More from the Sushi Pants guy

**AntiSoCalSkier** · 09-14-2004, 10:27 AM

Remember that story about the guy with the portable breathalizer who got REALLY drunk? Someone posted it on here a while ago. Browsing another forum (I don't work, I just hang out on intraweb forums all day) I found another story by the same guy. (You can get all of his stories here ). It's long, BUTT well worth the read. After reading it, I'd be interested in a professional ANALysis of this guy's personality.

I spent the summer between my 2nd and 3rd year of college suckling on the parental teat in South Florida. It was the absolute prime of my “do anything to get laid” phase. I was recently freed from a 4-year long-distance relationship that began in high school and I wanted nothing more than to have sex with as many girls as possible.

Most of the things I did that summer are not story-worthy; you can only tell the same, “I got drunk on Dom and ****ed this hottie” story so many times before it gets annoying. That summer I experienced every random sex situation that a 20 year old can imagine: ****ing on the beach, getting head from random girls in club bathrooms, sleeping with 3 different girls in a day, getting so drunk I passed out during sex, getting arrested for receiving fellatio in the pool at the Delano, blah, blah, blah…Jesus. What does it say about how ****ed up my life is that I don’t consider these stories to be extraordinary anymore?

Anyway, while most of my stories may not be extraordinary for me, there is one very notable exception…

I was seeing one girl, “Jaime,” about twice a week. She was a fresh arrival to South Beach, having moved there 5 months ago from upstate New York as a 19 year old with a modeling contract. We met through a mutual friend who befriended her while they were shooting a TV commercial. Five weeks and lots of sex later, she thought we were dating. I knew better, but she was way too hot to bother correcting her assumption.

The ex-girlfriend of 4-years I previously spoke about was very sexually conservative. It was missionary in the dark and then straight to sleep, with maybe a blowjob on the weekends if she’d had a few glasses of wine with dinner (it was a high school relationship, I didn’t know any better). After four years of this, I was ready to experience all the things I’d missed out on (when I wasn’t cheating on her, of course).

Buttsex, known in the biz as “anal,” was one of these unknowns, and I decided that I wanted to try it. Jaime was the perfect partner: very hot and very sweet, and more importantly, very naïve and very open to suggestion.

She was reluctant at first, not understanding why we just couldn’t keep having normal sex, so I had to employ my persuasive powers:

Jaime “But…I’ve never done it.”
Tucker “I’ve never done it either; it can be our thing.”

Jaime “But…I don’t know if I’ll like it.”
Tucker “You won’t have to worry about getting pregnant.”

Jaime “But…I like normal sex.”
Tucker “Everyone’s doing anal. It’s the ‘in’ thing.”

Jaime “But…I don’t know…it seems weird.”
Tucker “It’s the preferred method in Europe. Especially with the runway models. Don’t you want to do runways in Europe?”

After a few weeks of this, she finally consented. Though she agreed to let me put my penis in her small hole, she extracted a promise in return:

“OK, we can try anal sex, but I want it to be special and romantic. You have to take me out to a nice place, like The Forge or Tantra, NOT one of your parent’s restaurants, and it has to be a weekend night, NOT a Monday. And you have to keep taking me out on weekends. I’m tired of being your Monday night girl.”

I made reservations for the next Friday at Tantra. Aside from being insanely expensive, Tantra is famous for having grass floors. Really; they put in new sod every week. They also advertise their food as “aphrodisiac cuisine.” Yes, at that point in my life, I thought these things worked.

Thanks to my father’s connections, I got us a corner booth in the grass room. She was quite impressed. I ordered like it was the Last Supper. No expense was spared. Two $110 bottles of merlot, veal rack, stone crabs, the Tantra Love platter--it was lavish and decadent. I was 21, stupid, and wanted to **** Jaime in the butt; I wasn’t about to let a $400 tab get in my way.

By the time we left Tantra, this girl had doe eyes that would have made Bambi looked like a heroin-chic CK model. She could not have been more in love with me. The entire drive back to my place she was rubbing my crotch, telling me how badly she wanted to me to **** her, how hot I made her, etc, etc. We get back to my place and our clothes are off before we even get in the door. We collapse on the bed and start ****ing. Normal vaginal sex at first, just like always.

Now, what she did not know, and what I have not told you yet, was that I had a surprise waiting for her.

[Aside: Before I tell you what the surprise was, let me make this clear: As I stand right now, 27 as of this writing, I am a bad person. At 21, I was possibly the worst person in existence. I had no regard for the feelings of others, I was narcissistic and self-absorbed to the point of psychotic delusion, and I saw other people only as a means to my happiness and not as humans worthy of respect and consideration. I have no excuse for what I did; it was wrong and I regret it. Even though I normally revel in my outlandish behavior, sometimes even I cross the line, and this is one of those situations….but of course, I’m still going to write about it.]

This was going to be my first time foraging in the ass forest, and I wanted to have a reminder of my trip, a memento I could carry with me the rest of my life…so I decided to film us.

I planned this beforehand, but I was afraid she would decline, so instead of being mature and discussing this with Jaime, I just made the executive decision to get it on camera…without telling her.

That alone is pretty bad. But instead of just setting up a hidden camera…I got my friend to hide in my closet and film it.

No really--I know that I will burn in hell. At this point, I’m just hoping that my life can serve as a warning to others.

I left my door unlocked and we arranged it so that around midnight my friend would go over to my place and wait until my car pulled in, and then run into the closet and get the camera ready. The top half of the closet door was a French shutter, so it was easy to move the slats and give him a decent camera shot through the closed door.

By the time Jaime and I got to the bed, I was so drunk I had forgotten that he was filming this, and of course she had no idea he was there. After a few minutes of standard sex, she kinda stopped and said, all serious and in her best seductive soap opera voice, “I’m ready.”

I quickly flipped her over and grabbed the brand new bottle of AstroGlide I had on my bedside table.

A week prior, after Jaime consented to buttsex, I realized that I didn’t have any idea how to do it. How exactly do you **** a girl in the ass? Luckily, I had the world’s best anal sex informational resource at my disposal: The gay waiter. I consulted several gay waiters who worked at one of my parents restaurants about the mechanics of buttsex, and each one recommended AstroGlide as the lubricant of choice. Much to my dismay, I learned that spitting on your dick is not enough lube for buttsex. Stupid, lying porn movies.

The other important piece of advice I remembered was from Calvin, “Make sure you use enough, because if this is her first time, she’ll be especially tight, and it might hurt her. Use enough to really loosen her up and go slow until she gets used to it. Then it’s smooth sailing from there.”

Well, since some is good, more is better, right? At 21, this seemed logical.

I opened the cap, crammed the bottle top into her *******, and squeezed. I probably emptied half of the 4-ounces of AstroGlide into her. I have since learned from homosexuals that a 4-ounce bottle usually lasts them about 6 months. So yeah--I overdid it.

But Tucker Max wasn’t done. Oh no, after depositing enough grease in her to run a Formula One racecar, I dumped half of what remained onto my **** and balls, really wanting to lube up because I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable.

Really--consider my thought process: I was going to **** her in the butt and film it without her consent, yet I was truly concerned about her personal comfort. Sometimes the contradictions in my personality even amuse me.

Predictably, I slid in with ease. She was a little tense at first, but with an Exxon Valdez size load spilled into her poop chute, she quickly loosened up and got into it. I liked it also; it had a different feel to it. Not as good as vaginal sex, a little grainy, kinda tight, but still very nice.

**AntiSoCalSkier** · 09-14-2004, 10:28 AM

Before I knew it I was ****ing her like the apocalypse was imminent, burying it to the hilt with impunity. After a few minutes I was ready to come. My urgency was expressed in my tempo, and I began really jackhammering her. As the excitement got the best of me, I pulled out too far and my dick came out of her ass. I kinda scrambled to grab my dick and put it back in so I could finish off inside of her, but before I could even get a hold of it and put it back in her ass, I heard a faint “psssst” sound and felt something wet and warm hit my crotch.

It was dark in the room (I was not smart or sober enough to leave the lights on for the camera), so after I looked down it took me a few seconds to realize that my dick, balls and groin area were covered in a viscous black liquid. I stopped moving and stared at my strangely colored crotch for a good 5 seconds, completely confused, until I realized what happened:

“Did you…did you just…**** on my dick?”

I reached down to touch the liquid feces, still in complete and utter disbelief that this girl shot explosive diarrhea on my penis, when, without warning, the smell hit me.

I have a very sensitive nose, and I have never been more repulsed by a smell in my life. The combination of synthetic AstroGlide and rancid stench of raw fecal matter combined to turn my stomach, which was full of seafood, veal and wine, completely over.

I tried to hold it back. I really did everything I could to stop myself, but there are certain physical reactions that are beyond conscious control. Before I knew what I was doing, it just came out:

“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”

I vomited all over her ass. Into her crack. Into her *******. On her ass cheeks. On the small of her back. Everywhere.

She turned her head, said, “Tucker, what are you doing?,” saw me vomiting on her, screamed “Oh my God!,” and immediately joined me:

“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”

Watching her throw up on my bed made me vomit even more. Her vomiting all over my bed, me vomiting on her ass, the next step was almost inevitable.

I heard the loud CRASH first, turned to see my friend break through the shutters and rip the closet door off as he, the video camera, and the door tumbled out of the closet and crashed onto the floor next to us:

“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”

The memory of the 2-second span where all three of us were vomiting at once is permanently seared into my brain. I have never heard anything like that symphony of sickness. It was like something out of the old Pink Panther movies.

I think the crowning moment was when my eyes locked with Jaime’s, I saw her moment of realization and then her quick shift from shock and surprise to complete and irreparable anger. Between bouts of hurling she flipped out:

“OH MY GOD--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--YOU FILMED THIS, YOU *******-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-- HOW COULD YOU-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--OH MY GOD-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I LET YOU **** ME IN THE ASS--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH.”

She tried to stand up, slipped on the huge puddle of backflow AstroGlide on the bed, and fell into both my pile and her pile of vomit, covering her body and hair in vomit, **** and anal lubricant. She flailed on the bed for a second, grabbed the top sheet, wrapped it around her, and started running out of my place. Still naked and retching, my dick covered in **** and oil, I followed her as far as my front door.

The last contact I ever had with her is the image I witnessed of her in a dead sprint, a

****, vomit and grease stained sheet stuck to her body, running from my apartment.

POST-SCRIPT:

The camera we used was one of those old fragile ones that filmed onto a VHS tape, and when he crashed out of the closet, the tape recorder and tape broke. It didn't occur to us at that the tape records the images magnetically, and we could take the actual tape itself and get someone to put it in another holster until after we had thrown it out. I know it seems stupid now, and believe me I kick myself about it everyday, but you should have seen the apartment afterwards--the tape was not a high priority. AstroGlide, **** and vomit covered EVERYTHING.

I had to rent one of those steam cleaners, buy a new mattress, and I STILL lost my deposit. It was impossible to get the smell out. The next month was like living in a sewer. Every girl I brought back to my place after that refused to stay there, and some even refused to sleep with me anywhere because of how my place smelled.

What I never found out, and I still want to know, is how the girl got home. I never heard from her again, and the mutual friend who introduced us called her but didn’t get her calls returned. I never heard anything about her or from her again, even though she left her clothes and ID at my place (she wore a tight dress out that night, and didn’t bring a purse or any money with her).

Can you picture that scene? What did she do, hop in taxi? Wave down a passing car? Get on the bus? She lived at least 30 miles away, there is no way she walked home. It perplexes me to this day.

I'm hoping she reads this. Maybe then I’ll find out how she got home.

**basom** · 09-14-2004, 10:43 AM

woah.

sounds a little like apk's 'why not to use pert plus as anal lube' story, but amazingly more fucked up and even more disgusting.

**Woodsy** · 09-14-2004, 11:09 AM

not sure if its true, but I laughed from

I opened the cap, crammed the bottle top into her *******, and squeezed. I probably emptied half of the 4-ounces of AstroGlide into her. I ...

till the vomiting started.

**phUnk** · 09-14-2004, 11:15 AM

4 Drops!

**mr_gyptian** · 09-14-2004, 11:20 AM

If this guy isn't a South Beach plastic surgeon it might be one of the worst instances of misallocated resources in history.

**Spicoli** · 09-14-2004, 11:40 AM

Too many quotes to choose from

“Everyone’s doing anal. It’s the ‘in’ thing.”

"I was 21, stupid, and wanted to fuck Jaime in the butt; I wasn’t about to let a $400 tab get in my way."

Really--consider my thought process: I was going to fuck her in the butt and film it without her consent, yet I was truly concerned about her personal comfort. Sometimes the contradictions in my personality even amuse me."

**Canuk** · 09-14-2004, 11:42 AM

a blow job story from his site...this guy is unbelievable.

The Phantom Menace

One time when I was visiting some friends and family in DC, I went out drinking and ended up going home with a girl. I’ll be honest: this girl was not attractive. But she was into me, and she was there, and perhaps most importantly--she just gave off a blowjob vibe. You know the type; they aren’t good looking or exceptional in any way, but they just give off a look that says ‘I suck dick like I made it up.’

I was pretty drunk when we got back to her place, but that didn’t seem to faze her. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. She grabbed me right as we came in the door, undid my pants as she pushed me onto her white sofa and knelt on the ground in front of me, working me right there in her living room.

My god was I right: She blew me away, literally and figuratively. She must have spent at least 20 minutes fellating me, never once taking her mouth off my penis, slurping at the exact right moments in the exact right places. She was so good my ankles even started sweating. God bless whoever taught her.

As soon as she finished, she went to the bathroom to wash out her mouth (she’s one of those), and I stood up to rifle through my pants pocket and get a condom when I saw the sofa: there was a HUGE skid mark prominently displayed on her WHITE sofa.

I laughed at first. Then I remembered that she drove me to her place…and she lived a good 30 minutes away from where I was staying. As the thought of having to hitchhike 45 miles walked through my mind, she appeared out of the bathroom. Fuck.

Thinking fast, I put my pants on the sofa and romantically whisked her into her bedroom, where I had to fuck her at least 3 or 4 times to get to go to sleep. Once she was safely out, I snuck out of her room and flipped the cushion.

I wonder if she ever found that stain.

and another...

Blowjob Betty

Those incidents were from back when I was young and cared about things like feelings and emotions. As I grew older and my soul became jaded, I realized that I could be an asshole and get away with it, so I became more risky with my blowjob activities.

One time I was with a girl, we’ll call her “Betty.” She lived in a house with three other girls, but they were all out, so we hooked up in her living room. Betty was a master of her craft, and especially loved going down on me. She was hitting the crescendo of her well-conducted symphony of knob-slobbing, but right before I felt myself let loose into her mouth, the door to her house opened.

Her roommate was barely inside when she saw Betty on her knees sucking me off like she was auditioning for a porn movie. Betty, lips still wrapped firmly around my penis, hand wrapped around my shaft, heard the noise and looked up. Momentarily the eyes of the two roommates locked, one walking in the door, the other with my dick in her mouth. At that exact moment in time, two things happened simultaneously:

-I shot my load into Betty’s mouth.
-The roommate screamed and ran back out the door.

I had not come for about three days before this encounter (that is a whole other story), and thus I had a Peter North sized 8-roper waiting for her. This did not sit well with Betty, especially because she was not expecting it.

Betty tried to take the porn star load, but it was just too much. She was not ready and still trying to process the fact that her roommate saw her sucking dick, so she started choking. Not coughing or a slight choke--the bitch was turning red and dying right in front of me, with my seed as the instrument of death.

I was unsure what to do; I’d never seen a girl choke on dick before. I thought that only happened in rap songs.

After about five seconds of watching her retch, the words from the Too Short song “Blowjob Betty” rang through my head, “A young girl died just last night, she choked on sperm in her windpipe…,” so I did the only thing I could think of: I gave her the Heimlich Maneuver.

I grabbed her around her chest just below her breasts and pulled my fists into her ribcage with all my force. After about three times she heaved, coughed my splooge all over her couch and started yelling at me, “STOP IT! [cough] YOU’RE HURTING ME! [cough] STOP ASSHOLE!”

I ended up having to take her to the hospital. Not for asphyxiation--she wasn’t choking after all, the come just surprised her and got in her nose. Nope…in my enthusiasm to save her life, I had succeeded in breaking one of her ribs. The highlight of the night was at the ER when the doctor told me that I did a very good job with the Heimlich. Apparently, you’re actually supposed to break a rib if you do it right.

We never could get the old magic back after that night. It might have been because she couldn’t take a deep breath for two months.

**Red Baron** · 09-14-2004, 12:00 PM

The guy is an ass, he grew up in the same town I did in Florida (Boca Raton), his family owned (owns?) a restaurant near the beach called Max's - (thats his last name). I've never heard a good word about the guy in my life...I will give him some props for writing skills, though...

**CantDog** · 09-14-2004, 12:13 PM

Originally posted by Red Baron
The guy is an ass, he grew up in the same town I did in Florida (Boca Raton), his family owned (owns?) a restaurant near the beach called Max's - (thats his last name). I've never heard a good word about the guy in my life...I will give him some props for writing skills, though...

wait....Max's in Misner center/square/whatever?

That place has the hottest hostesses.

Oh, Boca. Never have I seen so many plasic boobs and corrected noses. Interesting town...you've got your incredibly old people, and then your young incredibly wealthy people. No one there is actually between the ages of 35 and 80--or if they are they've had surgery to look younger.

**Red Baron** · 09-14-2004, 12:24 PM

CantDog; yes, thats the place...and yes on the hostesses too...

**basom** · 09-14-2004, 12:33 PM

6:00pm: Rich shows up at my place. I have not seen Rich in 7 years. He has put on at least 60 pounds of muscle. I am shocked at his size. He is with one of his friends, “Eddie.” They are both in an elite special operations unit that is shipping to the middle east in a few weeks. Eddie is Hispanic, tall, angry, and muscular. He looks around my apartment as if deciding what piece of furniture he wants to break first. I consider that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.

6:01: “So Tucker, I hear you finally learned how to drink a little bit?” Rich smiles at me. They have 2 cases of beer with them. I think maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

7:00: They tell me some of the best stories I have ever heard. Many are tales of clandestine and violent death brought upon unsuspecting international terrorists or stories of sex with third world hookers. I think that this was a good idea.

7:05: We finish our first case.

7:45: I tell them two of my best stories. They are in tears laughing. Eddie tells Rich that he was right, I am the funniest guy he’s ever met. I think that this was a great idea.

8:40: We have finished both cases, and a few shots of moonshine. I am already 6 beers behind each of them, and feeling the alcohol. They look like they could do an iron man triathlon. I begin to think that maybe I am not in their league, drinking wise. This worries me. Then I remember that I am Tucker Max. I am no longer worried.

8:45: Eddie thinks my site is the greatest piece of literature in existence. He says that he aspires to be like me. He wants to hear more stories about me ridiculing fat people and hooking up with hot girls. I decide he is one of my best friends.

8:49: We walk to a pasta bar for dinner. The waitress is immediately displeased by our behavior, “We usually don’t get people as drunk as you coming in here.” I decide her attitude needs an adjustment, “Do you know who these guys are? They routinely risk their lives so you are free to toss your fat ass around Lincoln Park like some haughty tramp, and you question them? Woman, get us some food and liquor, and be quick about it.”

8:50: The manager asks us to leave.

8:58: We go to McDonald’s. The woman in front of me in line spends more than 5 seconds contemplating her order. This infuriates me, “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?? MC-SEABASS?? IT’S THE GODDAMN MCDONALD’S MENU, IT’S BEEN THE SAME FOR TEN YEARS! IT’S ALL MCSHIT! JUST ORDER!”

8:59: She quickly departs the restaurant. One might have described her departure as “fleeing in terror.”

9:00: I don’t know what I want. I just point at the Dollar Menu and say, “Give me all of that.”

9:05: I am displeased with what I get. I try to send back certain items, like the apple pie. The 14 year-old Mexican boy working the Friday late shift doesn’t understand. I get frustrated and just throw everything I don’t like on the floor.

9:07: We decide to play Rich’s favorite game: Window Pickle Races.

9:09: We have about 8 pickles on the window, each making ketchup and mustard streaked trips to the bottom. We argue about who owns each pickle. These become intense and profanity laced arguments. Military guys use very creative curse words. I didn’t even know I had a “cock-holster” or a “man-pleaser.”

9:14: The last people finally flee in terror. The restaurant is empty. We taunt them, and cheer as they leave. They, along with their small children, are all cowards.

9:15: The manager comes out and asks us to leave. Eddie is confused, “We can’t get kicked out of McDonald’s? This is like the DMZ of drunk eating. THIS IS WHY WE CAME HERE!”

9:16: The manager is a frail Mexican woman. She is scared of us. She goes behind the counter, then tells us to leave again. She waves the phone at us, threatening police intervention. We go.

9:45: We arrive at the party. I find the friend who invited me, and introduce my friends.

9:46: We are apparently drunker than I calculated. My friend is appalled, “Dude, man…I told you not to show up this drunk.” Apparently he is confused. I politely attempt to straighten him out, “Who the fuck are you talking too?” This angers him, “Man--look around. This isn’t that type of party.”

9:47: I spend a good 45 seconds perusing the scene. It is a large townhome. There is a big bar, with a bartender. There is a table of hors de’oeuvres. I see several sweater vests. A few anti-war buttons. A couple guys holding glasses of pinot grigio. I tell my friend, “You sir are incorrect. It most decidedly IS that type of party.”

9:48: We walk directly to the bar. I turn to my friends, “Gentlemen--this is going to be a show. You kill terrorists; I destroy poseurs and idiots. Get a drink and watch the artist at work. These people think they’re better’n me.”

9:48: I order 3 top shelf vodkas. They only have well. This angers me, “WHAT KINDA LOW RENT SHIT IS THIS?” I argue with the bartender. I think he is hiding the good stuff from us. I tell him that my friends kill people for a living, and that unless he produces good vodka, he will become a “target of opportunity.”

9:50: An attractive girl comes up and asks what the problem is. I tell her that the rat-fink bartender is trying to make us drink cheap donkey piss. She laughs at this. Since I literally wrote the book on shameless flirting, I shamelessly flirt. She flirts back. I tell her that flirting is nice, but it’s not getting me drunk. She looks at me seductively, and tells me to follow her upstairs. “Can my friends come?” She smiles, “Of course.”

9:51: Eddie whispers in my ear, “Man, I thought your stories were at least a little bullshit, but we haven’t even had a drink and we’re gonna run train. Rich was right; you are the fucking MAN.”

9:52: She takes us to a bedroom. There a few other people there. They are smoking pot and drinking. There is a solitary bottle on the table with greenish liquid in it. The label has the word “Absinthe” on it. I don’t know what absinthe is. I am not afraid.

9:53: The girl takes three glasses, pours sugar over ice, and then pours the green liquid over the ice. It turns clear. This fascinates us. She hands us the glasses, smiles, and says, “This is better than anything down there.”

9:54: I take a sip. Goddamn--my neck muscles flex involuntarily. I can feel my heart start beating irregularly. This shit doesn’t fuck around. I drink more.

9:56: The girl starts kissing one of the pot smokers. Eddie whispers to me, “So much for the gangbang.” I frown at him, “How long have you known women? Dude--They’re all whores. Except our mothers. Just stick to me, I’ll find you some pink stink.”

9:59: One of the guys tells us about absinthe. He says he brought it back from Europe because it is illegal in the US. Apparently, it is very strong (160 proof) and has hallucinogenic properties. I tell him he smells like patchouli oil and bong water. Rich and Eddie laugh hysterically. Tucker has an audience.

10:18: Absinthe is the fucking shit. I am on my second glass, and I’m Fucked-in-Half drunk. Rich and Eddie want to see full-on Drunk Insult Tucker. Loaded up with hallucinogenic alcohol, Tucker is happy to oblige.

**basom** · 09-14-2004, 12:34 PM

10:20: We station ourselves in the kitchen. A fat girl walks in. It’s game time. “Well, say goodbye to all the leftovers.”

10:21: Apparently, this fatty seems to think she can hang. The Medina Division made better tactical decisions:

Fatty What did you say?”
Tucker “Can you not hear me? Are your ears fat too?”
Fatty [Look of astonishment, stares at my friends cracking up] “EXCUSE ME?”
Tucker “I’m sorry. Really I am. [I open the fridge] Would you like cheesecake or chocolate cake? Probably both, I’m guessing.”
Fatty [Turns and leaves in utter astonishment]
Tucker “Hey Sara Lee, I was only kidding! COME BACK HERE--MY FRIEND LIKES TO GO HOGGIN. MORE CUSHION FOR THE PUSHIN! IT’S LIKE RIDING A MOPED!!”

Tucker has arrived.

10:23: Rich knows me from undergrad, and knows how to ride my hot streaks by provoking me, “Come on man, you can do better. There are plenty of people around here to make fun of.”

Express elevator to hell, going down. I give him my voice recorder and a simple order, “Don’t miss anything.”

10:26: I see a girl wearing two colored tank tops over each other. This is too easy:

Tucker “Hey 1985 Madonna, are you gonna get the person who did that?”
Girl Did what?”
Tucker “Spilled 80’s all over you.”
Girl [Confused look]
Tucker “I know I’d be pissed if I looked like an extra from Desperately Seeking Susan.”

10:29: Eddie points out a girl wearing the standard anti-globalization outfit. It is topped off with a “No Blood for Oil” button. Rich whispers in my ear, “You gotta get her. Come on man. Do it--for us…for your country.” Eddie starts humming the God Bless America.

10:29: I storm over. Rich says into the voice recorder, “Target acquired…we are weapons hot.”

10:30: I introduce myself to her as Alger Hiss. She doesn’t get the joke. Time to be blunt:

Tucker “Do you hate the World Bank?”
Girl Uhh, umm, well, I mean, yeah, I feel that...”
Tucker “You don’t hate the World Bank.”
Girl I don’t?”
Tucker “No. You’re mad at your father. You just want daddy to hug you more.”
Girl What?”
Tucker “You were a sociology major weren’t you?”
Girl NO!”
Tucker “What was your major?”
Girl [Pauses] “Uhhh, English Literature.”
Tucker [Pause—to give her a look of contempt] “Did your parents send you a bill for college? How are those Marxist Literary Critique classes working out for you? You work at Barnes and Noble don’t you?
Girl NO--I wor--“
Tucker “Shouldn’t you be blocking an intersection right now? How many anti-sweatshop petitions have you signed--EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE REEBOKS ON. Very-anti globalization to wear those with your animal tested Clinque make-up made in Nepal. Well, at least you’re consistent in your shameless hypocrisy.”
Girl What a fascist piece of shi--“
Tucker “Wait—You ever wake up in the middle of the night because a couple of cats are clawing each other to death outside your window? That’s what it’s like listening to you speak.”
Girl [A mishmash of stammered half insults]
Tucker “Seriously--If I stuck my dick in your mouth would that shut you up?”
Girl Wha…YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!“
Tucker “HEY--Don’t blame me for the wound in your crotch.” [As I walk off] “By the way, you owe us a rib.”

10:31: I turn to Rich and Eddie: “She’ll never recover from that. She’ll never be the same. I’ve completely ruined a human being. Years of expensive therapy and costly drugs can’t reverse that kind of damage…yeah, I have an upper management role in Hell reserved for me.” Rich looks at me and says into the voice recorder, “Damage assessment: Total.” I got the joke the next day.

10:32: We spend the next 45 minutes talking to girls. Surprisingly, most do not seem thrilled to talk to us.

11:16: The fat girl from the first kitchen encounter comes over. With reinforcements. Her backup: A small frail dork that looks like he just finished a Magic The Gathering tournament, a heinous Asian girl, and a greasy haired fat doofus in a camouflage vest. I ask you--Am I here right now? Is this my life?

11:17: The girl starts saying something about what a horrible person I am. I stare at her, but I am not listening. I am preparing myself. I am B-Rabbit. This is the final battle rap. I will win the hostile crowd:

[I interrupt the fat girl] "Ward, I think you’re being a little hard on the Beaver, [as I point to each in turn] so is Eddie Haskell, Wally, and Miss Cleaver."

[To the fat guy with greasy hair in the camo vest] “Look out everyone! It's the Pillsbury Commando! Hey Chunk, when was the last time you washed your hair? Does it give you more hit points to have that grease helmet? I hate to break the news, but +5 defense only counts in Dungeons and Dragons.”

[To the ugly Asian girl] “Why you no rike me? You want me frip over? You no piss me off! ME FIND YOU IN POCKING ROT!! YOU NO TAKE MING ARIVE!!”

[To the small frail dork--I notice he has a lazy eye] “Dude--Look at me when I’m talking to you--BOTH EYES AT ONCE. Are you really this ugly or are you just playing? EVERYONE, BE CAREFUL, THIS GUY LURKS UNDER THE STAIRS AND TRIES TO LICK YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU PASS BY!”

[To the original fatty, pause for effect] “Why do you do this to yourself? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? Look, I’m gonna give you some advice-leave the party, take the geek squad with you, go to Denny’s, order about 10 Grand Slam Breakfasts, and eat your pain away. Won’t be the first time will it?”

11:19: I am finished. The kitchen is quiet, except for Eddie and Rich laughing. The four freaks are completely speechless. Everyone is staring at me. I blurt out, “WHAT? I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would’ve done.” Eddie and Rich promptly remove me from the kitchen.

11:42: The absinthe is kicking into third gear. I am feeling euphoric. Manic even. This is the weirdest drunk I've ever had. I decide it is time to get my little pencil wet.

11:54: I see a hot girl. I walk over and use one of my favorite lines, “Hi. I haven’t insulted you yet, have I?” She laughs. I am in.

11:58: I see the large diamond and accompanying gold band on her finger. Hot Girl is Married Girl.

12:06: I talk to Married Girl for a few minutes. I try to think of a good way to broach the marriage subject to find out if she wants to hook up with me. This is difficult, as my mind is a spinning miasma of absinthe.

12:07: I can’t think of anything new or good, so I decide to go with my standard married shtick, which has never worked for me, ever, not even once:

Tucker “So you’re married?”
Married Girl “Yeah.”
Tucker “Is it a good marriage?”

12:08: Married Girl looks at me, looks down, looks back at me, and almost breaks into tears. Married Girl begins pouring her heart out to me. I guess she didn’t drink any absinthe. Because she is hot, I decide to be nice to her.

12:23: Married Girl gets to an emotional part and does actually start to cry. I suggest we go into another room so we can “talk in private.” Married Girl readily agrees and tells me that I am “so nice.”

12:45: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Holy shit this is working! Being nice is great! Who would have ever thought?!?

12:47: Married Girl breaks into tears again. I console her.

12:51: Married Girl and I are hooking up.

12:56: Married Girl breaks into tears. I console her. And undo her bra. With one hand. I got skillz.

12:59: Married Girl and I are hooking up.

1:05: Married Girl breaks into tears. I just stare at her. I suggest to Married Girl that perhaps the best thing to do right now is to go with what feels natural, and not worry about other painful things in her life. As proof that I am doing this, I tell her that my friends are shipping to Iraq soon, but I’m still at a party hooking up with her. Married Girl agrees with this logic.

1:06: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Clothes are off.

1:12: Married Girl breaks into tears. Again. “I don’t know; I…I…I just can’t do this. I’m not like this.”

1:13: I get up and return to the party. Tears do not make hooking up fun. Being nice sucks.

1:15: I tell Eddie there is a girl waiting for him in the bedroom next to the guest bathroom. “Really?” I hand him a condom, “Oh yeah dude, she was asking me all about you. She’s already got her clothes off and everything. Go to it.”

**basom** · 09-14-2004, 12:35 PM

1:16: Rich and I laugh hysterically as Eddie goes into the room. We fully expect Eddie to come out any minute.

1:20: No Eddie.

1:25: No Eddie.

1:30: No Eddie. I want to go in and see what’s going on, “Hey--it’s my pussy after all. I primed that pump!” Rich convinces me to stay away, “Hey John Maynard Keynes; hold off. This could be the last pussy he’s getting for awhile. Military women are ugly.”

1:43: The friend who told me about the party has been dispatched to throw me and my friends out, “Dude, everyone here is scared of you. Your friends are huge and you have successfully insulted everyone. That one fucking girl you said owed you a rib or something—dude, she was crying to [the host]. Literally crying. You're like Attila the Hun. You laid waste to this party.”

1:46: Rich convinces me to that we should just leave Eddie, “Dude, he’s an operator. He can find his own way home. The kid made his bones in Bosnia, I think he can find his way around Chicago.”

2:04: Rich wants pussy. I take him to a club. I hate clubs.

2:05: We got a place called Rive Gauche. It should be called Lotsa Douche. Almost as soon as we walk in, some skinny bag of pigshit starts spinning glow sticks right in my face. This enrages me. I shove him down and kick him in the spine.

2:05: Rich bear hugs me and carries me to a VIP booth before anyone figures out what happened.

2:07: I pass out in the booth.

2:30: I wake up to see Rich trying to eat the face of some skank. She looks like something he scraped off his shoe.

2:36: I am not feeling good. Mr. Absinthe is about to send me a bill for his services.

2:44: I make it to the toilet. I can feel the vomit coming.

2:45: My intestines, without subtlety, tell me that I have a higher priority. I nearly pass out on the toilet from my colon’s version of Shock and Awe.

2:47: As I am crapping out my internal organs, Mr. Absinthe teams with Ms. Poetic Justice to eject everything in my stomach right out of my face.

2:48: I lean to my left to prevent vomit from getting on my clothes, but my shift moves my ass off the side of the toilet seat and causes me to shit watery diarrhea all over the toilet seat and floor.

2:49: I look over at the shit, catch a whiff of it, and start vomiting again. On top of the shit.

2:53: I stand up, clean myself, and survey the damage. It looks like a tapioca abortion.

2:58: I come out of the bathroom and inform the line that “I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.”

3:04: Back at the VIP table. Rich has nearly undressed The Skank and is investigating all of her orifices. His hand will never smell the same.

3:12: The Skank has a friend. She is staggeringly drunk. She makes fun of The Skank and tells me I am hot. Maybe clubs aren’t so bad.

3:14: The Friend tells me I am way too sober. I agree. We go shot for shot with vodka.

3:40: After about 6 shots, she tells me, “I think I am getting really drunk. I always do stupid things when I’m drunk.” Strike up the band, we have a winner.

3:50: Rich takes The Skank to the bathroom to fuck. The friend says to me, “About time. I’m surprised she didn’t just go down on him at the table. That’s what she did last weekend.”

4:12: The Friend does not mince words, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to fuck in a club bathroom. I have standards…well…some standards.” I can’t make this shit up.

4:15: The Friend hands me her keys. I ask her, “You want me to drive your car?” She says, “Well, you’re more sober than I am.” This statement makes me laugh. I am so drunk I am not sure I could read.

4:30: She lives far away. I don’t know where I am.

4:35: We cannot find parking. She has me drop her off at her building and tells me to come up when I find a parking place. I decide that she is a bitch. I think that she will “accidentally” get my dick in her ass when we are fucking doggy style.

4:40: I still cannot find ANYWHERE to park. This is infuriating me.

4:45: I parallel park the car into a space that is too small. I try to force it in. The car gets stuck. I slam on the gas, the wheels spin until they catch the curb and jump the car onto the sidewalk, crashing it into a storefront.

4:46: I get out of the car. I am INSIDE of a donut shop. With the car. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I investigate the damage. There are broken and fractured tables scattered all across the store. The car has only a few scratches. I am in shock and completely unsure about what to do. I am have never driven a car into a store before.

4:47: Thankfully the donut shop is closed and empty of people. I still don’t know what to do. I start laughing to myself. I look behind the counter, but the donuts are all put away.

4:48: I decide that while I find this funny, the car owner, the donut shop owner, and the police would not find it funny. The letters “DUI” leap to mind. The phrase, “felony hit and run” also appears. I wipe my fingerprints from the entire car, throw the keys into some bushes, and take off running.

4:49: I get my cell phone and desperately call Rich. I tell his voice mail that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should he tell The Skank what my name is, who I am, or anything about me. It is Tucker Luck that on the one night when I need to stay anonymous I have someone in special forces to run my operational security.

4:50: I am still running. I lost count of the number of blocks I had traveled somewhere around 30.

5:10: I finally get home. I am completely fucking exhausted. I must have run at least 5 miles, probably more. My feet are bleeding, but I am safe. I pass out.