by Tucker Max
I got out of the car and he immediately started yapping to me about God knows what as we came to the entrance. I could hear the wrestling going on in the back hall and was walking there when a girl at a cheap card table stopped me:
Girl “It’s $5 to get in.”
I just stood there, not responding, almost in awe of the audacity of this woman. To try and charge ANYONE to be there, much less the lone CELEBRITY invitee… I just walked past her. I think she got mad, I have no idea, Rosh handled it. I turned the corner into the main hall. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe something like the WWE, just smaller, but whatever it was, this was not it.
The wrestling ring looked like something you’d buy at Toys “R” Us. Inside it were two “wrestlers,” guys who were built like your average Teamster. Shit, they probably were Teamsters. It’s not like those fat fucks do any actual work. There were maybe a hundred people milling around, I guess you would call them spectators, except very few were paying attention. They looked like they’d gotten lost and stopped to ask directions. The quality of that crowd was about the same as an average redneck carnival. There was a bar… except it served only soft drinks and water.
Unless I someday attend a Big Ten women’s basketball game, this will go down in my personal history as the single worst sporting event I’ve ever attended.
While I was standing there still processing this scene, a little kid came running up to me and started talking to me like he knew me. Slowly, it dawned on me:
This is TripleSH. This is the wrestler who invited me here.
He was like 5'5” and might have weighed 110 pounds. I’ve seen more muscle on a chicken wing than on this guy. I’ve taken shits bigger than him. He was wearing spandex tights, a singlet, a terry-cloth headband… AND A CAPE.
He was giddy that I was there and introduced me to the promoter—some greasy sleezeball I wanted a glove to shake hands with—while bouncing around me like a little kid. He wasn’t the only one sweating me. The whole gaggle of TuckerFest nerds from the hotel had shown up.
You should have seen the “bikini contest” I was there to judge. It was like Lucifer opened the doors to hell and unleashed the Ragnarok. For real. I am pretty sure one of the girls had a vestigial tail. I wouldn’t have fucked these girls with Rosh’s dick and TripleSH pushing.
At the time, I thought this would be a legit event, sort of like my celebrity coming-out party. Of course now, looking back at my hubris, I laugh hysterically at myself. Nonetheless, that was my thought process at the time, and this farce made me feel like a joke. I was completely and officially freaked the fuck out and did the only thing I could do: I retreated deep inside myself. Stood there like a statue, silent, unable to move, unable even to process the trauma I was witnessing.
Jojo, being the cocksucker that he is, found it endlessly amusing because I was now face-to-face with my fans, the fans that I thought having made me cool, when in fact most of them were the biggest posers and losers on earth.
Jojo “Max, you’re famous!!”
Tucker “Dude, what the fuck is going on?”
Jojo “These are your fans, Max. This is your fame!”
Tucker “Fuck you. If these are my fans, I’m out. If this is fame, I don’t want it.”
Jojo “Come on Max, they love you! Embrace them! Don’t give a fuck and just fuck shit up.”
Tucker “Look at them, dude… I think I’d rather die.”
So what did Jojo do? Did he try to counsel me, maybe help me work through these issues, perhaps help me probe my narcissism to understand why I was reacting this way? Fuck no. In law school, Jojo’s nickname was the Instigating Negro because he constantly fucked with people. He would find your weakness or pain and then hammer that sensitive spot over and over again, causing you maximum awkwardness and him maximum enjoyment. He decided to fuck with me by acting the way that all my poser fans wanted me to act: like a fucking fool.
The dude went straight Koko B. Ware, running around the Elks Lodge with some girl’s pink shirt tied to his head, flapping his arms and yelling at the wrestlers, trying to grab the mike from the announcer, booing the bikini girls, making fun of everybody—basically, everything these people expected me to do in this situation. And I stood there doing nothing. The whole time. Didn’t mock one person, hardly even spoke.
Why was I like this?
This story happened in March of 2003, and as I sit here and putting the finishing touches on it, it is April 2010. It took me seven fucking years to grow up enough to be honest with myself about the nature of my reaction and admit what happened that day so I could write this story:
I sold out. It might not be obvious how, so let me explain.
These people—my fans—were the very definition of posers. They read my stories on the internet, saw in me everything that they weren’t but wanted to be, and then tried to have what I had by pretending to be something they weren’t. They weren’t out to do what I do—celebrate life, drink for the enjoyment of it, and experience the happiness that comes from being around people you like—they were trying to fill the holes in their souls by sucking my essence out of me.
I couldn’t consciously explain all this at that moment, but I could feel the icky residue of their self-loathing all over me. I could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at me. I was not a human being to them. I was an image. An object for them to use to cure their insecurities and negative emotions. And even worse, they expected me to dance like a monkey for them, to be the person they were too afraid to be, to do all the things they wanted to do. They wanted a marionette.
These are the worst kinds of posers, the ones I relish mocking, and I should have absolutely killed them. But I didn’t. Not one single fucking insult. If I had randomly stumbled in there with Jojo and SlingBlade, I would have lit those fucking posers up. But in the moment, I did nothing at all. I treated these people differently, simply because they were my fans.
I’ve gone through my life never caring what other people thought, doing the things I wanted to do and being the person I wanted to be. But by not lighting these fucking posers up the way I normally would have, I was tacitly admitting to myself that I DID care what they thought. Even though I hated them as people, as fans, I cared. I cared because without them, I wouldn’t have fans, and without fans… I wasn’t who I thought I was. So I did nothing. That is fucking selling out, plain and simple.
I’m sorry to get so serious in the middle of a story that is meant to be funny and entertaining, but all I can do when I write is put down what I remember and felt about the events and actions of my life. That is basically the extent of what I remember about that Sunday at the semi-pro wrestling in the Elks Lodge in New Jersey. There is no joke to make. I sold out that day. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen or make up a bunch of insults and funny jokes that never occurred. That would be selling out again, in a way. Better just to truthfully admit my flaws, learn from them, and move on.
Part 7: The Trip Home and the Fallout
Nothing else of note happened on Sunday, except two big things: At some point on Sunday, Rockwolf had the audacity to put up a post on the message board about what he did on Saturday, and then fill everyone in on what happened.
After he jumped out of the RV window and ran off, Rockwolf made his way back to the Teaneck Marriott, got into Nils’s room with a key he stole off Nils, and ordered like $250 of room service, which was mostly two bottles of champagne, that he then took with him and went home (he lived on Long Island).
We tried to call Nils and tell him about this—and to see when we could come get him out of jail—but no one could find Nils. I don’t mean that no one could reach his cell; that was obviously turned off because he was in jail. No, I mean that no one could find any evidence that he even existed. After he left the 32nd Precinct and was transferred to The Tombs for arraignment, he disappeared. All day Sunday, the NYPD claimed to have no record of any Nils Parker ever being in their system. That was not good.
Considering that Nils was a real friend, I actually cared about his welfare and spent most of Monday morning tracking down what happened. Eventually, we found out that his name had been entered incorrectly into the system, “by accident.” His first and last names were reversed, hence no one had been able to locate him and that’s why he wasn’t arraigned until Monday afternoon. Dude spent TWO DAYS in The Tombs. Another reason not to be a dick to cops.
His uncle and I got him out of the clink, and then he called Rockwolf and threatened him. Rockwolf almost started crying on the phone and swore he’d mail him not only a check covering the cost but also an apology. And he did. Nils still has the apology letter:
With that handled, it was time for the RV crew to head back home. The drive was grinding. The keg was tapped, the beers that hadn’t been launched at cars on Saturday were now empty, and we’d even emptied the bar.
The RV looked like it had been looted. Blood, feces, urine, cum, menses, beer, liquor, and grape jelly covered every surface. At least half of the interior was ripped out, ripped up, or broken. The stove no longer had anything removable on it; grills, knobs, everything had been either tossed out the window or broken for drunken enjoyment. The pillows, curtains, and curtain rods were long gone. Ever seen a picture of Detroit? That’s what our RV looked like.
Surveying the damage, TheGinger was catatonic. Sippy had a thousand-yard stare. He looked like a fresh military recruit who’d been rushed into battle, seen the worst carnage imaginable, and left part of his soul on the battlefield. PigPen was so proud that he’d had sex with a real, living girl that he refused to shower or clean himself. He smelled like the panty hamper of a sorority house.
Tucker “Hey, TheGinger, remember how worried you were about the cleaning deposit? Seems like it was yesterday.”
TheGinger “The cleaning deposit? At this point, I’m seriously worried they’re going to make me buy the RV!”
Soylent “There’s a solution to that.”
Soylent pulled some matches out of his backpack.
Soylent “You bought the insurance. We can always just torch it.”
Sippy “WHAT?!? Haven’t we had enough police contact this weekend?”
Tucker “It would be a fitting end to the weekend.”
We discussed the pros and cons of setting the RV on fire and trying to claim a total loss on it, but TheGinger was too paranoid we’d get caught. He ended up canceling his credit card before we got the RV place, and we made sure to return it after they closed, so we didn’t have to be there.
Everything in my life changed after that. That weekend represented the end of an era for me. It was my last truly reckless, balls-to-the-wall, risk-everything-because-I-have-nothing-to-lose weekend. Christ, how the fuck do I top that? Burn down a city? I mean, I basically did the maximum amount of awful, illegal shit without crossing the line into a serious felony. To go any farther, I’d have to do something that even I couldn’t walk away from. I did plenty of crazy shit after that, but nothing quite like the TuckerFest weekend. I think part of me knew that I’d pushed the limits to their absolute breaking point and it was time to ease up on the throttle. I still sometimes marvel that we all made it out of that night alive. Soylent read the first draft of this story and said:
“Reading it on paper, it almost doesn’t seem real. And I was there.”
It was also the first time I’d thought of myself as a “celebrity.” Even though I was just a ridiculous celebrity judge of a broke-dick wrestling event in New Jersey, it was the start of my weird journey into fame, and I had no idea just what I was getting into…
THE POST-FAME SEX STORIES
INTRODUCTION
I wanted to write a best-selling book that made me famous, and my first book did just that. In most ways, the success I’ve had thus far is a dream come true. But here’s what they don’t tell you about achieving your dream:
Once you get it, it’s never, ever what you expect it to be.
Take women for instance. Before I wrote I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, I did great with women, but not really any different from any other awesome guy out there. Yeah, I had game, but I still had to go out and get girls. I couldn’t just sit at home and expect them to come to me; no normal guy can, regardless of how awesome his game is.
Once the book became popular, that changed radically. Over the past five years or so, I’ve been with so many girls, it’s hard to actually quantify. You remember that cartoon Duck Tales, where Scrooge McDuck goes swimming in his giant vault filled with gold coins? Since 2006 or so, it’s been like that for me, except with vaginas.
So what happened? How did I go from “great game” to “a sea of vaginas”? Fame. Being famous changes EVERYTHING. Normal men line up for women, but women line up for famous men, and once I became even a little famous, they lined up for me. I took full advantage of it, and I got tons of hilarious stories from this period… except they weren’t exactly the same type of stories as before.
Accordingly, I have divided this book into two sections. The first part—what you just finished reading—was very similar to my first book in style and content. The second half of this book is slightly different. It is made up of interrelated sex and hook-up stories from the period in my life after IHTSBIH came out (30–34), the time during which girls started coming to me by the thousands. I call them the “The Post-Fame Sex Stories.”
Looking at it from the outside, you might think having all these women wanting to fuck you would be amazing. In some ways, it really is everything you imagine it to be—and more. But everything in life is a trade-off, even the greatest thing you can imagine.
Having an essentially unlimited amount of free pussy is like owning a Ferrari: It’s super-exclusive and hard to get, and everyone who doesn’t have one kinda wishes they did and is a little envious of those who do. But when you actually own it, though you may love certain things about it, you realize what a serious pain in the ass it is, how much it breaks down, and how expensive it is to maintain. You know about the hidden costs that those who don’t own a Ferrari will never understand.
Biggie said it best: “Mo money mo problems.” Pussy is no different.
THE TATTOO STORIES
I don’t have a tattoo, nor do I ever plan on getting one. I barely know what I want for lunch, how the hell will I know what I think is cool at 25 won’t utterly repulse me at 45?
I have nothing against tattoos on other people, but I’m getting pretty sick of flipping a girl over to fuck her from behind and being confronted with another piece of crappy slut art. Yes, honey, I’m sure your specific whore brand has all sorts of unique symbolism that will prove how special you are, but you need to stop turning your head to tell me about it, because I really don’t care.
Despite my personal opinion of them, I have gotten used to whore brands, because they’re like HPV: Most of the female population has them, but has no idea how or why they got them. What I REALLY don’t get are women who put tattoos on or around their vaginas. I mean… WTF? I can’t imagine the scenario where I’d let someone jab a needle full of ink into my penis or ball sack.
In my journey through the vaginas of this great nation, these are the four tattoos that have really made me stop and question where my life is going. Or more accurately, where my penis—that brave but naïve soldier—is being deployed.
AREN’T YOU LUCKY?
Occurred—November 2002
One of the first girls I ever fucked from my website told me she had two tattoos. One was right between her breasts, her initials in Celtic. Whatever. During foreplay, I asked her where the other one was. She hesitated, then said:
“Oh well, I might as well show it to you, you’re going to see it anyway.”
She pulled her pants off to reveal a long string of words right above her vagina, stretching all the way across her pelvis. Set inside alternating blue stars and pink hearts, like a slutty Lucky Charms leprechaun, were the words:
“Aren’t you lucky?”
I looked a
t it for a second.
“That depends on how many guys have been asked that question before me, doesn’t it?”
LUCKY + YOU
Occurred—November 2007
A stripper I was fucking had this tattoo right above her pussy that said, “Lucky + You.” At first I just assumed it was another of the various ways you could phrase something about being lucky to get her pussy (why do women have such issues understanding probability?), but then I thought about it: What the fuck is the + for? She explained it to me:
Girl “My pussy’s nicknamed Lucky. The plus is because you and Lucky are now together.”
Immediately, I was reminded of the old joke: “LOST DOG, one eye missing, mangled ear, paralyzed hind leg, crooked tail. Answers to the name Lucky.”
I made double sure to wrap it with that one.
TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE FUCKING TATTED-UP WHORES
Occurred—October 2007
This girl had been emailing me to fuck for months, and since I wasn’t going to be anywhere near her city anytime soon, one day she decided just to take it upon herself to drive 18 hours. Not fly—drive. 18 hours. To fuck me.
I can understand 4 or 5, even up to 8 hours—after all, I’m awesome. But to DRIVE for TWO days, just for my dick? I wouldn’t even drive that far to masturbate.
As could be easily predicted, she was a hot fucking mess. Great body with nice fake tits? Yes. Everything else a disaster? Yes. I later described her to a friend as “someone who would chase her birth control with warm Natty Light.” I mean, for fuck’s sake, she walked into my place wearing a thin white halter top over a leopard print bra. This is the type of girl I would expect to find passed out in the men’s bathroom of a biker bar.