Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max;Maddox

  This perpetual state of crisis allowed her to probe the emotional landscape of the relationship. What I would tolerate, how I responded to issues, and where my weaknesses and vulnerabilities were. Guys, let me explain something else to you: A woman in constant crisis is a Charybdis to be avoided at all costs. I know that sometimes it can feel nice to be the problem solver or the white knight, but her problems are a way to (1) control you, (2) soothe and reassure her insecurities, and (3) use you as a shield from the world so she doesn’t have to face her inability to deal with reality. Alexa was doing all of this to me and, like a pussy-whipped teenager, I was falling for it.

  Once she figured out what worked and what didn’t, she knew how to run me, got secure in her position, and shifted from playing the role I wanted to being who she really was. The cool, mature girl became a petulant child, who pouted and whined about everything. The fun, carefree girl who was always down for a good time became insufferably selfish and evidenced a complete lack of empathy for anything or anyone. The mature, grounded girl with ambitious plans for the future started to display a soul-sucking insecurity about everything in my life, becoming petty and manipulative about even the smallest things.

  A specific incident really sticks out in my mind as the moment I began to recognize that this girl wasn’t who I thought she was. When I met Alexa, I was living in NYC; I was only staying in LA for a few months to sell the TV show. My last night in LA before I went back, Alexa and I went to a really nice sushi dinner with Bunny and a few other friends. Alexa was a fucking brat all night because she wasn’t the center of attention—this was mainly because the people at the table were really smart and she had nothing to add to the conversation, since it wasn’t about celebrity relationships or haute couture or any of the five or so topics she could speak about intelligently. Afterward, trying to be nice, I decided we’d go to her favorite dessert place. Like any spoiled child who manipulates the situation into her way, this cheered her up immediately.

  Alexa was one of those girls everyone hates because they can eat the worst shit and still have amazing bodies. Because of this, she was always eating candy and cereal and pizza, but her favorite thing in the world is a dessert called a Bazookie. It is a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie served in a round baking tin, with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and fudge on it. She LOVED that thing, even ordering it delivered to her house.

  We got one to share for the table. When it came, she attacked it. Not in a funny or playful way. She was—and I cannot be more literal about this description—knocking people’s spoons out of the way with her spoon and taking their bites away from them. Her selfishness was so aggressive, I half expected sparks to fly off the colliding metal utensils. It was almost inconceivable that an adult would act that way.

  I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. She got this expression on her face that was equal parts rage, greed, and malice. You know what it reminded me of? The look that Gollum, from The Lord of the Rings movies, got when he was jealous of Samwise’s relationship with Frodo. The CGI in that movie did an amazing job capturing the evil, soulless eyes of a sociopath, and as Alexa ripped fudge-drenched cookie out of my spoon, I saw those eyes in her. The curtain on her soul was pulled away for a brief second, and it was awful: no capacity for true emotion or love, no empathy, not even the remotest possibility of consideration for others. There was nothing human there, only someone who knew how to pretend really, really well. It was spooky.

  Even though I felt all of this that night, I didn’t have the courage to fully admit it to myself. I couldn’t accept what I had seen and then act on it accordingly. I had built her up in my mind to be what I wanted her to be, and she had played that role so well, that even when I saw something that made me know in my heart it was all a sham… I just couldn’t face the harsh truth. I should’ve learned my lesson, broken up with her, dealt with the fallout, and moved on. But I didn’t. Instead, I ignored my intuition, pretended it didn’t happen, and went back to NYC, still believing in my fantasy.

  It was stupid, weak, and cowardly, I know. But it’s what I did.

  A month later she came to NYC with her parents and her brother, to visit her sister (who went to Columbia). Alexa was staying with me in my new apartment in Chinatown. Alexa was even worse when she was around her mom—where do you think she learned how to be a soulless sociopath?—and she was an insufferable cunt as soon as she got to my place.

  Of course, it probably didn’t help that my ex-girlfriend Bunny was staying with me at the time also. This was a recipe for disaster that a kindergartner would have enough emotional intelligence to avoid, but I was far too narcissistic to recognize it. I mean, yeah, Bunny and I had dated, but that was four years ago, and we hadn’t slept together since that time, and Bunny was my best friend. How could this possibly upset Alexa?

  No, really—that was my fucked-up thought process at the time.

  All Alexa and I did the whole week was fight. And not good fighting. It was the bitter and hurtful type of arguing that people do when they won’t face what they’re really mad about. My place became like an episode of COPS: empty bottles and cans; abusive, vitriolic, top-of-your-lungs screaming; neighbors pounding on the walls; exes and current girlfriends in the same apartment. All we needed was some dirty underfed children running around in diapers and the redneck milieu would have been perfect. And of course, no matter how much we yelled or screamed or what we said to each other, Alexa and I always ended up fucking like rabbits anyway.

  Bunny “Tucker, if you’re going to break up with her, you shouldn’t keep sleeping with her. It sends the wrong message.”

  The second to last night she was in town, Alexa, Bunny, and I went to meet my agent and his wife at the Mercer Hotel for drinks. Alexa was mad and said nothing all night. She just typed on her Sidekick, ignoring everyone. I was so embarrassed at what a childish brat she was being that we ended up fighting some more, and I took her home early.

  Back at the apartment, we argued more, and Alexa threw her Chanel bronzing powder onto the marble tiles on my floor, smashing the container into a thousand pieces and casting a permanent golden hue into the mortar. Considering the tiles were black, it was actually kind of pretty.

  This momentary pause for reflection was very short-lived. We picked up the arguments with renewed vigor. I honestly don’t know what we were arguing about or what was said, but I do remember that she flew into a rage at something… and took a swing at me.

  No, seriously: She struck me.

  It wasn’t like she could cause substantial damage, and she didn’t use a weapon or stab me or anything like that, but she unquestionably physically assaulted me, in anger, during an argument.

  Tucker Max, victim of domestic violence.

  I hope you are laughing as hard reading that sentence, as I just did writing it.

  Jokes aside, arguing is one thing, but physical violence is something entirely different. By then, I knew we were going to break up, but there is nothing that will harden your resolve and force change quicker than someone putting their hands on you in anger.

  Tucker “That’s it. We’re done. You need to go stay with your parents at the Ritz. You can catch a cab outside.”

  She tried yelling again for a second but stopped when I calmly told her that if she didn’t leave in a timely manner, I’d call the cops. She got really quiet and creepy, put on tons of makeup, and then loudly started telling me about how she was going to hurt herself.

  Alexa “I don’t even know how to get to their hotel. I’ll just sleep in the street.”

  I ignored her.

  Alexa “And I’m going to buy drugs from homeless people.”

  Kept ignoring her.

  Alexa “And I’ll probably get raped and die. I don’t care anymore.”

  Whereas this sort of emotional manipulation might have worked to some extent as recently as 30 minutes earlier, I was now unreachable. Much later than it should have been, I had finally admitted to myself who and what Alexa rea
lly was.

  She packed up all her stuff and stood in the living room staring at me. I watched Arrested Development and pretended she didn’t exist. No matter what she said, I just ignored her. Depriving her of attention was too much for her to take, I guess; she eventually exploded again, throwing her iPod at me. I have to say, she has a good arm, and good aim, because it hit me hard, square on the chin.

  It’s weird, but super-high-stress situations seem to bring a calm over me. If my vacuum cleaner won’t start, I get enraged and freak out and can’t deal with it. But put me in a ten-car pile-up or bar fight or something like that, and I’m calm as a baby on Benadryl. That’s one of the few benefits of having parents who are yellers; you learn at a young age how to stay calm in the face of serious stress and trauma.

  I stared at her for a second, picked up the iPod, walked casually out onto my deck, took a little crow hop, and launched that thing like Ichiro gunning out a runner from right field. The blue face lit up and pinwheeled away into the night, making an audible ping as it bounced off the lower level of the Manhattan Bridge. It was beautifully symbolic, watching Alexa’s dysfunctional playlist spin its way out of my life. A very Zen moment.

  I know it wasn’t the most mature way to deal with my emotions, but it worked. I came back into the apartment smiling and happy. Alexa wailed:

  Alexa “You’re buying me a new one! Oh my God—at least you didn’t throw the Chanel case.”

  Addendum

  It would be nice to end the story here and be able just to blame everything on her and make myself out to be a hero, fighting the good fight against the crazy, fucked-up LA whore.

  But we all know that’s not the whole story; this coin obviously has two sides. I’m a guy, and I’m weak in the face of pussy, and I have my own issues that led to me dating this girl… and because of this, I ended up fucking her two more times.

  The first time was about a year after we’d broken up. I was living in LA and hadn’t really talked to her at all since we had broken up and she left NYC, even though she called me every few months. She had just broken up with a famous guy she was dating, and being the emotional vampire she was, she needed a soul to suck life out of. She was so persistent and still.so.fucking.hot, in a moment of weakness and stupidity, I told her what bar I was at. Once there, it only took twenty minutes before she got to the point:

  Alexa “I want to come home with you.”

  Tucker “No chance.”

  Alexa “Why not?”

  Tucker “Because fucking you is a bad idea.”

  Alexa “WHAT? Why?”

  Tucker “Let’s see—you’re a toxic, codependent sociopath. And like every girl in LA, you have herpes.”

  Alexa “I DO NOT! Whatever. You don’t want to fuck me anyway.”

  Tucker “Why, you on your period?”

  Alexa “No! Gross!”

  Tucker [bored at this point, so totally kidding] “What… you pregnant?”

  Alexa [overdramatic, soap opera pause] “Yeah.”

  Tucker “Are you fucking serious?”

  Alexa “Yeah.”

  Tucker “You fucking whore! YOU WERE GOING TO FUCK ME AND NOT EVEN TELL ME YOU WERE PREGNANT??”

  Alexa “I was going to get the abortion today, but I decided to wait—BECAUSE I WANTED TO FUCK YOU!”

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be true. She didn’t just say that. This is not real. No one is this fucking evil!!!

  If I really thought about it, and fully processed this statement and what it meant, both to me and her, I am fairly confident the resulting insights would collapse the balance of cognitive dissonances I have about many aspects of my life, and emotionally obliterate me. So instead of thinking about these things, I just started laughing.

  Tucker “HAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHA.”

  Alexa “That’s not funny!”

  Tucker “HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA.”

  Alexa “Stop it! Why are you laughing?”

  Tucker “I’m just so happy that it’s not mine.”

  Alexa “FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU!

  I mean, it can’t get worse than that, can it?

  It can, and it did.

  Because I still fucked her.

  THAT night.

  I know, I know. Let’s just focus on the good things I do.

  What I thought would be a one-time fuck turned into her staying at my place for two days. My roommate at the time thought it was great, because she would walk around naked. I didn’t, because I knew what kind of scar touching this flame would leave.

  Tucker “This is great and all, but don’t you need to go get an abortion?”

  Alexa “Stop trying to push me out. I think you like your dog more than you like me.”

  Tucker “Of course I do. I love my dog. She’s loyal, affectionate, and caring.”

  Aexa “You love your dog more than you ever loved me!”

  Tucker “Of course I do, probably because I don’t even like you. If I thought it would make Murph one percent happier, I would throw you off a building.”

  Alexa “I HATE YOU!”

  Tucker “Hate and love are emotions. You are a sociopath. You don’t feel anything.”

  After this, I didn’t hear from her until early 2009. That encounter is told in the final story in the book, “Good Game, Great Game, and No Game.”

  To this day, she still tries to get back in my life. Using any excuse she can, she’ll text me or Facebook me. I’m not really sure why she keeps trying. Probably because I am the only person ever to be decent to her and treat her like a human. Or maybe she does it because it worked a few times in the past.

  There might be some shred of humanity still left in her, I don’t know. As much as I saw flashes of evil, I thought I saw flashes of good too, deep down. Maybe it’ll come out later in her life and she’ll turn it around, like Darth Vader. But as of now, take my warning:

  LA girls aren’t human, they have no souls, and they’ll steal your soul from you if you let them.

  TUCKER MAX: BABY KILLER

  Occurred—various 2005–2010

  Due to the potent combination of my sexual recklessness and the slutty nature of some of the girls I have slept with, I have accumulated so many stories and anecdotes about abortion that they could name a Planned Parenthood clinic after me. A normal person might feel bad about that and examine his decision-making processes, but instead of doing that, I decided to put them all together into one story for the entertainment of millions. Let no one say I’m not a giver.

  While writing this intro, I was having problems with striking the right balance between being funny and making a point, so I emailed Nils, possibly the world’s best abortion joke artisan, for help.

  Nils “There are so many ways to go with this. I mean, just think about the history of how you looked at abortion as a human being? When you’re younger, you think of abortion as this huge shameful, painful ordeal that happens to girls with bad parents in nondescript buildings in the bad part of town. Now you’re older and you’re writing them off your taxes. That’s funny.”

  Tucker “Yeah, but I think I need to make a point too, not just tell jokes. You’re the one who loves abortions and thinks they’re hilarious. I can find the humor in them, but I’m not the aficionado you are. I’m more of a midget guy.”

  Nils “Any procedure that can erase a massive lapse in judgment while at the same time saving hundreds of thousands of dollars and no fewer than 18 years of responsibility for the welfare of another human being, and can be performed with what amounts to a Black & Decker wet/dry vac from your local Home Depot—that’s a procedure from which I will derive countless hours of entertainment. Don’t forget the coat hangers either. Can’t forget them.”

  Tucker “I’m thinking about doing something about how all the assorted haterz try to accuse me of things I don’t do, like rape people or hate women, whereas they miss the one thing I actually do: kill unborn babies. Or maybe I’ll do something with the process by which I discuss
abortion with a girl who is pregnant. It’s not always an easy thing to bring up or talk about. Though I’m not sure how to make that funny.”

  Nils “I’m at the gym right now and laughing out loud like a retard because for some reason all I can think of is some girl deciding to keep the baby just to spite you, and you going over to her house with a bullhorn and a picket sign yelling, ‘HEY! HEY! HO! HO! THAT UNBORN BABY HAS GOT TO GO!!’ Maybe do something with that.”

  Do something with THAT?

  I can’t. I’m just going to move on to the stories:

  —One night I met a random at a bar. We got real drunk and had sex, and the next morning we realized that we had sex at least once without a condom.

  Girl “Are you going to come with me to get the morning-after pill?”

  Tucker “No. Why would I do that?”

  Girl “Because I don’t want to go alone.”

  Tucker “Don’t you have friends?”

  Girl “I’m not asking them to come with me! You fucked me, you have to come.”

  Tucker “Not happening.”

  Girl “What if I get pregnant? I don’t want to get another abortion.”

  Tucker “That’s fine. If you get knocked up, I’ll just kick you in the stomach until it dies.”

  Girl “What?”

  Tucker “Technically, that’s not an abortion. It’s a miscarriage. Problem solved.”

  —This happened in bed, with a girl who was ridiculously into me at the bar.

  Girl “We can’t have sex.”

  Tucker “Why not?”