Full tour schedule is my Appearances Page

To answer the questions I’ve been getting:

1. “Can I go to the NYC Book Launch Party?”: Yes. The launch party info:

Friday, September 24th
9pm-12pm
3 Sheets Saloon
134 W. 3rd [btw 6th Ave. and MacDougal]
New York, NY
Open to the public

The book will NOT be for sale in stores until September 28th, but I WILL have a few hundred books at that party for sale, so if you’re so desperate to get the book that you can’t wait four extra days, plan to be at that party. The party itself will be at a normal bar and pretty low key, nothing fancy. I’m very content with just beer, friends, and hot girls.

2. “How do the signings work?”: Pretty simple: You show up with a copy of my new book, I sign it, take pictures if you want, etc. I won’t be doing readings of my book like some authors do (they’re lame), but there may be a few places where I do a Q&A. Of course it costs nothing to get the book signed (beyond the cost of the book itself), or to get pictures, and I’ll personalize my signing, or even sign anything additional of mine you bring (new book, old book, DVD, t-shirts, whatever). I always try to be as cool to my fans as possible, so anything reasonable, I’m down for.

I have told this to all the bookstores, and I don’t anticipate any issues–but some places sometimes make up their own annoying rules about signings. If anyone at any store tries to dick you around, just find my tour assistant, tell her what’s up, and she’ll make it right. I only mention this because I HATE it if a book store employee is a dick to my fans and I don’t hear about it until later, so there’s no way for me to fix it. I want my fans to have a good experience, and to make sure that happens, I want you to know going in what to do if something goes wrong.

3. “Why don’t you have any Canadian signings?”: I want to do a Canadian signing tour. I’d love to hit Vancouver, Toronto, Montreal, Calgary, etc. Here’s the problem: My publisher, Simon & Schuster, has a separate Canadian division, and they apparently don’t pay for authors to do signings in Canada. I’d like going to Canada, but I’m not paying out of my pocket to do it. I’ll do my very best to figure out a way to make this work, but Canadian fans–please understand I am not skipping you for any reason in my control.

4. “What about [insert city]? Why didn’t you come there?”: I KNOW there are a ton of American cities I am not hitting on this tour. I only had about six weeks to tour, so I couldn’t hit everywhere. Yes, I would love to go back to Pittsburgh and Raleigh and Gainesville and any number of other great cities I’ve been before, but I made a conscious effort to hit cities that I’d never done signings in. Don’t worry though, if I missed your city on this tour, I will almost certainly hit it on the book tour for my third book, Hilarity Ensues, which’ll be fall of 2011.

5. “I have a press request, who do I direct it to?”: I will be available for at least some press at each stop. All press inquiries, direct to my PR guy, Jeffrey Chassen: Jeffrey.chassen@bwr-ny.com

NOTE: Special guests at some signings: A few of the signings will have special guests. I can’t make any promises about who will be coming to what stops. I will say that the list includes many people who were involved in the stories, including my law school friends–notably SlingBlade. I am going to get him out to at least one or two stops (probably the Midwest ones). And at least one of the signings will have a midget–or possibly two–that is featured in the book (probably an east coast stop). I won’t post details about these beforehand–it’ll be a surprise to the people who show up.

NOTE: Two signings on release day: On Tuesday, Sept 28th, there is a noon signing at the Wall Street Borders in Manhattan, and then a 7pm signing in Ridgewood, New Jersey. Every other day is just one signing a day.

Tour Wrap Party: The tour wrap party will immediately after the last signing in, Austin, Texas. It will also be open to the public, and should be a really good time. I will post details about this too when they are finalized.

A few days after I ended another in the seemingly endless three week relationships I have with the seemingly endless stream of girls I meet, my friend Amy and I were discussing how I should procure another of these said relationships. Amy had recently been browsing the Internet (looking for lesbian donkey porn, no doubt) and came across a date page where a girl asks guys to fill out an application to go out on a date with her. She suggested I put up a site just like it. She called me out. Dared me to put one up. Said I didn’t have the sack to do such a thing. Questioned the very essence of my existence.

So of course I put it up. And it was hilarious, and my friends even made me hook-up with a girl I met off the site (that story is in I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, the fat girl story). That was 2000, and I ended up taking it down when we are went to work our legal jobs.

Then I got fired, and after some other bullshit, decided to write full time, and in September of 2002, out the site back up, but this time, in addition to the Date Application Page, I put up all the funny emails I had written to my friends about all the dumb shit I did after law school. Those emails became my first book, and here we are.

The Tucker Max Date Application

Your name:

Your email:

Your age:

Your sex: Female (This is non-negotiable. Sorry.)

Your occupation:

Where are you from?:

Where do you live now?:

Highest level of education completed/currently working towards:
high school diploma
high school equivalency (GED)
associates degree
bachelors degree
master’s degree
MBA/JD
Ph.D./MD/DMD
I go to the Vo-Tech, climb under a car, and sleep all day
Jay Truck Driving School
what’s edumacation?
“When I grow up, I’m going to Bovine University!”

How did you find this page?:
Accidentally
Yahoo/Google
A friend told me
An enemy told me
You told me about your stupid page
I can smell your desperation from here
A scorching case of herpes led me here
God hates me
Blind hogs eventually find acorns
“I fell off the jungle gym and woke up in here.”

Why are you filling out this form?:
I want to ask you out. HA!
No, seriously, I really do want to ask you out
I don’t want to go on a date with you, but I do want to buy you lots drinks and watch the train wreck develop
I’m putting in fake info to fuck with you
I’m horribly desperate for anything male, and you fit the bill
This is the final stage in a destructive spiral of self-loathing and despair
It’s either this or jail time
This is helping me stop masturbating so much
I hate your fucking guts
“It says ‘I choo-choo-choose you,’ and it has a picture of a train.”

Why do you think you want to go out on a date with me?:
Because I want to go on a date with you.
Do I need a reason? Isn’t is axiomatic?
I want to hitch my wagon to your star, and this is Step 1.
You seem interesting
I think you’d be fun to get drunk with
I want to end up in one of your stories or future books
I feel strangely attracted to you
I hate myself
I’m one of those people who can’t divert their eyes from accident scenes, and you have that same effect on me
I think your caustic and sarcastic exterior belies a sweet and caring inner self
I want to give my VD to someone else before I die
No, really, I enjoy having guys use me and treat me like shit
“Which one is oral?”

What is it that you find most attractive about me?:
Your caustic wit and ambitious verve
Your cute face and hot body
Your caustic wit and ambitious verve
Your constant use of foul, discourteous language
The way you show no regard for the feelings of others
The way your immense ego blocks out any real emotional depth
You make me laugh
Your single-minded obsession with all things Tucker
I like how you never use deodorant. Your pheromones are too sexy to cover up
I don’t like myself, and I’m hoping you’ll treat me like a used-up stripper
Everything
“You’re deceptive.”

When would you like to go out with me?:
Whenever
When you are available
Hey, we’re on my schedule here, Date Boy
When your heart stops
As soon as I finish gnawing off my left leg
When I get over my herpes and pink eye
After I suck off a Great Dane
How about never? Is never good for you?
“This is my sandbox, but I’m not allowed to go in the deep end.”

How would you rate yourself in terms of your physical attractiveness?:
I’m not very attractive
I’m cute
I’m cute enough for you, assface
I’m hot
If you like morbidly obese, cross-eyed fat girls, you’ll LOVE me
I’m a butter face
I’m a Chicago girl (it means you have a hot face and a fat ass…and don’t email me pissed about this. You don’t think that 80% of cute women in Chicago fit this description? Ask any guy you know living in Chicago. If he’s honest, he’ll tell you the same thing. I blame the long winters. Why work out if bikini weather is only 4 months?)
The kids at school used to call out “Baaaby Ruuth” when I would walk by
No, really, I don’t think you understand: I am UG-LY
“Daddy says I’m ‘this close’ to living in the yard!”

How would you rate yourself in terms of your intelligence?:
I can read enough to answer this
I’m average
I’m smart enough to get your stupid jokes
I’m a fucking genius
I can bend things with my mind
I’m dumber than week-old bat shit
Who are you to question the intelligence of anyone else? Have you seen your webpage, idiot?
I like to use lots of exclamation points in my emails!!!! Yippee!!!
“Me fail English? That’s unpossible.”

How would you rate yourself in terms of your emotional maturity and stability?:
I’m about average
I’m pretty sane, but have some minor insecurities and peculiarities, just like everyone
I’m very emotionally stable
I am a rock
I’m loonier than a shit-house rat
I claw at my eyes, trying to get the demons out
The doctor says he can’t increase my prescriptions anymore or he’d get in trouble
Sometimes, the restraints chafe my wrists. Then the festering starts
Why do you ask?!? Do you know something!?!? Who have you been talking too?!?
They mostly come at night. Mostly
“That’s where I saw the Leprechaun. He tells me to burn things.”

What is your most defining feature or characteristic?:
My beautiful eyes
My sharp wit
My compassionate nature
My incredible intelligence
My huge breasts
I have the ass of a 12 year-old girl
My cottage cheese thighs
My sphincter can break a beer bottle
My matted pubic hair
My charming autism
My colostomy bag
My willingness to use sex to get what I want
My perfect landing strip
“The tar fumes are making me dizzy.”

What would you expect me to bring?:
Cheap flowers
Expensive champagne
Your A+ game
I like shiny things
A unquenchable libido
Astroglide
A shoehorn
Amniotic dysentery
A small, hairless Asian boy
Your enema bag collection
“And I want a bike and a monkey and a friend for the monkey.”

What will I do when I see you?:
smile
drool
start jumping up and down yelling “UH, UH, UH”
pretend you’re not Tucker Max
feign epilepsy
vomit uncontrollably
curse the anonymity of the Internet
run like a track star
run like a crack fiend
“I can’t breathe good and it’s making me sleepy.”

What will my friends say when they see you?:
“Wow, Tucker’s really lucky. I wish I was him.”
“Another tall, hot blonde with no self-esteem–he’s getting laid tonight.”
“She’s the hottest thing since nuclear fusion.”
“Tonight’s forecast calls for scattered clothes, with a significant chance of intense, passionate humping.”
“My Lord–she smells like the fish market.”
“Well, she’s too ugly for him to date…$10 says he sleeps with her anyway.”
“I wouldn’t call her fat, but he’s gonna need the Jaws of Life to get out of this.”
“Oh shit…somebody call 911.”
“She’s just an expensive escort. I wonder how much money she cost him.”
“She’s just a cheap hooker. I wonder how much smack she cost him.”
“Should have been a blow job.”
“Her shade of lipstick looks like the color you’d find at the base of a penis.”
“Look at her…did she just get released from a methadone clinic?”
“Her face looks like it caught on fire and someone beat it out with a rake.”
Do your friends control your love life, you pussy?
“Daddy, I’m scared, too scared to even wet my pants.”

What should I wear?:
Something that says “derelict frat boy,” like khakis, a button down and a ratty hat
Something that says “I’m a rich, arrogant lawyer”, like a navy Hugo Boss suit and Hermes tie
Something that says “I’m Euro-trash, but at least I look good,” like black Armani pants and a tight Zegna shirt
Something that says “I ain’t got me no money,” like a burlap sack
Something that says “I’ve been on Cops,” like boxer shorts and a stained wife-beater
Something that says “ethnic,” like a dashiki and a fez
Something that says “I really don’t care”, like flip-flops, old jeans and logo t-shirt
Something that says “ghetto fabulous,” like a Fubu jersey and Karl Kani jeans
Something that says “retro Miami Vice,” like a peach colored polo shirt and white suit
Something that says “I shop at thrift stores,” like Dickie’s and a mechanic’s shirt
Something that says “1993 Jodeci video”, like a hot pink tank top and spandex shorts
Something that says “hip Militia Man”, like a Patagonia fleece over Kevlar body armor
Whatever you have that’s clean
Surprise me
Nothing at all
“Daddy, these rubber pants are hot.”

What will we do on our first date?:
Go to dinner and a movie
Mock those less fortunate than us
Argue, yell and possibly even fight
Fuck. What else would we do?
Try to cripple children
Go to a gentlemen’s club and try and pick up a stripper
Get absolutely shit-housed, fucked-in-half, retarded drunk
Go to a gun range
Get absolutely shit-housed, fucked-in-half, retarded drunk and go to a gun range with a stripper we picked up at a gentlemen’s club (…my personal choice)
Felch each other (…decidedly not my choice)
All of the above
None of the above
Some strange combination of the above
“Will you cook my dinner for me? My parents aren’t around and I’m not allowed to turn on the stove.”

What type of food will we eat, assuming we go to dinner?:
Italian
Chinese
American
Southwestern
Vegan (yeah…have fun eating alone)
Light post-coital snack
Chick-fil-a
Who needs to eat if liquor is available?
I don’t eat–I’m a smack addict
Whatever we find in the dumpster
Nothing, I’m already too fat as it is
“My cat’s breath smells like cat food.”

What will we drink? (we will be drinking…or at least I’ll be drinking):
champagne
beer
liquor
fine malt liquor
wine
wine in a box
fine apple wine
whatever is cheapest
whatever we can steal from homeless people
whatever we can make in your bathtub
I prefer hard drugs, thank you
“They taste like…burning!”

How much does it take to get you drunk?:
The smell of alcohol
A few beers
A few glasses of wine
A six-pack
A six-pack of Ripple
I can out drink a Wahoo
I can out drink an Irish Catholic
Ever heard of Motley Crue? I taught them how to party.
“My parent’s won’t let me use scissors.”

What will we talk about on our date?:
Me
You
Sex
Sex in public places
Butt sex
The sexual foibles of ex’s
The etiquette of group sex
What that slut at the next table is wearing
How our parents fucked us up beyond all repair
How much everyone around us sucks
The epistemological and metaphysical implications of superstring theory
The epistemological and metaphysical implications of us having sex
The Iron Chef
Whether or not Scooby Doo is in fact a metaphor for hallucinogenic drug use
This web page
Flannery O’Connor’s use of symbolism
Herman Melville’s use of metaphor
Ron Jeremy’s use of irony
Lots of different things
“Then, the doctor told me that BOTH my eyes were lazy! And that’s why it was the best summer ever.”

I should compliment you by saying:
“You have incredible eyes.”
“That is the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”
“You are a very cool person.”
“Are you gonna finish that? Cause if not…”
“You’re ugly, but you intrigue me.”
“If you didn’t have such fat legs, you could be a model.”
“You know, they can fix your cleft lip. Modern medicine has come a long way from the days of just throwing people like you in with the livestock.”
“Good lord…was anyone else hurt in the accident?”
“That tumor on your forehead really brings out the brown in your eyes.”
“That’s the same perfume they put on my grandmother at her wake.”
“Did you fart? You farted, didn’t you?”
“I’d club a baby seal to get a second date with you.”
“I had no idea a woman could have such a large ass paired with such small breasts.”
“Can I pee on you?”
“You don’t sweat much for a fattie.”
“You should be on TV. They use plain looking women too.”
“Your toys are fun to touch. Mine are all sticky.”

Finish this sentence: “I like a man that…
respects me.”
worships me.”
deifies me.”
likes me more than a sharp stick in the eye.”
treats me like shit.” (be honest…)
likes to hurt small animals.”
has spent a healthy amount of time in a maximum-security federal prison.”
is uglier than me.”
is uglier than Lyle Lovett.”
is dumber than me.”
is dumber than Dan Quayle.”
makes toy cars out of his poop.”
won’t make fun of my club foot.”
“You look like my mommy after she drinks her box of wine.”

What will we do after dinner?:
Have coffee and dessert
Run out on the bill
Go dancing
Go to hell
Have a long and meaningful conversation
Throw the dishes on the floor and fuck on the table
Go somewhere to be alone, but just cuddle
Point out each others shortcomings (my personal choice)
Groping and pawing
Why do I have to make all the decisions? I thought you were a fucking man!
“Help! She’s touching my special area!”

How will the date end?:
Unpleasantly
An awkward silence
A noncommital hug
A sweet, tender kiss
Passionate, unbridled, hanging from the chandelier, sex
Us planning for another date
Me pouring my heart out to you while you record it to put on your website
Me cursing you abusively from the safety of my porch
Me calling the cops to get you out of my house
You throwing flaming bags of dog poop at my porch
A nonspecific burning sensation
One of us waking up in jail without our shoe laces
“Oh boy sleep! That’s where I’m a Viking!”

If you made it this far, I’m sure you have something to say. If you want me to email you back, you need to write something here. Preferably something funny, intelligent, witty, etc.:

BONUS QUESTION:
The last option in every category is a quote from a famous television character. Name this character, and you will receive the fame and adoration of the people.
His name:

Last week I turned in the final draft of Assholes Finish First to my publisher (pre-order it here), and after copy editing and layout, it’s off to the printer. Everything is set to go for the September 28th release. To answer a few of the questions I’ve been getting:

1. How much new material will be in AFF?

A lot–about 80-90% of it is brand new. IHTSBIH was only about 50% new–the rest had previously appeared on my website. There are a few things from the website–e.g., “The Midget Story” had to go in the book, it’s too good not to include–but the vast majority of what you will read will be stuff you’ve never seen before. I haven’t stopped writing over the past few years, I just stopped putting new stories on my website, but they’ll all be in this book (and the next one, Hilarity Ensues).

2. How will it compare to IHTSBIH?

Assholes Finish First is bigger, longer, has more stories, more pictures and is more in depth. Approximately 10 more stories, 20k more words, 150 more pages, and 15 more pictures than were in IHTSBIH. Contentwise, in some ways it’s just like my first book, in other ways it’s not, but the important stuff is the same: it’s funny and compelling to read, because that’s ultimately what matters most.

3. What stories will be in it?

Here is a selection of some of the stories in Assholes Finish First. There are 47 total:

The Sexual To-Do List: A description of my Sexual To-Do List, why I started it, what’s on it, and some of my favorites stories from it.

Tucker goes to Campout, owns Duke nerds: At Duke, in order to get basketball tickets, you have to campout for them. Seriously, they make you sleep in the mud for a weekend. This did not make me happy, and this story is about how I took my anger out on all the Duke basketball nerds.

Hot, Sane, Single: A collection of stories about some of the craziest girls I’ve hooked up with. The last story, the one about the LA girl I dated, is going to surprise you.

I want to cum get a load!: I haven’t done my own laundry in years–because girls come over and do it for me. And then they sleep with me. Here’s how I pulled it off, and what happened as a result.

The Capitol City Clown Crawl: Me and 50 other people dressed up as clowns and went bar-hopping in Austin, Texas. Shit went wrong, and it was funny–to everyone except me. Complete with mugshots and police report. One of my personal favorite stories.

Baby Mama Drama: Most people have a pregnancy scare story. But probably not as intense as this one.

Everybody Fails: A lot of people, especially younger guys, think I’m amazing. I agree, I am awesome…but I still fuck up a lot, and this story is about some of my funnier screw ups.

The Virginity Paradox: You’d think that having virgins ask you to take their virginity would be cool. Think again.

The DC Halloween Party and the worst girl I ever fucked: The story about what happened the first time my law school friends and I partied together after we graduated, including how SlingBlade made a new best friend and hooked up with a girl (in the same night), and how I lost my religion on the altar of the world’s ugliest spy.

The Midgets Strike Back: Everyone knows “The Midget Story.” Well, my run-ins with midgets didn’t end there. One of them found me, and got revenge…by teaching me a valuable lesson in midget math.

The TuckerFest Story: Finally, the long awaited story about the time I got arrested driving an RV in Harlem. It’s the longest story I’ve ever written, and I have to admit, it’s pretty fucking nuts, even for me.

4. Release Schedule:

Here’s the schedule leading up to the release. There will be three major announcements in the next few months:

Early July: I hope to be able to post the completed AFF Book Tour Schedule right after the July 4th holiday. The plan right now is to hit 45 cities, starting on the Sept 28th release date and going through to November, focusing on places I’ve never done signings before.

Early August: There will be a contest that will coincide with the release of AFF, something that will have cool prizes and be easy to do; I’ll post about it in August.

Early September: The launch party for the book will be open to the public, and a few weeks before the release I’ll announce the location and give instructions on how to go.

September 28th: The book officially goes on sale at stores all over the country, and the book tour starts.

“Buzzed” is after a few beers, when I can feel the alcohol affecting me, but I think I can still drive reasonably well. My brain generally works like normal, though perhaps a little slow.

“Inebriated” is when I start feeling good, but I know my ability to drive is impaired, and so I give the keys away. I begin to doubt my ability to make good judgments. I am usually a much nicer person at this stage of drunkenness, though this changes quickly.

“Drunk” is when I start feeling overly confident about myself and all of my abilities, I argue about who drives, but eventually give the keys up anyway. Other people begin to seem much funnier and more interesting. This is also when the ability to socialize in an appropriate manner starts breaking down.

“Fucked-in-half” (aka “Shit-housed”) is when I believe that my abilities have become nearly superhuman, that I am the best looking man in my geographical area, and that that hunchback girl over by the bar is really hot too. As far as I am concerned, there is no road, policeman, or possibly even army, that can contain me. It is at this point that I cannot differentiate between an appropriate comment and an inappropriate one, so I just say whatever I feel like.

“Tucker Max” is the ultimate drunk stage. Never mind about operating heavy machinery; I have trouble figuring out door knobs. The only benefit is that I don’t have to worry about driving because I can’t even find my keys. Any of several things can happen at Tucker Max Drunk. I can:

• black out
• hook up with ugly or fat girls
• fail to hook up with hot girls because I pass out on them
• vomit uncontrollably
• make loud, boisterous, and thoroughly untruthful claims about my achievements
• commit myself to large and utterly hopeless wagers that I have no way of covering
• claim to be an renowned expert on things I could not begin to explain when sober
• start fights with small, defenseless people
• break things
• become very angry with inanimate objects, and loudly curse them
• say anything, no matter how offensive or mean, to anyone, no matter how helpless or undeserving
• wake up somewhere that I have never seen before, and do not recognize
• have long and involved conversations over important topics that I have no recollection of the next day

1) Though personality is very important in evaluating females, in this scale it can only hurt. Too many men are the type that once they start fucking, they think the girl is cool because she likes having sex with them, and want to raise a woman’s rating. This scale is for accuracy of physical appearance only, so keep your feelings for her personality out of this rating. People generally agree more when a woman is a bitch, thus making that more of an objective factor (Personality is obviously important in deciding whether or not you want to date the woman, but not in conveying her physical attractiveness on this scale).

2) Bonus stars can only be given under the following circumstances:

• A woman financially supports the man, or at least buys him everything he wants; capped at 1 star.
• A woman is into other women, and lets the man participate in some way (including watching); capped at 1 star.
• Sex drive can help, but it can only bring a marginal candidate up a level. For instance, a high 2-star can be elevated to a low 3-star, but an average 2-star CANNOT go to a 3-star, no matter what her sexual habits are.

1-star (aka, Common-stock pig): No redeeming qualities. This girl is ugly, usually fat, boring and sucks in just about everyway possible. If you don’t know a common-stock pig when you see one, you are destined to spend the rest of your life with one.

2-star (aka, Respectable pig): One redeeming quality, like large breasts, nice ass, cute face, great dick-sucking lips, etc. If you concentrate on that one redeeming physical quality, and you get shit-housed, you’re not too upset with yourself waking up next to a respectable pig. Of course, you still make her crawl out the window when she leaves, because you don’t want your friends to see her, but at least you don’t want to gargle bleach and scrub yourself like a rape victim after she leaves.

3-star (aka Decent or attractive): Acceptable to be seen with in public. She is average when sober, but looks MUCH better after only about three beers. You’ll admit to your friends that you’re fucking her, but you still make fun of her behind her back, and tell them lies about her sexual prowess and bi-sexual tendencies to justify your dealings with her. She’s not bad overall, and will do if nothing better comes along, but could be left in a heartbeat if the opportunity for a hot chick comes along. Sadly, most guys end up having to settle for a 3-star, as these are the most prevalent type of women.

4-star (aka Girlfriend material): This is the girl that is very attractive, but not super hot. You will be seen with her in public at any point in the day, even before drinking. You think twice before ditching this girl for a hot chick, especially if she has special powers (tongue ring, double jointed, etc.). Ascension to the 4-star level can only be attained through use of a petition. The candidate must secure 75% of the vote from those polled. (NOTE: Bonus points only make a candidate petition eligible. She still must garner 75% of the vote.)

5-star (aka Super hottie): This is the hot chick. Hopefully no further explanation is necessary. It’s kind of like the Hall of Fame. VERY FEW WOMEN ARE 5-STARS, about 5-10% of the population. A declaration that someone is hot is assumed to be true, but can be rebuked if 25% of those polled vote against her 5-star placement.

Other category:

0-star (aka, Wildebeast): The lowest of the low. A 1-star (common-stock pig) with a terrible personality qualifies as a Wildebeast. They should all be put to sleep. This is that loud, disgusting fat girl in the bar that smokes, orders complicated drinks and then spills them on everyone, and is generally just so annoying that you have to actively restrain yourself from kicking her in the crotch and stomping on her throat until she drowns on her own blood. There is no insult too mean or crude for her, and basic human rights do not apply to her.

1. Confederacy of Dunces: My favorite fiction book, and probably my favorite book ever. This is the type of book that humbles you, and makes you understand how great writing can be.

2. The Autobiography of Malcolm X: I cannot over-emphasize how important this book was to my development as a man. It has nothing to do with black or white, it is about the internal struggle of a man to overcome his surroundings and deal with his personal demons. I have read this book about 10 times, and still love it. I relate to Malcolm very intensely as a person. Malcolm’s self-reliance, struggle against an oppressive system, and redemption through education hits close to home.

3. A River Runs Through It: The piece of fiction that almost single-handedly taught me about economy of writing, and what it means to be loyal and to lose a friend. My best friend killed himself in college, and reading this was one of the things that helped me get through it (my friend was very much like Paul, the brother).

4. The Neon Bible: Probably the best first person perspective ever written on youth. Infinitely better than Catcher in the Rye.

5. Fight Club: The book that changed my life, that crystallized and defined for me my emotions about working in a corporate world, and put me on the path to where I am now. I recommend the movie as well; this is one of the few movies that stands up to the book.

6. Sperm Wars: There are better books about evolutionary psychology and human sexuality–especially now–but this is the first one I read on the subject, and the one that really opened my eyes to the field.

7. The Godfather: The movie is great, but the book is actually better. It’s hard to describe why this book is so good; Mario Puzo doesn’t even regard it as his best, though I think it stands far above his others. In a weird way, it’s a guide to modern manhood. Read it and you’ll understand.

8. Hatchet: The first book I ever bought and read on my own, I think I was 10 or so. I still love it, it’s the perfect starter book for smart young kids, and every time I re-read it, I see something new, something I didn’t understand when I was young.

9. The Adapted Mind: The second book (after Sperm Wars) I read about evolutionary psychology, and very much the bible of the field. Unless you have a bio background, I would probably recommend other books before trying to tackle this one though, namely The Moral Animal.

10. The History of the Peloponnesian War: You almost have to learn this in a classroom setting, because you need some background in ancient Greece to understand it. I had David Bevington teach it to me, and he brought the fucking text alive. But if nothing else, read the Funeral Oration by Pericles. The man perfected western style public speaking.

11. The Alchemist: I am a huge admirer of Paulo Coehlo, and this book is, I think, his best. If you are someone who wants more from life than just being another sheep, it will resonate with you. It captures the emotional struggle of someone who is trying to break free from the bonds of the standard path and search for their personal destiny.

12: The War of Art: I have all the admiration in the world for Steven Pressfield, and this book is one of the main reasons why. He understands what it means to be an artist better than anyone else I have read.

I am a writer, I guess, but not in any traditional sense, so my advice should be taken with caution. I’ve never taken a creative writing class, never had any “formal” training in writing beyond six years of graduate and post-graduate academic papers and English classes, I do not hang out in writing circles, and don’t have any plans on getting an MFA; all I’ve done is come out of nowhere to create one of the most popular sites on the internet, publish a New York Times Best Seller, get two TV deals, and option several stories as screenplays. Here is what I have learned in two+ years doing this full time:

1. If you want to be a writer, you should be a reader first: I read voraciously during my youth, and still read constantly. Reading teaches you structure, grammar, word usage and style; you can learn almost everything by example instead of by instruction if you just take the time to read. By reading as many different people you can, you learn about all the possible ways to communicate with the written word and you see what has been done and what is generally possible. Begin broad, but then find things that interest you. It doesn’t matter if its cars or Dave Barry or books about eating shit, whatever it is you like to read about, there have been books written about it. Start reading stuff that you like. Humans have been on this planet learning and recording their findings in one form or another for over 10,000 years–benefit from that accumulated knowledge. The best way to learn to write, and to learn what style best suits you is to read everything you can.

2. Write what you know and what makes you comfortable: This isn’t a universal law, but it is important for novice writers. Writing (the type I am talking about, i.e., not newspaper, magazine or academic writing), is about telling a story by expressing emotion and the commonality of the human experience through the written word. The best way for a novice writer to accomplish this is to use the natural emotional honesty that comes with writing about a topic that is dear to you and that you can understand and articulate.

3. Write in your own voice: The main problem with most writers is that they write in the style they “think” they are supposed to instead of their own style. To be a good writer you MUST write in your own voice. Take me for example: My style is not revolutionary, but it is somewhat unique; it is distinctly my voice, and you can often identify my work without first knowing it was me who wrote it. I’m obviously influenced by other writers; Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club), Dave Sedaris (Me Talk Pretty One Day), John Kennedy Toole (Confederacy of Dunces), Norman Maclean (A River Runs Through It), Cormac McCarthy (The Crossing) and PJ O’Rourke (All the Trouble In The World) were all very important to my development as a writer, but I don’t imitate any of them. I take inspiration and some techniques from them, but ultimately I write in the way that is natural for me.

4. Get honest and capable critiques from other good writers: This is only supremely important to your development as a writer. If you have been around my site for since the beginning, you have seen my writing improve exponentially. This is because my friends are very good writers themselves and can read my stuff and make good suggestions. Even though most of them aren’t as good a writer as I am, they can still offer trenchant criticism. It’s like a quarterback watching game film with his offensive coordinator; even though the coordinator may not be able to do what the QB does on the field, he can still help the QB improve his game by pointing out flaws and giving instruction on fixing them.

5. Writers write: The best thing you can do to become a better writer is to write constantly. I never took a creative writing class or read any books on writing. I just wrote a lot, read a lot, and got feedback from smart honest people about my writing. Keep writing and definitely KEEP REVISING your writing. Every time I go back and read my stories I find something that can be made better or improved somehow.

I get a lot of people sending me their attempts at short stories, and to be honest, most of them suck. They suck for two reasons:

1. The story just isn’t funny. I’m sure it was really hilarious that one time when you and Ray Ray got drunk on Bacardi Limon and yelled at the TV for three hours…TO YOU, BUT NOT TO ANYONE ELSE. There are just some things that are only contextually funny, or require so much background knowledge that they aren’t funny to the non-insider. Some of the funniest things I say and do are too contextual to be put on the site. Just because something is funny to you doesn’t mean that it is funny to everyone else. Ask yourself when writing: Would someone who doesn’t know me or anyone involved find this funny?

2. The story is not written well. Most of the stories I receive fit into this category. There is a funny story in them, but it is struggling to get out of all the crap the writer has flooded it with. A general progression of tips:

a. Don’t chronicle how much you drank. No one cares. Do you ever see me list exactly what I’ve had, or how much of it I drank or whatever? Not unless it’s specifically related to the story or integral to the plot, like anytime I drink Everclear or absinthe.

b. Don’t send me a story that just lists what you did, and assures me that it was hilarious. Great asshole, I wasn’t there, so it’s not funny to me just because you say so. You need to describe what happened and let me laugh on my own. Don’t tell me, show me. Look at my stories–I rarely mention what makes me laugh, I usually just try to chronicle the funny events and let people laugh on their own.

c. God may be in the structure, but Jesus is in the details; provide funny ones or your story will suck. Don’t tell me that someone is funny. Tell me what they say and show me what they do. If it’s funny, the humor will show without your commentary. Bring the reader into the story with the details and the style; don’t just tell the reader what happened and expect them to fill in the humor without showing them why. Take my 21st Birthday story as an example. By itself, that story isn’t that great; I went out, got drunk, threw up in a bar bathroom, and passed out in my bathtub. But as it is written, it’s a hilarious story. Why? Because I bring you into the bar when I’m drinking, I put at the table with me, I put you in my mind as I go from coherent to obliterated, and let you see what I see. Take just the bathroom scene. Yes, someone vomiting and pissing all over themselves is inherently funny, but that particular scene only works because I describe every little detail, and because every little detail adds to the absurdity, which is where the humor lies.

d. Don’t bog the reader down with lots of useless details that don’t move the story along. Every piece of info in the story must do one of two things: 1. Be funny, or 2. Be necessary to understand the story. No one wants to read a list of the alcohol you consume, unless you make the list funny, or work witticisms into the list. No one cares about all the bars you went to, unless it is relevant to the humor or plot of the story. Every sentence, in fact every word, must be important, and must be relevant somehow to the story.

A great example of this is in the book “A River Runs Through It” by Norman Maclean. The scene where the dad makes Norman write an essay, and then cut it in half, and then cut it in half again. That is an AWESOME exercise that I often did myself when I was younger, and it really helps you learn what is essential and what is not.

And of course, the question I get most is: “How can I write like you?”

The answer is simple: You can’t. But you can, with practice, write like yourself. Here are the guidelines I use when I write my stories:

1. Be emotionally honest: Even stupid people can usually see through bullshit, and writing is no different. When you try and make yourself seem something that you aren’t people will see it eventually, even in your writing. I often find myself at places thinking, “What should I put now?” and the answer to that is ALWAYS, “The complete truth, no matter how stupid or awful or cynical (or cool or awesome) it makes me look.” For me, using the stark truth of my mind and my life works on many levels. It shocks the reader, because very seldom do people tell the truth, it endears the reader to me, because it gives them the sense they are in my head, it can repel the reader because they don’t like what they see, but ultimately it makes the reader keep reading, because there is nothing more enthralling than true emotional honesty. Everyone at their core is a voyeur of some sort–when you open up and let people in, they will stop and look.

2. Characterization is key: The single best way to make people want to read your writing is to give them a stake in it; make them care about what happens. How do you that? By creating compelling and interesting characters. For me, I am my most interesting character, so it’s pretty easy–I just write myself. Furthermore, my friends are all pretty fucked up in their own ways, so I just write them the way they are, and I’ve got interesting stuff. I think the key to being able to write good characters is not just having interesting people to model them after, but you as the writer must be very perceptive. You have to be able to look beneath the surface and get into the heads of the people you write about, because you can’t let the reader in on something that you yourself don’t understand.

3. Show don’t tell: It is always better to show something than explain it. Rather than tell me that you picked up the girl, give me the dialogue. Chances are that the words you used are relevant to the story, develop the characters and help lead to a conclusion. Or, instead of saying, “I was Tucker Max Drunk,” give an example of how drunk you were, “I was so drunk I thought the topiary was Calista Flockhart. My friends had no idea why I was was congratulating the shrubbery on dating Harrison Ford.” That sentence does more to explain your mental state than any list of drinks imbibed.

4. Keep the writing as short and terse as possible: There is a reason no one actually reads David Foster Wallace. Being long winded for no reason sucks. In your stories, make sure that every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every character and every description is relevant to the story and moves it along. Although my stories are the complete truth, they are not everything about the truth; there is a difference. I leave out stuff that either isn’t funny, isn’t essential to the plot, or doesn’t develop the characters. Remember–You are writing a story, not a forensic catalog of everything you did. I especially like to cut out description. People are going to picture the scene the way they want to anyway, might as well not waste words. Don’t describe things unless it is necessary to the story. Of course, this is because I am not good at describing things; its just not how my mind works. If you have a great talent for description, then write stories that display it.

5. Sharp, realistic dialogue: I think this is the true strength of my writing, the ability to craft great dialogue. When you can convey the sense of being there, you are going to be a great story teller, and nothing gives the reader emotional intimacy like realistic dialogue. When you read words that sound like the words you or someone you know might say, or things that you have heard before, it brings the characters alive, gives the reader a stake in them and their outcome and draws them into the story. Furthermore, dialogue is a great way to show instead of telling. Instead of telling the reader you made fun of a girl, put in your words and her response. It gives the reader the ability to react to the incident instead of a description of the incident.

6. Use ellipses, spacing, paragraphs to create a sense of timing: Appropriate timing is hard to create with the written word. Read my stories—I do it with the above stated devices. I try to give the reader the sense that I am in the room, telling them the story as if they were a close friend.

7. When in doubt, make fun of fat girls: Every comedian has his fall back joke or position, and mine is making fun of fat girls. Its just so easy and so much fun, and there are so many ways to do it, I can’t help myself. Besides, if I inspire one girl to lose weight, I’ve made the world a better place. And made it easier for the rest of us to get to the buffet.

I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with me on a Saturday night. This is the story:

9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there, even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already depressed, I order a vodka and club soda.

9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another vodka and club. I consider checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.

9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me. Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts. They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I begin drinking faster.

9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third vodka and club. While I wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.

9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender over and change my order to a tall double vodka on the rocks, splash of club.

9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I am the center of attention. I am happy.

9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer. He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I order a double vodka on the rocks. No splash.

9:29: I blow again, a .04. I’ve been drinking for half an hour, and am on my forth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka haze that is already forming…four drinks…a .04…that must mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very interesting.

9:38: Six of the eight are here. I lie to the hostesses, and they seat our incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this night may go OK after all.

9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven’t ordered another drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant D.A.R.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant, regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.

9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be a cop, but couldn’t pass the entrance exam to the police academy, even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart. She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.

10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy with my table.

10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the girl’s class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a “legitimate, certifiable science,” while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they are all (while imitating his air quotes) “legitimate, certifiable idiots” because they believe in horse-shit like energy healing. Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone at my table.

10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am slamming down straight vodka as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.

10:10: .07

10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida. I announce this fact to no one in particular.

10:26: .09

10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a good goal.

10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and go back to the bar. I don’t leave money for my drinks.

10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks. Upset that I’m only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey.

10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth. We order another round.

11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.

11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn’t even stick around the table for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.

11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.

11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I tell her I don’t have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it will. I take off my pants.

11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.

11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers. They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People watch me do this.

11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.

11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed. He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am a star again.

11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a shot.

11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me feel warm inside. I ask what it is. “Cognac and Alize.” There is a God, and he hates me.

11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.

11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting their turn to find out their BAC.

12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.

12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a beer back. The crowd is in awe.

12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk shit to my challenger, “Who runs this bar now, BITCH??” The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.

12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking shit to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to adore me.

12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for the challenger to blow.

12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two more shots.

12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn’t go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.

1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.

1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.

1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.

1:14: I can’t figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.

1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to “get that fucking light out of my face.” The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. “Son, where are your pants?” Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn’t laugh. Another long pause. “You’re not driving tonight are you?”, “Oh, NO, NO, NO…no sir, I don’t even have a valid driver’s license.”

1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.

1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don’t know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.

1:24: I can’t find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn’t thrown up yet. I tell them to “kiss my fucking ass.” My last clear memory.

8:15am: I wake up. I don’t know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.

8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.

8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can’t find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.

8:22: I drive home anyway.
Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That’s fucking ridiculous. That thing is awful. All you do is drink in order to increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.

My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.