by Tucker Max
Tucker “Why are you so upset? They don’t even like you!!”
JoJo comes outside and looks at me like I just said that I don’t believe in dinosaurs.
JoJo “You live four blocks away. You couldn’t just take her to your place?”
I start an excuse, then stop. I do this about four times before I give up.
Tucker “I’ve been drinking.”
It was only 9pm.
We meet up with another of our friends from law school, “Dude,” and his friend from high school, “Sparky.” I should point out that JoJo and Dude are black, but Sparky is white. The reason I am telling you this will shortly become obvious.
JoJo and Dude take us to a party at his friend’s house. This house is around the corner from 75th and Racine. If you don’t know the city of Chicago, let me give you an understanding of where that is: if you were to somehow accidentally find yourself on that intersection and called a friend to ask them where you are, his response would be, “RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!”
We get to the house, and it was like walking into a Nellie video, except everyone there was poor. A ton of fried chicken…but it was Church’s, not even Popeye’s. Loud music on…coming from a stereo with the speakers blown out. One dude was ridiculously blinged-out, except I am pretty sure it was Baller-on-a-Budget jewelry. JoJo introduces us to his friend who owns the house by telling us that his nickname in high school was “Loaf of Bread Head.” This is not a subtle nickname; his head looks, in all ways, like a loaf of pumpernickel.
Since he owns the house, Loaf of Bread Head was also in charge of getting the strippers. When we got there, he told us the strippers were 30 minutes away. They arrived 2 hours later. I am not sure why there were strippers there. I guess it was someone’s bachelor party. I didn’t get that far in the questioning, I was too busy chugging the Carlo Rossi and eating wings.
At my most optimistic moments, I was expecting the strippers to be those 14-year-old whores that you always see on Maury Povich, the ones whose vocabularies don’t extend beyond “You don’t know me!” and “I can do what I want!” Even with such aspirations, I was let down. These girls were disasters. Watching them dance was going to be about as much fun as going to the zoo and finding all the animals dead. Sparky leaned over to me.
Sparky “Call you mom and tell her you love her. You might not make it out of here.”
Tucker “I don’t have to touch them, do I?”
Sparky “I grew up with them, I’m used to it. You ever eaten black pussy? It’s kinda tart.”
Dude “Loaf of Bread Head, where did you find such big-titted boys?”
Tucker “Are they going to stick money in my shorts? I weigh less than that one, it’s only fair.”
LoBH “Come on, dog, from the top of the head they all look the same.” JoJo “Not that one, she has a bald spot.”
Tucker “Dude, why didn’t you call an escort service? There are some reputable ones with some OK girls. Well, at least they don’t have visible Kaposi’s sarcomas.”
One of the other black guys stops, looks at me weird, and says, “Man, what the fuck are you talking about? Where you live?”
Tucker “Lincoln Park.”
Black Guy “Yeah, if we had a party at your place, those bitches be lined up. But you don’t find many escorts to make housecalls to a bunch of horny brothers at 75th and Ghetto, motherfucker.”
Tucker “Is it really necessary to curse me?”
I was kidding, but he didn’t get the joke. Or maybe he didn’t think it was funny. One of the other guys pulls out a condom, a Magnum.
Tucker “You got any white-boy condoms?”
Guy “No man. I got some gum though. You can use that.”
The four of us left shortly after that, before the strippers even started their act. Between the smell of the girls—a mix of spearmint and stale cum—and huge black guys pulling out Magnum condoms when the ghetto stripper arrived…get serious. I am not staying to see what happens. Even I have limits.
We decide to go to a place called Biology Bar, a pretty famous black club in Chicago. By “black club,” I mean “I was THE ONLY white person there.” 500 black people and me and Sparky. We stood out a little. We end up in the rear VIP area, because JoJo used to fuck the manager (a very hot woman). It’s me, him, Sparky, Dude, about ten girls (all black girls, friends of JoJo and Dude). We ordered a few rounds of drinks, and of course I hit on a few of the black girls.
I get email all the time from girls of various ethnicities—but usually black girls—who ask if I like any other girls besides blondes with big tits. This always confuses me, because not only have I hooked up with girls from pretty much every race and ethnicity there is, but I never really think of myself as preferring blond white girls. Hot knows no color, and I never discriminate against a hot girl. So let me just state for the record: Yes, I have fucked black girls, and yes, I would do it again in a second.
Sadly, this was not going to be one of those nights. It was about 2am or so by the time we got settled in, and I was completely shit-housed, so being the charming drunk idiot that I normally am, my conversation with these girls began and ended with me referencing rap lyrics.
Black Girl “So, what do you do for a living?”
Tucker “I run ho’s. Ice T don’t know shit. Pimpin’s easy.”
Black Girl “Uhhh… OK. How is that working out for you?”
Tucker “Cash rules everything around me, baby.”
Black Girl “Who are you here with?”
Tucker “I will not hesitate to throw a bitch in the trunk.”
It was as awkward in real life as it appears on paper.
Then, in walk like 15 big guys, and in the middle of them is Snoop Dogg. He was wearing a fur and sunglasses.
Tucker “The thing I don’t understand is why he has sunglasses on. This is a club. It’s nighttime and it’s dark as shit in here.”
Dude “He don’t need to see anybody. Everybody need to see him.”
They kinda stand around for a second, until someone comes over and tells JoJo that we have to move, because Snoop wants to sit where we are. For no reason that I can recall, this enrages me. I yell at him:
“Snoop! Represent! Why you gankin my seat DOG? FO SHIZZLE, wazz up SNOOP D-O-DOUBLE-GIZZLE??”
Even my friends were mad at me. As they should be.
But that was not the end of my embarrassment. Nope, the girl I was talking to ended up ditching me for a member of Snoop’s entourage. Which might have been OK, except it was Uncle Junebug. You can Google him to really get the full effect of this travesty.
TUCKER GOES 3-MINUTE DATING; HILARITY ENSUES
Occurred—November 2002
Written—January 2003
When I heard about 3-minute dating, I immediately recognized it for what it is: possibly the perfect forum for my humor. I can think of no better way for me to avoid the consequences of my charm and wit. I get to talk to 30 different women for 3 minutes apiece, drop a few quips and/or insults, and then move on. What could be better?
I went with my friend “Bret.” He agreed to go with me under the condition that he not go immediately after me in the dating line. His reasoning: “I don’t want the girls to be vomiting from shock when I talk to them.”
We arrive about 15 minutes early and procure beers. The company sponsoring the event is called HurryDate, and there is a host, “Phil,” and a hostess, “Jodi.” I start talking to Jodi, because, well, she was really good-looking, and I like talking to good-looking girls. I don’t remember how our conversation got started, but for some reason, Jodi says something about a g-spot. Always trying to be helpful, I tell her that a man’s g-spot is in his ass. She tells me she knows this, and that there are certain types of anal stimulation that can make guys come so hard that they pass out. She tells me that she knows this because she saw it happen to a guy with anal beads at a sex-toy party.
WOW. Now THIS is the way to start a night.
Everyone takes
a seat, and Phil and Jodi introduce themselves. Phil is good-looking, meticulously dressed, was previously Wisconsin Bachelor of the Year, works as a fashion consultant, and speaks with a lisp. Yeah, he’s not gay.
Jody is very attractive, doesn’t have a boyfriend, was the Minnesota Goat Milking Champion in high school, and goes to sex-toy parties. I bet she’s emotionally stable! I honestly don’t remember what she does for a living; I was too busy staring and objectifying her to pay attention to anything she said.
Phil goes on to explain how 3-min dating works. The women all sit at different tables, and every guy spends 3 minutes talking to every girl. After each 3-min “date,” a whistle blows, and each guy moves on to the next girl. Each person wears a numbered name tag, and you mark “Yes” or “No” on a scorecard if you want to see them again. Within 48 hours of the event, the organizers send you the email addresses of those whose “Yes” columns match up with yours. He concludes the instructions by trying to make a joke:
“Guys, if you get confused as to where to go next, just follow the guy in front of you.”
I immediately yell out, “The last time I did that I got syphilis.”
Everyone looked at me, and I took my rightful position as “That Guy.”
The quality of the girls was much better than I had anticipated. I had expected the ladies to look like something out of Jabba the Hut’s bar, but honestly, there were some very attractive women there. Not many, but three or four are much better than none.
I started off pretty hot, and as I drank more, I only got hotter. Some of the funnier things I said to the girls:
“I was kinda afraid to come to this, because it sets up high expectations. I can’t normally last three minutes.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever talked to a woman without having to use a credit card.”
“Am I supposed to tell you if I have genital warts? Is that part of the rules?”
“Does transsexual porn turn you on as much as it does me? Boy, I just can’t get enough of that.”
“Pursuant to Megan’s Law, I am obligated to tell you that I am a convicted sex offender.”
One of the fun parts is that you get the same questions from girls over and over, the two main ones being “Have you ever done this before?” and “What do you do?” I got bored answering them, so I came up with more interesting answers. Some examples:
Girl “So, have you ever done this before?”
Me “No. I’m just here for the free beer.”
Girl “We don’t get free beer.”
Me “What? You mean I paid $30 just to talk to you?!? Oh…that’s a treat.”
Girl “So, have you ever done this before?”
Me “No, never. I was supposed to do it last month, but my damn herpes flared up, so I waited until they went away. That Valtrex isn’t as good as advertised. I can’t kickbox or kayak.”
Girl “So, have you ever done this before?”
Me “No. I haven’t dated for years. My fiancée died last week, and my friend thinks this will help me cope.”
Girl “So, have you ever done this before?”
Me “Done this before? I don’t even know where I am. I just woke up, I feel strange, and I think I’m missing a kidney. You haven’t seen any Chinese organ thieves running around have you? Maybe carrying a cooler with them?”
Girl “What do you do?”
Me “I kill old people for insurance money.”
Girl “What do you do?”
Me “I defend people arrested for juvenile sex crimes. Those guys sure know how to party. And talk about a way to meet girls!”
Girl “What do you do?”
Me “Just waiting for my parents to die.”
Girl “What do you do?”
Me “I used to be a Catholic priest, but I got out. With the recent scandals, there’s really no fringe benefits to the job anymore.”
I would eventually tell them that I’m a writer. The next question was “What do you write?” Some answers:
“I mostly write homosexual erotica. When do we get to talk to the men here?”
“I do a lot of freelance work for Cat Fancy.”
“I write dialogue for snuff films.”
“I spend most of my time writing to prison inmates.”
I’ll tell you what; if you enjoy talking about yourself, this is the venue for you. The sad part is that I don’t have many good quotes from the girls; I was so manic they barely had time to talk. I didn’t think 3 minutes was enough time actually. I had so much material, and all of it was re-usable. That was the best part; I could drop a great quote on a girl, and then use it again on the next one.
A few girls did stand out to me. One in particular. Not because she was attractive. Hardly. But she was the only one who got mad at me for making jokes. Most of the girls thought I was hilarious, or at least they pretended to laugh at my jokes. But she was none too pleased by my humor. It went like this:
Her “What do you want to know about me?”
Me “I don’t know… What do you think about when you masturbate?”
Her “What?!?”
Me “You know you masturbate. Don’t say that you don’t. Admit that you masturbate.”
Her “NO.”
Me “There are only two types of liars: those who say they don’t and those who say they quit.”
Her “What? We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, and you’re just making jokes. I feel like you aren’t taking this seriously.” Me “We have 3 minutes. What do you want from me? Look, if you don’t think I’m funny, then you don’t want to get to know any more about me. It only gets worse from here.”
Another girl told me she had two cats, and their full names were Kathleen Lulu Dubowski and Jersey Lemon Dubowski. I couldn’t make this shit up. My question to her: “Why would you own cats? Do you enjoy having big boxes of shit all over your house?”
A random exchange:
Her “So what do you do with your free time?”
Me “I like to have as much butt sex as possible.”
One girl who was possibly more manic than me started blabbering on and on about her beliefs. Needless to say, they were idiotic. I finally had to set her straight:
Her “I definitely believe in fate.”
Me “Do you believe that fate brought us together?”
Her “Oh yeah.”
Me “Fate must hate you.”
When we came to the end, I realized that I hadn’t kept track of the girls’ numbers. Super. There were actually three or four girls that I was interested in, but I had no idea which numbers they were, so I didn’t know what to mark down on my sheet. I ended up working off of my friend Bret’s notes that he took on every girl, and marked four that I thought were the same ones I was interested in.
I got the email from HurryDate a few days later, and all of the girls I marked had also put me down. I haven’t emailed any of them, for two reasons: (1) I’m not exactly sure who is who, and (2) I am an asshole.
I think they realized this also, because none of them have emailed me. All in all, I give the 3-min dating experience high marks, for the simple fact that I got to talk about myself and crack jokes for three hours.
THE TUCKER MAX BOOK TOUR
Right after the release of this book in 2006, I went on a book tour. It was a 23-stop, 32-day book tour across the East, Southeast, and Midwest that nearly broke me, both emotionally and physically. This is a compilation of my blog entries from the tour, edited down to the very best parts because of limits on space (you can see the entire unedited 40k+-word entry on my site, www.TuckerMax.com). Just like all my stories, these stories are real and verifiable. Only the names are changed.
Friday, February 3rd: Durham/Chapel Hill, North Carolina
The best part of this signing was that for the first time, SlingBlade, Hate, and PWJ got to meet my fans. I made them sit next to me and sign books. SB wrote things like “Fuck Tucker”—“I think you’re different”—“This book is pla
giarized lies”—“Tucker masturbates to Sesame Street” and my favorite, “Tucker thinks you’re fat, but I think you’re a special unique flower.” Hate also signed books, but he was more to the point with things like “You are wasting your youth on a false idol”— “Why did you buy this crap?”—“I weep for the world” and my favorite, “The only person dumber than you is the guy who bought two books.”
Then we went to the bar. I was a little excited to go out, as I have many fond memories of Chapel Hill and the ladies of UNC. Sadly, I was not really able to relive them. I instead discovered a new talent that I did not know I have: I am a cock magnet. No, seriously, I spent three years going out in Chapel Hill and never once saw a bar on Franklin so packed with guys as East End last night. I know that most of my fans are male (though the signings are like 30% female) and that’s cool, but last night was out of control. I literally could not walk through the bar without a group of dudes wanting to talk to me and do shots and get pictures.
In a desperate attempt to shift the blame for this, I asked the manager if it was normally like that, “No man. I’ve never seen it like this. You can really draw the fellas.” Absolutely no bullshit, I don’t think that I had more than two uninterrupted minutes of talking to a girl before some new set of guys would come up and want to tell me I was their hero or that I inspired them or ask me to do shots with them or whatever. I am more than happy to talk to my fans, but it quickly got annoying. The thing is, most of the guys were very cool about it and not annoying per se—it was just that the line never ended. I understand now why real celebrities are so into VIP sections; you can’t even function in a normal bar if you have a lot of fans there. It’s unreal.