by Tucker Max
Of course, this was incredibly hilarious to my friends. SlingBlade, Hate, PWJ, and Doug (from “The Midland Story”) all made it to the signing and just whooped it up at my misery. My new cock-magnet talent has an added benefit for my friends: they were having no problem meeting girls because all the males were talking to me. You want proof? SlingBlade talked to a girl! By himself! He’s all growed up! But sadly, this story does not have a happy ending. When I got back to the RV this morning, there he was, curled up into a little ball of hangover pain, mumbling about whores misleading him.
Tucker “Dude, what happened? You had that one in the bag. And she was hot.”
SlingBlade “I don’t know. Hate and PWJ left to get a hotel room and she promised to take care of me, but when we were getting ready to leave she started in with the ‘I won’t have sex with you’ and ‘We can’t go back to my place, my roommates are home’ and then ‘I won’t get a hotel room with you, that is classless.’ What the fuck do you want to do, hold hands in the alley? Whatever, she’s a whore.”
Tucker “She had nice tits. Did you at least get to play with them?”
SlingBlade “Yes, I kept slapping them over the course of the evening, to remind myself of why I was talking to her.”
The night had another big highlight: a girl dumped beer on my head. This girl was a fat, sloppy mess, her hair looked like she had done it with her knees, and she had one of those voices that can pierce eardrums. She came up to me and immediately belts out “I AM THE FEMALE YOU!” This is never a good indication of things to come. My response, “I would be a much hotter woman.” I turned around and more dudes came up to talk to me, so I ignored her.
Sadly, she was not put off so easily. Nope, she accosted me at least three more times, telling me all about how funny and drunk and witty she was. This was fun for approximately zero seconds. This girl was the very definition of annoying; picture Courtney Love hopped up on bathtub meth and dressed like a dirty bag of awful. Three fucking times I told her to go away, and each time I walked to a different part of the bar, and every time she would find me and start bothering me again. Finally, I’d had enough:
“LISTEN: I AM NOT GOING TO FUCK YOU. YOU ARE FAT AND ANNOYING AND DISGUSTING, AND I’D RATHER FUCK THAT DUDE WITH THE BEARD THAN YOU. GO AWAY.”
As you might imagine, this little call out did not go over well. By “not well” I mean “she lost her mind.” Normally I know what a huge tactical error it is to enrage a woman who is so obviously insane, but I was past the point of caring…and that was when she threw her beer on me. But the glass was basically empty, so only a little splashed on me. I laughed at her. “Seriously, can you do anything right? Go find a homeless guy to stalk, maybe he’ll be more your speed.”
She stormed off, and I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong. She went to the bar, bought a full beer, and without even taking a sip of it, came back and threw it on me. At that point, I had to laugh, “Baby, I can wash beer out of my clothes, but the scar on your soul will never heal.” Then she slapped me. Whatever, she’s never recovering from last night. Maybe next time she’ll take the first FOUR hints and leave me alone.
This is getting ridiculous. It is 8am on Day Four as I write this, and I am already physically and socially wasted. This tour is taking years off my life. I don’t know how I am going to make it to the end of this thing. I cannot keep pouring alcohol down my throat for days on end, getting no sleep, throwing my penis into wet holes and talking to hundreds of people a day and expect it to finish well. PWJ took one look at me and said, “You look like Morgan Spurlock at the end of Super Size Me.” I guess that’s part of the fun…for everyone but me.
Saturday, February 4th: Athens, Georgia
By all accounts, Athens should have been one of the best stops on the tour because I have a ton of fans there, but I fucked up the planning and consequently shit the bed. Great job, Tucker. But one good thing did come out of this logistical fuck-up: I had a sexual first. At this point in my life, I have done so many things that it’s hard for me to find something new, but last night I did. These two girls, “Rachel” and “Siena,” came back to the RV with me. They both wanted to fuck, but weren’t into doing anything lesbian, so the standard positions were out. OK, whatever, one can watch while I fuck the other one, no big deal, I do that all the time.
Then I had a brilliant idea. Right before I had sex with Rachel, I turned to Siena:
Tucker “Eat out my ass as I fuck her.”
Siena “Uh… OK.”
Talk about making the night. I don’t know why I haven’t done this before. I mean, I like sex and I like having girls toss my salad, but I had never really thought to combine them. I don’t know why; lack of vision on my part, I guess.
Siena did a great job, too; I have seen people try this in porn, and it never seems to go well for them. The girl usually has too hard of a time keeping her mouth on the guy’s ass as it moves back and forth, but Siena got it done. I guess UGA college girls who are actually into sex are more motivated than your typical Valley Girl whore who only does porn for meth money. It was quite the intense orgasm; Rachel can attest to that, I blew a HUGE load on her face. I highly recommend it.
The next morning, Rachel told me that I was not the first “celebrity” she’s had sex with. Who did I follow? Jordan Knight. Excuse me while I go set myself on fire. Rachel met Jordan because he sung at some sorority formal of hers, and he “chose her.” Those were her exact words. But she did not actually fuck Jordan. When they were hooking up, he flipped her over and tried to have anal sex with her. She wasn’t into this, and he didn’t want to have vaginal sex, so he started pouting, and she just gave him head and that was it. The next day she found out that he had given his number to at least two GUYS at the formal.
And here I was thinking that Joey was the gay one.
Special Guest Update: SlingBlade’s Trip Home
As you know if you have read the other updates, SlingBlade was at the Durham and Athens signings. He just wrote us this email about the drive back to Washington, D.C., from Athens, GA. I don’t know if I have ever laughed as hard as I just did reading it [note: Hate is a huge Pittsburgh fan]:
From: SlingBlade
To: Tucker, Hate, PWJ, GoldenBoy, Jojo, Credit, El Bingeroso
Date: Feb 6, 2006
Subject: Super Bowl XL and Tucker’s book signing
Hate, I think next time the referees should just come out in Steelers jerseys to at least not insult us with the pretense that they are somehow neutral. I was less offended by the officiating in Wrestlemania XII when Rowdy Roddy Piper hit the Ultimate Warrior with a baseball bat while the referee pretended to be telling the British Bulldogs to stay off the apron.
Also I really have no idea whatsoever how I survived that drive home from Georgia. I woke up hypothermic and still drunk in a frat house at 5:30am and decided that would be a good time to hit the road. At this point, of the last 72 hours of my life, I had been asleep for about 3 of them. At no point during those three hours did I remotely approach anything resembling an REM cycle. So they pretty much don’t count as sleep. I had also drunk enough alcohol to kill a rhinoceros, had eaten one Chik-Fil-A value meal and a pita, and had taken in a half liter of water while urinating out about 15 metric tons of water as my body attempted to dilute the poison I had forced into it.
6:00am: I hit the highway and decide I should put the cruise at the speed limit. My right eye will not stop burning. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep my eyes open. I might possibly have made a mistake. A strange buzzing noise has been annoying me for the last half hour. I wonder if it is real or imagined.
6:15: I notice that the seat belt light is on. I couple that with the buzzing and come to the conclusion that I am not wearing my seat belt. I put it on and the buzzing stops. Satisfied with this epiphany of causal reasoning that took 45 minutes to occur, I up the cruise control to 5 mph over the speed limit.
6:20: The rumble strips save my life for what I can onl
y assume will be the first of many times.
6:45: I realize I have been staring into space for the last 20 minutes muttering, “Paul Wall, got a mouf like a crystal ball.”
7:15: I look up and realize that I have somehow exited the highway. This was not my intention. I am going 70 mph and am about 20 feet from an intersection and a stop sign. Luckily, there is no traffic and I have had tactical driving training. With the aid of that training, the median, 10 yards of gravel and an open field, I manage to stop my vehicle. I quickly get back on the road when I realize that the adrenaline will probably keep me awake for at least 45 minutes.
7:30: I contemplate getting a hotel and sleeping. Then I remember that if I have the rental car back to D.C. by 3 o’clock I will save twenty-two dollars and thirty-four cents. I note to myself that I would stand on my dick for eight hours for twenty-two dollars and thirty-four cents should the opportunity ever present itself. I up the cruise control to 75 mph.
8:15: The adrenaline wears off. I stop and purchase three Mountain Dew Code Reds and chug them. Since I never drink caffeine, I figure this will help.
8:30: The light refracting on my windshield creates a vision of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
9:00: My body dumps all three Mountain Dews directly into my bladder at once. My left kidney explodes and my bladder attempts to annex the space my prostate is currently occupying by forcing it out of my body through my rectum. I have found a new personal definition for the word pain. I stop to urinate for what feels like 45 minutes. My bladder had been so expanded that it has lost all elasticity and can no longer evacuate itself near the end. I stand there while a steady minute stream of urine dribbles from my penis for five minutes. I then realize there is a 24-hour porn store truck stop at this exit. I go in. The owner looks up, does a double take and says, “Damn, boy,” while he shakes his head. Apparently I look a mess. I check this in the mirror. Picture an extra from Schindler’s List with conjunctivitis. Keep in mind that it is an epidemiological fact that truck stops are pretty much the nexus points of every countrywide communicable disease outbreak in the history of the United States. This guy services TRUCK STOP PROSTITUTES and yet finds me pathetic. I find this funny and start giggling. I can’t stop giggling and decide I should leave the store.
9:25: I sneeze and my left Eustachian tube blows out. For the next twenty minutes, I feel like I am leaning to me left. I absently tap my left pupil with my finger to make the itching stop. I wonder if the things they used to keep that guy’s eyes open in A Clockwork Orange are (a) commercially available and (b) sold at gas stations.
10:00: I realize that the caffeine is actually working. I call Tucker to tell him that I hate him and that he will, in all likelihood, be the death of me. He laughs at me. My back has begun to hurt. I keep awake by reminiscing about things I wrote in people’s books at the signings. My favorites include “Tucker in no way, shape or form knows how to please a woman, call me instead” (after Tucker had left his phone number in a book)—“Your hero here Tucker, whimpers in his sleep. Think about that.”—“Your vagina is the only thing that ever made you special.” And “Tucker couldn’t find your clitoris with a map, two hands, and an industrial strength spotlight.”
10:30: I wonder if masturbating will help keep me awake. I pull out my penis and find it unresponsive. I stretch it out and flick it with my middle finger, angered by its betrayal. No effect. I visualize all my normal gotos: Jessica Alba, that freaky girl I hooked up with last year, a midget juggling on a tricycle. Nothing. The good news is I no longer fear death.
11:00: I stop for Chik-Fil-A. I forget to take off the pickles. Pickles usually make me violently ill, but I cannot taste them. I wonder if sleep deprivation has given me super powers. I slap myself as hard as I can in the face to test this theory. It is, in fact, quite painful. I do not have super powers. At this point I have the cognitive abilities of a six-year-old, am functionally illiterate, and am quite possibly a danger to myself and others on the road. Undaunted, I press on.
11:15: I realize my penis is still hanging out of my pants. I wonder why no one at Chik-Fil-A pointed this out to me and hope they don’t have security cameras.
12:00 noon: I reach Durham. I have driven from Durham to D.C. a hundred times and could probably drive it in my sleep. I decide to test this theory.
12:00 noon and two seconds: The rumble strips save me again. Apparently I have to stay awake for the next three and a half hours.
12:20 pm: My face starts to tingle. I realize this is a symptom of muscular sclerosis and make a mental note to check the website I used last year to convince myself I had a brain tumor for additional symptoms I can manifest. I hear voices and wonder what talk radio station I’m listening to. The radio is not on. The concrete pylons on the underpasses have begun smart-eyeing me. I briefly consider driving the car into them to teach them a little respect.
1:10: I reach the body of water and bridge signaling the Virginia border. I contemplate driving the car into Lake Gaston to celebrate.
1:20: I consider asking PWJ if I can crash at his place when I reach Richmond. I decide I’m too close to D.C. to pack it in. I increase the cruise control to 80 mph.
2:00: I realize I might survive this. I begin laughing and screaming “I’M GOING TO MAKE IT!!” I hold down my horn until it goes out. I start fantasizing about what I will do with my twenty-two dollars and thirty-four cents.
2:20: I hit D.C. traffic. I start to cry. I am an emotional and physical wreck. My body has begun portholing in a desperate attempt to save itself by shutting down nonessential systems. I have run out of ATP and my muscles no longer function. I lose peripheral vision. My body realizes my left leg isn’t needed to brake or accelerate and it goes numb below the knee.
2:45: I consider continuing on to NY just to see if I can make it. The lone functional neuron in my prefrontal cortex fires, and I decide not to do this. Apparently this neuron was busy when I decided it would be a good idea to go on a weekend bender with Tucker.
2:50: I exit the highway and begin driving in what I can only describe as a haphazard fashion in an attempt to make it to the car rental check-in area. I almost cause five accidents. I have never seen so many angry people honking in my life. I have never laughed harder.
3:02: I check in. This is the worst moment of my life. I am too tired to argue for my twenty-two dollars and thirty-four cents. The attendant smells my car and begins dry-heaving. If my nostrils are to be trusted, I smell like I have spent the day rubbing curry on my body, sweating pure alcohol, and defecating on myself. I give him the thumbs-up and move on.
3:18: I get on the Metro at National Airport. And promise myself I won’t fall asleep. I just need to make it to Rosslyn.
3:40: I am woken up in Largo Town Center, at the Metro termination point, by a conductor who forces me off the train. I have never been more confused in my entire life. I have no idea who I am or where I am. My stomach is filled with butterflies, and I start arguing out loud with the train about who I am. I stumble around the station for twenty solid minutes before my brain kick starts itself. I get on a train the other way and find someone who promises to wake me up.
4:05: I am woken up, quite rudely, in Rosslyn. Were I not borderline retarded with fatigue, the guy shaking me awake would have gotten a reflex punch right in his throat and then had his knee shattered. All I can muster is a half-hearted wave of my arm that he takes as a thank-you. He says, “No problem.” I say, “Go to Hell.”
4:12: I make it to my apartment and slip into a coma.
7:15am (next day): I wake up on my couch in the fetal position. It appears I have been sucking my thumb and crying in my sleep.
Thursday, February 9th: Charlottesville, Virginia
Oh boy, where to start with this one? I think we will begin with The Day the RV Fought Back.
As we were driving to Charlottesville—huge gashes down the side of the RV, the driver’s side mirror smashed, random pieces of t
he RV broken and skidding around the inside, Mike and I laughing about how we had completely destroyed this thing in less than a week—the RV decided that it had had enough. Mike was behind the wheel, I was making an attempt to get some sleep, and Paul Wall was on the stereo regaling us with tales about the precious stones and rare metals in his dental accessories, when all of a sudden:
Mike “Dude…something is wrong.”
I didn’t notice it at first, but we were speeding up. Quickly…and Mike’s feet were both firmly planted on the floor.
Mike “What is going on?”
Tucker “HOLY SHIT! THE RV IS FIGHTING BACK!”
Mike freaked out and slammed on the breaks. The RV slowed down, but when he took his foot off the accelerator, the RV started speeding back up.
Mike “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!”
Tucker “TURN IT OFF! HIT THE BRAKES!! AAAHHHHHHH!”
You think the week-plus of no sleep was affecting us?
It turns out that the cruise control had shorted out and stuck. Once we turned the RV off and back on, it was fine. Why had the cruise shorted out? Because we left the windows open one day and it rained all over the inside. We eventually make it safely to Charlottesville, despite the RV of Death doing its best to kill us.