five-month-old fetus, or the one who has cancer and is currently carrying my child? I do a cost-benefit analysis of sex with each:
Mimi Pro
Mimi Con
Mimi is great-looking with huge fake tits
Mimi just had a miscarriage
Mimi is good in bed
Mimi is a revolting slut who should be ground into pig slop
Sarah Pro
Sarah Con
Sarah is very pretty also, but no fake tits
Sarah is pregnant…with my child
Not only do I actually likem Sarah, she is probably better in bed than Mimi
Sarah has cancer…right in the hole where I put my penis
I cut the Gordian Knot and decide to fuck Mimi. I figure that if I give her a good dicking, she will either leave or fall asleep, and then maybe I can salvage something with Sarah. If I fuck Sarah first, Mimi will get pissed and immediately leave, probably stealing and/or breaking my stuff on the way out.
All of us still sitting in the living room, I grab Mimi and lead her towards my bedroom. I turn to Sarah and say, “Stay here. I just need to fuck her to sleep, then I’ll be back up.” Sarah is not happy. As in “H
ell hath no fury” pissed. Whatever; it’s too late to worry about that now. I’ve committed to the charge, the only thing I can do now is finish hard.
We go downstairs and start fucking. Mimi fucks like a professional, and is on her game tonight (I know what escorts fuck like because I dated several when I lived in Florida). When I am with her I usually get off multiple times, not really because I like her but because I have an almost pathological fake tit fetish.
I shoot my first load pretty quickly; like five minutes. It usually takes me only a few minutes to reload, so I massage her clit and finger her until I am ready to go again. But two minutes pass, and I can’t get hard. Four minutes, I am still a wet noodle. After like ten minutes and some jacking off that required a surprising amount of concentration, I am finally half-mast, so slide in her and start again.
But it won’t start. In fact, it deflates a little. What the fuck is wrong with my dick? The only time it ever does this is when I am truly Tucker Max Drunk or after I’ve cum like five or six times in a night.
Then I realize what is happening. Sometimes when I fuck, especially when I fuck demon sluts like Mimi, my subconscious tries to fuck with me. It has a nasty habit of creeping up on me and attempting to sabotage my journey to orgasm. But my conscious mind, which has the power of my penis behind it, usually busts the subconscious in the mouth and quickly shuts it up.