Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max;Maddox

  ATMMidget “Why were those people getting pissed? They have a shitty sense of humor.”

  Tucker “What can I say? If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em.”

  When two midgets say you can’t take a midget joke, you know you suck.

  We left there and went to another bar. On the street, the midgets pulled out cigarettes. I could not stop laughing at that sight. Midgets smoking looks so ridiculous, like chimps wearing tuxedos.

  We ended up at a bar called BlackFinn. Cool place, very chill, and everyone there loved the midgets. Of course, there were only ten other people there, but still, it was fun. As we were drinking and hanging out, the subject of midget strength came up.

  Tucker “Be serious. You can’t even reach the counter to sign in at a gym, how can you be involved in a discussion of real strength?”

  ATMMidget “Shut up! At the LP convention there are strength contests and stuff like that, and we beat regular people all the time!”

  Tucker “Regular? You mean cripples and people with MS? Get the fuck out of here with that shit. Just because you can lift tiny little weights doesn’t mean you have real strength.”

  Mike “I don’t know man, they only have to move the weight half as far. They have an advantage.”

  ATMMidget “I bet we’re stronger than you!”

  CuteMidget “Yeah!”

  Tucker “How many push-ups can you do?”

  ATMMidget “I’ve done 60 before!”

  Tucker “You can’t even count to 60—it’s too high for you to reach.”

  CuteMidget “We’ll beat you!”

  Tucker “HAHAHAHA. OK, let’s have a push-up contest. Right here. I will do more than both of you COMBINED.”

  We got on the ground in push-up position. ATMMidget started first, and I went movement for movement with her. I have to say, she knocked out 20 pretty fast, and then CuteMidget got right down and knocked another 20 out like it was nothing, and ATMMidget followed her right up with 20 more.

  Shit. They were not slouches.

  Thankfully, they crapped out at 40 apiece, and I was able to keep going, so I won. To their credit, though, I’m in good shape, and they pushed me pretty close to the limits of my consecutive push-up ability. But, like all midgets, they came up short.

  Mike “You know who wins a midget push-up contest? We all do.”

  Then the midgets started dancing on the bar. I wouldn’t even mention it if I didn’t have pics, but it was so fucking funny. The Mexican busboy comes up to Mike and me, and kinda looks at us confused:

  Busboy “Amigo… chicas pequeños?”

  Tucker “No no, amigo. Las MUJERES pequeñas.”

  Busboy “Ohhhh, duendes!”

  Tucker “Sí, sí. Y… estoy chinga los dos.”

  Busboy “Ohhh! Muy bien!”

  Mike “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

  Tucker “I don’t. But I’ve spent enough years working in restaurants, I can talk to Mexicans.”

  [The translation for you monolingual retards who are too lazy to type this into Babel Fish:

  Busboy “Friend… are those little children?”

  Tucker “No no, my friend, they are small women.”

  Busboy “Ohhhh, elves.”

  Tucker “Yes, yes. And I’m fucking both.”

  Busboy “Ohhh! Very nice!”]

  Some pics of them dancing on the bar:

  Last call came and it was time to roll. My hotel was six blocks away, so I put ATMMidget on my shoulders, took CuteMidget by the hand, and wished everyone well.

  New Yorkers think they’re so jaded that it’s impossible to shock them. They think they’ve seen and heard it all, and that may be mostly true. But I can tell you from experience that at 2am in Midtown, pretty much every person on the street will stop and gawk when they see a guy holding hands with one midget and another midget on his shoulders yelling out:

  ATMMidget “WHO RUN BARTERTOWN? I RUN BARTERTOWN!”

  Mike is friends with everyone who works at BlackFinn, and he tells me the Midget Push-up Contest has already reached legendary status there. And even though there were only 10 people in the bar when it happened, Mike tells me it has become like Wilt Chamberlain’s hundred-point game—everyone swears they saw it.

  The actual threesome itself was pretty basic. The thing I really wanted them to do was what I call “the totem pole,” where they get on each other’s shoulders and face me as I stand up, and one kisses me while the other sucks me off. The problem is midgets have frail, weak knees, and neither could support the other’s weight. Oh well, not every fairy tale can have a perfect ending.

  Wait, did I just bitch about a midget threesome?

  Though I definitely had sex with two midgets, I am not entirely sure if I get to count it as a threesome. Maybe in midget math 1 + ½ + ½ = 3. I’ll have to ask about that.

  Lying in bed, basking in my incredible accomplishment, ATMMidget and I had a conversation that brought me down a notch or two:

  ATMMidget “I like hanging out with you. It makes me feel good about myself.”

  Tucker “Why?”

  ATMMidget “Hanging out with you is cool, but what I really like is that, back at school, that first night, you picked me out of all those other girls.”

  Tucker “Really? I don’t mean to be a dick—seriously, I don’t—but you know I picked you that night BECAUSE you’re a midget. I mean, I ended up liking you and I think you’re a cool girl and all… but that’s pretty much the definition of objectification.”

  ATMMidget “Of course I know that, you idiot. Why do you think I fucked you?”

  Tucker “Because I’m awesome.”

  ATMMidget “Uh… no. Because now I can mark ‘fuck a celebrity’ off my Sexual Bucket List.”

  Tucker “Are you fucking serious?”

  ATMMidget “You’re not the only one who can objectify someone.”

  Tucker “You nefarious little munchkin! I feel dirty and used!”

  Who knew such big lessons could come from such little people?

  I FUCKED TUCKER MAX!

  It’s funny, I started out my writing career by going out and finding girls to have sex with, and then writing about it. I got all this success and fame because of my stories, and as a result, girls came to me to have sex instead of me having to go out and pick them up. But now the tables have turned, and all kinds of girls are writing about what it’s like to fuck me.

  I am not going to bore you with speculation about what this means. I don’t even fucking care what it means. I am sure there is some lesson about karma in there, but I don’t give a shit about karma. Karma may be a bitch, but it’s because I fucked her and never called her back.

  Morals learned or not, the stories involving girls fucking me and writing about it are pretty funny.

  THE PENN STATE LEMONDROP GIRL

  Occurred—September 2009

  This whole incident happened on the premiere tour for the I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell movie. Instead of going back and writing about it from my current perspective, I’m just laying it out as it happened. First is my write-up of the event, then her article about sleeping with me, which was published on Lemondrop.com, then my response.

  Part 1: My Initial Write-up About the Penn State Premiere (as Posted on the Movie Blog)

  At the end of the night, there were two girls who were kinda vying to go home with me. There was a really hot blond girl—like seriously smoking hot—but she was playing the I’m-too-sexy-for-this-shirt game. Not the best play with me. Then there was another really cute girl, also blond, like a year or two younger and very fun and eager. She was the type you just KNOW likes to fuck.

  I would have been down with either, and I was willing to let everything play out, but of course Bill Dawes, a friend and comedian who was traveling with us on tour, decided to fuck with me. I went to the bathroom, leaving the two girls sitting there with an empty chair between them. Bill went up to the cute one and said:

  Bill “I don’t think
you’re going to win this one, Baby Fat. You better step up your game.”

  She got a panicked look on her face and raced to the bathroom to find me. Inside, she got her friend to promise to sleep with Jeff if I fucked her. With that in my pocket, I went back to the table and sat next to the superhot one.

  Tucker “You coming home with me or not?”

  HotGirl “Let’s stay here for a while, see what happens.”

  Don’t check raise me, honey. I will come over the top and go all in, and I will always win, because I don’t care about the result.

  I told the cute one to call a taxi for us, and when the hot one was in the bathroom, I left with the cute one. The hot one came back and sat down, to find Dawes in the seat I used to occupy.

  HotGirl “You can’t sit there, that’s Tucker’s seat.”

  Bill “Not anymore. He just left with that other girl.”

  Bill’s description of her facial expression: “Like someone who just saw her puppy get run over.”

  Ladies, there’s a lesson here: Playing games and acting like a coy bitch works with a lot of guys. Not with me.

  As we were leaving the bar and getting into the taxi, someone yelled out to the cute girl, “You’re going to be famous!”

  We went back to the hotel and had sex, no big deal. After we hooked up, she said this:

  CuteGirl “I have never hooked up with a guy outside of a relationship.”

  Tucker “Um, hello—we aren’t dating.”

  CuteGirl “You don’t count, you’re not a real person.”

  The next morning in the lobby:

  Nils “What’s your girl’s name?”

  Tucker “Wait… shut up, I know this one!”

  Part 2: I Slept with Tucker Max, the Internet’s Biggest Asshat

  by Courtney A., a senior at Penn State

  Reprinted from Lemondrop, September 23, 2009

  Tucker Max. If you’re in college, you probably know him and his infamous stories.

  If not, let me enlighten you. Tucker Max is a blogger-turned-author-turned-movie-producer who’s basically famous for drinking to obliteration and having sex with girls whom he later savages in graphic detail on his site, TuckerMax.com.

  Why does anybody care? Unfortunately, he happens to be pretty smart and a funny writer, so he landed a book deal. A few years later his collection of tell-all drunken sex essays, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, was made into a movie.

  I met him at a bar after his premiere in State College. And I slept with him.

  This is my story.

  It was a Monday night, about a quarter to 11, and I was watching TV with my roommates. I’d asked a few people to go out but no one was feeling up to it. Then, I got a text from my friend Steph: “If you want to meet Tucker Max, come to Cafe 210.”

  I was a longtime fan and I’d been dying to meet him, so I got dressed as fast as I could and ran out the door. It was only the second week in school, and in my apartment I was already getting teased for my promiscuity. My roommates laughed as I left and told me to make sure to bring him back! “Yeah, like I’m gonna have sex with Tucker Max,” I thought.

  I was expecting a huge line at the bar, but when I showed up, it was totally dead. I asked the bouncers if they’d heard anything about Tucker Max coming there. “I hope not,” one of them replied. Inside, I found some of my friends and some girls who were clearly Tucker’s tour groupies assembled. We waited a little while, and just when I thought he wouldn’t show, Tucker finally arrived.

  Immediately a drunk girl latched onto him, hugging and kissing and falling all over him. She was cute, and I was just about to sigh, “Well, he’s already got his hook-up tonight,” when my friend Rosie snarled, “That’s pathetic. Who wants to be that girl?” Regardless, we worked our way into the crowd surrounding Tucker, until we were face to face with him. I shook his hand, and told him I was a huge fan. His response? “Will you fuck a virgin?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ll fuck anyone.” Big mistake.

  Tucker yelled for his friends to go get some kid, apparently the aforementioned virgin, because he’d “got one” for him.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “Is he cute?”

  “No,” said Tucker. “He’s fat.”

  I replied that I had standards; Tucker replied that I was a whore.

  Well, this was off to a great start. Tucker continued to try and get this kid laid while this drunk girl continued to follow him around like a lost puppy. My mission forgotten, I went back to chatting with my friends. Finally, Steph handed me her camera and suggested that Rosie and I ask to take a picture with him. We did, and this time, Tucker blatantly looked me up and down.

  “34 C?” Tucker asked.

  “32 C,” I replied, “but good guess. What, are you trying to touch them or something?”

  “Oh, I know I can touch them,” he said. “But I like to guess first.”

  When I went back to sit with my friends, they’d been joined by a couple of Tucker’s tour guys. Eventually, the man himself showed up.

  “So,” he asked, scooting in next to me. “Are you coming back with me tonight?”

  I have two options. One: dignity. Two: a good story to tell later. So I snuck off and texted my best friend, Matt. “Should I fuck Tucker Max?” His response: “You will be a GOD in my eyes.”

  It’s done. Around 1:30, I told Tucker that I would, in fact, go home with him. “Oh, I know,” he replied. “We have a cab waiting, let’s go.”

  We got into the cab with everyone at the bar waving and giving the thumbs up. The best part? I didn’t even know most of them. Tucker took me back to the Hampton Inn where he was staying, showed me his tour bus (which was pretty sweet) and I met his dog, whom he talks to like somebody’s aunt talking to a baby, except that he told him, “Say hello to the new slut!”

  Finally, in his room, he wasted no time getting completely naked. Like, no foreplay at all. Well, girls? Here’s everything you wanted to know about Tucker Max: His body is nice, but a little too hairy. He’s a great kisser. He screws like he’s jackhammering a sidewalk. I faked orgasm to get him to stop. After he was finished he told me we were going to do it again in the morning. Great! I should have gotten up and left, but then he wanted to chat.

  We talked about normal things, like how he eventually wanted to get married and have kids, which was a shock.

  “You’re 33,” I said. “Shouldn’t you get a move on?”

  He said that he wasn’t interested in being in relationships, and I told him I liked being in them, at which point he totally misunderstood me and proceeded to tell me that we couldn’t date.

  “You’re not a real person,” I replied, by way of explanation. I also told him about this guy I was kind of hung up on and he was surprisingly nice and insightful, telling me that I was a cute girl and that I shouldn’t pin my hopes on some dude at my age.

  The next day, he woke me up for sex, as promised. It was worse, because he was panting this time, and when he was putting his clothes on, he farted loudly, multiple times. I called a cab, and he gave me 20 bucks for the cab which I gladly took. (Hey, I’m in college.) He hugged me and said, “I’d totally hook up with you again. Call me if you’re ever in L.A.”

  Eh. I think one episode of stunt sex is all I’ll ever need.

  Part 3: Tucker Max Responds to Courtney, His One-Night Stand Who Told All

  Reprinted from Lemondrop, October 1, 2009

  If you’re reading this, then you’ve probably read the “I Slept With Tucker Max” piece that started it. Basically, a girl I fucked in State College wrote her account of what happened. I have to say, I applaud young Courtney for two things:

  1. Using her real name and picture. I would have had very little respect for her if she’d written all of this anonymously, but she didn’t. If you are going to kiss and tell, be honest and open about it, and she was. Very cool.

  2. Being pretty fair and honest about everything. For the most part, she left out all the insecure
editorializing bullshit that girls usually put into those things, and basically told it like it was. I was very impressed with her fairness and objectivity.

  In fact, I was so impressed with the whole piece that I didn’t even feel the need to write any sort of comprehensive rebuttal. Though I disagreed with a few things, and she left a few things out, I was going to let it all lie, because it was far more true than not. The fact that she was fair and reasonably accurate and actually spoke from a position of experience instead of just assuming what I was like secondhand, that immediately put her ahead of 95 percent of the people who write about me.

  Yes, there were a ton of details she left out. Like when this other hot girl was all up in my shit, and Bill Dawes went up to her and said, “Hey, Baby Fat, I think you’ve lost this one,” and she took off and got her friend to promise to fuck my friend Jeff if I left with her. I had actually forgotten about that until Jeff reminded me, but it’s an irrelevant detail. The basic point is that she came out to fuck me, and she readily admitted that, so whatever. It’s a story not a police report; she got enough right.

  But when Lemondrop asked me if I wanted to write a rebuttal, I took them up on it. I couldn’t help it. Not for the reasons you might think. But I couldn’t stop myself from writing this, because of one thing she wrote:

  “He screws like he’s jackhammering a sidewalk. I faked orgasm to get him to stop.”

  I don’t have any beef with her description of me in bed. I would prefer the phrasing “dominant and aggressive,” but whatever; you can call me a jackhammer, the difference is semantics.