Tier 1: Pre-order 1 copy of Hilarity Ensues from Amazon or B&N

• Pre-order just ONE physical copy of Hilarity Ensues, and get access to a FREE digital copy of Sloppy Seconds, one day before public release.
• For everyone else, Sloppy Seconds comes out on Tuesday, February 7th, but if you pre-order a copy of Hilarity Ensues from Amazon or B&N, you get it on Monday, February 6th (at 6pm EST), one day before its released.
• You pay: ~$15
• You get: Over $50 in retail value, saving you more than $35
• Instructions: Pre-order your copy from Amazon or B&N, then forward the pre-order email or the receipt to tuckermaxgiveaway@gmail.com before February 6th at 5pm. If you’ve already pre-ordered your copy online, great, just send the confirmation email you already got. At 6pm on February 6th, you’ll receive an email with the FREE, full digital version of Sloppy Seconds sent to you.
• NOTE: If you already pre-ordered and paid for your book from a physical bookstore, that’s OK, you are still eligible for these prizes. Just need to scan your receipt and email it to the same address.

Tier 2: Pre-order 3 copies of Hilarity Ensues from Amazon or B&N

• Get a FREE digital copy of Sloppy Seconds, a day early, just like Tier 1
• Get a FREE signed physical copy of Sloppy Seconds 
• Get BOTH audio books for FREE (only in digital form, and these will not be sent immediately, but on February 20th)
• You pay: ~$50
• You get: $150 of retail value, saving you over $100
• Instructions: After you pre-order your copy from Amazon or B&N, forward the email or the receipt confirmation of 3 pre-ordered books to tuckermaxgiveaway@gmail.com before February 6th at 5pm. At 6pm on February 6th, you’ll get sent the FREE, full digital version of Sloppy Seconds sent to you, and on Monday, February 20th, you’ll get the two FREE audio books sent to you.
• NOTE: The signed physical copy of Sloppy Seconds will be sent to the SAME address the 3 pre-ordered books are going to.
• NOTE: If you already pre-ordered and paid for your book from a physical bookstore, that’s OK, you are still eligible for these prizes. Just need to scan your receipt and email it to the same address.

Tier 3: Buy 10 copies of Hilarity Ensues (Cost = $260) (only 50 slots available)

• Get access to a free digital copy of Sloppy Seconds, just like Tier 1, except you get your access TWO days early, on Sunday, February 5th
• 10 FREE physical copies of Sloppy Seconds
• All 20 books signed by Tucker Max
• Get BOTH audio books for FREE (only in digital form, these will be sent on February 20th)
• A Tucker Max beer pong kit
• You pay: $260
• You get: $600 of value, saving you $340
• Instructions: You need to order this here, NOT through Amazon or B&N. We send it UPS ground, so if you order this Tier before Thursday, you should get this package on MONDAY, a day early. Can’t guarantee though, because UPS does what they want
• Remember: We are only selling 50 of these, so if you want this tier, hurry up. First come, first serve.

Tier 4: Buy 1000 copies of Hilarity Ensues (cost = $26,000) (only 1 slot available)

• Everything listed above, Tiers 1-3
• A full on Tucker Max appearance. I am serious. You can get me to come to where you are, bring a bunch of my friends from my books and throw a huge party. Or you can come to Austin and I’ll take you out for an amazing weekend. Or, you can get me to come speak to your school, organization or company and sign all 1000 books for people. Basically, you get me for a full day to do whatever you want that’s reasonable. If you are serious, email my assistant and let’s talk, but there is only one, so when it’s gone, that’s it.

IMPORTANT FINAL NOTE: Yes, I know some of these prizes may seem too good to be true. They are not, there is no catch. I am doing this because I really want Hilarity Ensues to debut as high as possible on the print best seller list. But remember: This giveaway lasts ONLY for this week. When it’s over, it’s gone. Next week there will be an entirely different set of giveaways and announcements for the release, and though they will be cool, they won’t be like this.

And in case you missed the previous announcement about my next two books:

My third book, Hilarity Ensues, will be released February 7th, 2012 [Pre-order from Amazon or B&N]

On the SAME day, I will release my fourth book, Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers. It’s not up for pre-order yet, just stay tuned for more announcements about that book and how it will come out.

Also, I will announce all the plans for a tour, release parties etc a few months out from the release, and as always, you can read about it here on my site or follow me on Twitter, Facebook, email, Google+, etc to get the updates.

The Hilarity Ensues release date is February 7th, 2012
[Pre-order from Amazon or B&N]

I was shooting for late 2011, but my publisher decided that they wanted the Assholes Finish First paperback release in the fall, which pushed the Hilarity Ensues release back. Sorry, that’s the way it goes. But it does mean two things:

1. The Assholes Finish First paperback release date is October 18th, 2011
[Pre-order from Amazon or B&N]

2. There WILL be a fourth book: Yeah, it sucks that the Hilarity Ensues release was pushed back, but it was only for about a month and a half, but there’s good news from the delay. I’m done writing Hilarity Ensues, and I have enough material for a fourth book, which will be called Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (it’s not up for pre-order yet, will be soon). And because of the delay in Hilarity Ensues, the two books will be released at the same time. This is not a “maybe”–both books are finished and in post-production right now, and both will be released on Feb 7th. And yes, that means I will have TWO different books coming out at the same time.

Tour, parties, etc: I will announce all the plans for a tour, release parties etc a few months out from the release, and as always, you can read about it here on my site or follow me on Twitter, Google+, Facebook, email, etc to get the updates.

So why the fuck am I going to be in Anchorage? And why only one night? Well, it’s a stopover point to my final destination:

The city of Unalaska, out on the Aleutian Islands. Which is the home to Dutch Harbor. Which is where they film one of my favorite TV shows, The Deadliest Catch. And where I will be spending a week, during crab season, hanging out with the crew of the Time Bandit.

How the fuck did I become good enough friends with Jonathan Hilstrand, Mike Fourtner et al, that they invited me and my friends to come hang out with them in Dutch Harbor and ride around on the Time Bandit during crab season? It’s a really good story…but I’m saving it for the next book. Assuming I make it back alive, of course.

To the point: If you are in Anchorage feel free to come out and meet me, the entire Time Bandit crew, as well as Drew Curtis (who runs Fark.com), and my friends Nils and Bunny.

Details:
When: Thursday January 6th, starting around 8pm and going to whenever
Where: Chilkoot Charlies [2435 Spenard, Anchorage AK]
Attending: Tucker Max, the crew of the Time Bandit, Drew Curtis, Nils Parker, and Bunny.
Who’s invited: Everyone

[BTW--This post is not a fucking joke at all, not in the least bit. If you don't believe me, email Brad Erickson (berickson@usinternet.com), the morning show DJ at KFAT 92.9, he set the whole party up (and he'll be there), he'll confirm it for you.]

I went to law school at Duke, and as you may know, basketball is huge there. The demand for tickets, even for grad students, far outstrips the supply. In order to solve this problem, the people in charge make grad students camp out in a field to get into the lottery for the chance to get tickets. They expect you to spend a weekend sleeping in dirt and checking in every time they blow their whistles, like a fucking homeless kindergartener. You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you? This is taken directly from the Duke grad student website:

“Welcome to Duke! Let’s get right to the most important issue on your mind: How can YOU get season tickets to this year’s men’s basketball games in Cameron Indoor Stadium? Eligibility to purchase tickets is determined via the Graduate and Professional Student Council Basketball Ticket Campout. Campout for Duke Men’s Basketball season will be held starting at 7:00pm on Friday, September 8, and runs through Sunday, September 10, at approximately 7am. The rules are simple: make it through the weekend without missing two attendance checks and your name is entered in a lottery. Lottery winners are then drawn and each of these lucky individuals is eligible to buy one of the 700 graduate and professional season tickets… But Campout isn’t just about basketball tickets. With almost 2000 students representing nearly every program and department at the University in attendance, this is also the premier graduate and professional student social event of the year. Campout is an excellent opportunity to bond with your students in your own program and make friends in other programs.”

The bolding is theirs, not mine. Not only do they want grad students to spend their limited free time toiling in a parking lot, they are condescending about it. Either that, or they’re just fucking retarded—do they really think that being stuck in a parking lot with 2,000 nerds is “the premier graduate and professional student social event of the year”? Not going to a bar or to a party with your friends, or, God fucking forbid, ACTUALLY GOING TO THE GAMES. Nope, to them, the coolest thing a grad student can do is to root around in filth. I want tickets, so I have to go.

OK, fine. But if those Duke basketball tools are going to make me sleep outside for two nights, I’m going to make them pay. And not just by getting drunk and fucking their ugly girlfriends. It took me a few days, but I finally figured out how to completely ruin the event for everyone who sucks, while concurrently making it awesome for me and my friends. About two weeks before the grad student campout was to start, I was in the law library, intently focusing on my computer screen when my buddy Hate walked up.

Hate “What are you up to?”
Tucker “Ordering something online.”
Hate “What, a Russian mail-order bride?”
Tucker “Better. A bullhorn.”
Hate “What for?”
Tucker “For Campout. Look at this one, dude: It has a one-mile range! And a 110-decibel siren! It’s made for police use!”
Hate [ten-second blank stare] “Jesus have mercy on our souls.”

I paid extra for 2nd day delivery. When the day of arrival came, I was so excited I stayed home from class. Waiting for the delivery guy felt like Christmas, except without the part where your parents drink all the present money and wrap up things from your room as your gifts. Credit and Hate stayed home that day too, not because they were excited about the bullhorn, but because they are dicks. They wanted to taunt me until it arrived, knowing the anticipation was slowly killing me. (That, and none of us ever went to class anyway because law school is ridiculously easy.)

Credit “Max, I haven’t seen you this excited since Brad Pitt took his shirt off in Fight Club.”
Tucker “Credit, you’re Jewish, your best friend is black, and your girlfriend is a cheating whore. Even if I were gay, I’d still have it better than you.”

When the FedEx truck finally showed up, I sprinted to the front desk. I scribbled my signature, ran back to my room, tore open the package, loaded the batteries I already purchased, then cautiously put the bullhorn up to my lips and whispered:

“Hello.”

My voice boomed out of the bullhorn so crisp and loud it shocked me. I felt a strange new power surge through me. It was like I drank from the Holy Grail. I took a deep breath and bellowed:

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! CREDIT, I AM THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE!! HATE, I’M FUCKING INVINCIBLE!”

I ran out of my room into the living room. Hate was jolted forward in his recliner, white-knuckling the armrests with a look on his face like he’d just seen the devil. Credit had the same exasperated expression he got when he learned the student parking lot was a full mile away from the law school building.

Tucker “Holy shit! The volume’s only at 6! It goes up to 10!”
Credit “Everyone is going to hate us.”
Hate “Max, you aren’t really taking that thing to Campout are you?”
Tucker [into the bullhorn] “We are friends and roommates, and yet… I feel like you don’t know me at all.”

I turned it down to 2—loud but still a manageable indoor volume—and spoke to everyone exclusively through the bullhorn for the next week. It became a part of me, a natural extension of my arm. I put it down only to shower and masturbate.

You know how when you pine after something really badly, like a cool toy or a new car or whatever, once you get it, it’s never as good as you imagined it would be? This was the opposite. This was so much better than I could’ve ever dreamed. No possession of mine, before or since, has ever completed me the way that bullhorn did; it embodied all of the characteristics that I consider most essential to myself… and amplified them.

Arguing: I was pretty good at debating with people before, but now, I had a permanent trump card. How can you win an argument against someone who is louder than a chain saw? Even if you’re completely right, you’re wrong, because I have the bullhorn.

Humor: Everything you say becomes one level more humorous through a bullhorn. Stupid becomes passable, passable becomes funny, funny becomes hysterical, and hysterical becomes Dave Chappelle doing Rick James. I think this is because a bullhorn makes you so loud that it puts you on an imaginary stage. Just being the center of attention primes people to think you’re funny—how else does Dane Cook get laughs?

Confidence: I was not lacking in confidence beforehand, but add a bullhorn and I became superhuman. It was like having a gun, except better. Walking around with a bullhorn gives all the authority of a gun, without any of the toolishness or danger of it accidentally discharging in your sweatpants. People just assume you’re in charge and defer to you.

It was as if one internet purchase had suddenly made all things right in the world. Maybe the Duke nerds are right. Maybe this will be the premier social event of the year.

Campout started on Friday at 7pm, but me, SlingBlade, Credit, Hate, Jojo, and GoldenBoy got there about 5pm, so we could park our RV in a prime spot. As we pulled in and started to get situated—which for us entailed setting down the cooler and sitting around it drinking—I pondered my tactics.

Tucker “Alright fellas, what should my bullhorn strategy be?”
Hate “Break it. Or set it on fire. Anything that will get that fucking thing out of your hand.”
GoldenBoy “Aren’t you just gonna get drunk, yell at people, and not worry about consequences? Do you know any other way to act?”
Tucker “There is wisdom in your words.”

At 7pm they blew the whistles for the first check-in. The Head Campout Nerd was giving instructions with one of those tiny little megaphones you can buy at Home Depot. He saw me and came over all excited, like we were friends: Nerd “You have a bullhorn! I have one too!” I immediately saw this encounter for what it was: my first chance to assert dominance over Campout. In the most condescending tone possible I said:

Tucker “Aren’t you the cutest! And look at the toy Santa brought you for Christmas! You must have been a good boy this year!”

The dude visibly deflated. Here he was, hoping for a Bullhorn Buddy, and instead he got, well… me:

Tucker “What the fuck is that, a Speak & Spell or a See ’n Say? The frog says ‘Ribbit’!”

He was about to say something, but I put my bullhorn right in his face and hit the siren trigger:

EEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNN

Tucker “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, motherfucker. Take your Fisher-Price ‘My First Megaphone’ and get the fuck out of my face. This thing is made for riot control! I run Campout now, bitch!”

The dude sulked off like the old lion that gets his ass handed to him by the younger lion and won’t be seeing any more lion pussy. It was awesome. Only minutes into the start of Campout and I had savaged the only challenger to my authority!

Tucker “To be the man, you gotta beat the man! And now I’m the man! WOOOOOOOOOOO!”
GoldenBoy “Rick Flair quotes? I know we’re in North Carolina, but come on.”
SlingBlade “Tucker is so proud of himself. He just bested a pimply, insecure 130-pound public policy student. Next up, Romper Room Smackdown.”

The testosterone rush of my victory—on top of the beer I’d already drunk—put me into what could be called an “aggressive” state. Conversely, I was surrounded by the type of passive, fearful people who’d chosen to stay in school to avoid the conflict and consequences of real life. This meant I had in front of me a weekend where I could say or do anything I wanted, without worrying about anyone being able to talk over me. This must be what narcissist heaven is like. Beer in one hand and bullhorn in the other, I began my symphony of awesome:

[to a dude in a Star Wars T-shirt] “Be honest, how many times have you jacked off to a picture of Princess Leia in her metal bikini?”

[to a group of grad school students] “You look like the type of people who would criticize a misspelling in a suicide note.”

[to this guy who had blond hair, was kinda fat, and wore thick glasses] “If this were Lord of the Flies, you’d be dead already.”

He foolishly turned to respond.

EEEEEERRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNN

Tucker “Silence! I’ve got the conch now, Piggy!”

[to some random nerd] “How hard was it choosing between the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show and Campout?”

[to a chunky girl] “Have you been tested for hoof-and-mouth disease!”
Chunkygirl “What?”
SlingBlade, who at this point was warming up to the idea of the bullhorn, took it from me and piled on: SlingBlade “Tucker, you have it wrong. Clearly she has mad cow disease.”
Chunkygirl “Fuck you!”
Tucker “You’re right! She’s frothing at the udder!”

Some European-looking dudes in Diadora shorts walked by.
Tucker “Fact: Soccer is a game invented by European ladies to pass the time while their husbands cooked dinner. Go practice your throw-ins, you cheese-eating surrender monkey!”
GoldenBoy “You just seamlessly stole a King of the Hill quote and a Simpsons quote to form one insult. I’ve never been this impressed by plagiarism.”
Tucker “I’m awesome even when I steal.”

Many beers later, I saw what looked like a hot girl far over on the other part of the parking lot.

Tucker “Man, look at her!”
Jojo and Credit looked over, and immediately started laughing at me. A lot.
Tucker “What? She’s hot!”
As she walked closer, it became very evident she…was a he.
Tucker “Come on, he has waif legs and those tight skinny jeans and long hair—how was I supposed to know it was a douche Marxist and not a girl?”
Credit “He has a beard, Tucker.”
Tucker “Does he? Shit, maybe I’m drunker than I thought I was.”
Jojo “Yeah, that’s it.”

Everyone had a great time laughing at my expense. To this day, Jojo brings this up approximately once a month. It happened TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO. He’s like a woman; he never forgets anything.

Tooling on idiots is fun, but I still have a penis, and it still demands its pounding of flesh, so we decided to see what good-looking—or at least willing—girls we could find at “the premier graduate and professional student social event of the year.”

Dealing with grad school girls can be tricky. At Duke there were four distinct types: insecure, fearful types hiding from the real world; the super-serious ones so brainwashed by the unreality of academia they aren’t even human anymore; the ones just looking for their Mrs. degree; and the sluts. Of all the types of women, I like sluts the best. Mainly because they are the most receptive to me putting my penis in their vagina.

A group of cute girls who looked like they might be game walked by.

Tucker “Ladies, you can’t be the first, but you can be the next.”

They looked at me suspiciously, as they should. Most of the time I don’t know what’s going to come out of my mouth, and sometimes, well… it’s dumb. I’ve found the best thing to do when you stumble is to pretend that nothing happened and just drive forward.

Tucker “In addition to the bullhorn, we have beer! And we will share it with you!”

They laughed a little but didn’t come over. I decided to go for the high-risk play. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Tucker “Look, here’s the deal: If you’re into immature, sexually compulsive men who drink too much and need to be the center of attention at all times, you are going to find me very attractive.”
SlingBlade [grabbing the bullhorn] “Don’t talk to this man. He has herpes simplex 1, 2 and 3. This was a public service announcement brought to you by SlingBlade.”
Tucker“IT’S IN REMISSION, ASSHOLE!”

The fact that this exchange not only made  them laugh out loud, but also got them to come hang out with us, should be all the info you need to know which grad school group they fell into. But there was a bonus: They were in nursing school. We hit the slut jackpot! Slutty nurses not only want to fuck you, they want to take care of you too. They do you, then they do your laundry. This’ll be better than Shark Week!

We talked for a while (without the bullhorn), when, just making conversation, I asked one girl about her favorite movie.

Girl “I love John Cusack, especially in my favorite movie, Better Off Dead.”
Tucker “Oh no…”
SlingBlade “Did we ever establish why Lane Meyer couldn’t be bothered to pay the paperboy? Why he tortured him for the entire movie, without any reason?”
Girl “That was funny. ‘Gimme my two dollars!’ I liked that.”
SlingBlade “So you think that’s cool, to take goods and services from people and not compensate them? Two dollars is a meal! That’s two double cheeseburgers off the McDonald’s dollar menu, which can be the only source of protein for those of us whose parents abandon all financial responsibility for their children at age 18.”
Girl “Umm… calm down. It’s just a movie.”
SlingBlade “Whatever. You’re clearly a selfish whore who would run over a puppy for a guy who shows the mildest interest. I’m sure you and Tucker will get along swimmingly.”

The best part about hanging out with SlingBlade is he makes me look nice by comparison. This girl wore a T-shirt that said FRONT LOADER on it. I couldn’t figure out what it meant. She wouldn’t tell me. This annoyed the fuck out of me, because I am smarter than she is.

Nurse “Well, if you’re so smart, you should be able to figure it out.”

Motherfucker. She leaves me no choice. Now I have to break her self-esteem, sleep with her, and steal the shirt. I use a basic and well-worn tactic: I subtly disapprove of her for various reasons, so that she’ll be forced to seek my validation. By sleeping with me. You know, the classy and mature way to get women. One particular exchange I remember:

Girl “I’m not a slut!”
Tucker “I mean, I want to believe you, you seem like a really nice girl, but… that’s not what those guys over there said about you.”
Girl “They did not! What guys?”
Tucker “I don’t know, they left already.”
Girl “They did not!”
Tucker “Well, let’s try a little test. Now, you know everyone has their price, so how about this: Would you sleep with a guy for, let’s say, 100 million dollars?”
Girl “Well, I mean, I don’t know… yeah, probably… I guess.”
Tucker “OK. Would you sleep with a guy for 10 million dollars?”
Girl “I don’t know, maybe.”
Tucker “OK. Would you sleep with a guy for 10 dollars?”
Girl “No, of course not.”
Tucker “Why not?”
Girl “Are you kidding? I’m not doing that.”
Tucker “We’ve already established that you’d sleep with a guy for money, now we’re just haggling over the price.”

I guess she doesn’t have to learn history to be a nurse, because she thought my little Winston Churchill impression was funny and original. It went on like this for another several hours, me playfully disapproving, her seeking approval, until we snuck off to the back of my SUV and I gave her my full endorsement.

It was about 2am by the time we were done. After we finished, we both wanted to get back up and start drinking more. Plus, I think she was disappointed in my performance. That, or the fact I had been drinking, sweating, and blasting out meat farts all night made me smell like a Pakistani cabdriver. Whichever.

It had been pouring rain for over five hours, everything was soaked, and people were starting to go to bed. Which SlingBlade and I decided meant a prime opportunity to fuck with people.

But before I get into that, let me digress for a second to set the scene. The most important thing you have to know about Campout is that it’s not the same for everyone. There are two places to be: You can rent an RV or U-Haul, park it in the parking lot, and sleep in that, or you can pitch a tent in the field, which is at the bottom of a small hill. Even though the parking lot and field are only yards apart, they are very different worlds. RVs are nice; they have toilets, electricity, TVs, refrigeration, beds—all the comforts of modern life. Tents suck. They are nothing but walls made of thin fabric. You essentially sleep on the ground. Given the choice, most people would take the RV. But it takes money to rent an RV for a weekend, and the vast majority of grad students are broke.

Therefore, a divide develops naturally between the haves and the have-nots. The law students, business school students, and med students tend to be the ones with some excess money, so they rent the RVs and get to sleep in relative luxury in a nice clean parking lot. Pretty much every other grad school student—from political science to divinity school to environmental sciences—is stuck pitching a tent in the field below. If it’s a normal September weekend in North Carolina, this is not really that bad an arrangement. But this weekend it had been raining for days leading up to Campout, including that Friday. This meant the field the poor grad students were camping out in was completely soaked—quite literally a quagmire. It was like a huge mud-wrestling pit, except filled with loser nerds instead of bikini girls.

Which brings us back to the story: SlingBlade and I had, up until this point, spent all of Campout drinking and hanging out in the parking lot. We hadn’t paid any attention to Tent City. That was about to change. This was the moment I had been waiting for all week. I was Tucker Maximus: enslaved camper for an unwanted weekend, coerced supplicant for tickets that should rightfully be mine. And I would have my vengeance, in this life, right now.

Tucker “Tent City! Behold, you live in filth! Your refugee camp for poor nerds is a cesspool of poverty and excrement! You are dirtier than the abandoned children of Bowery whores!”

Some of the people who were out of their tents looked up at me quizzically.

Tucker “Tent City, do you realize how bad you smell? You are swimming in urine and feces. And for what? Crappy tickets to watch a shitty basketball team? You are a Christian Children’s Fund commercial!”

One of them yelled out, “Shut up!”

Tucker “Tent City, query: Was it really worth it? Was it really worth the $30 you saved to spend the weekend mired in squalor and filth? [sniff sniff] I smell poop and bad decisions.”

Someone yelled out from Tent City, “Shut up and go to bed!”

SlingBlade [taking the bullhorn] “Mom, is that you?!? STOP EMBARRASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS!!”

Four or five other law student friends came to join in. These weren’t even my real friends, who were all asleep or being “mature.” These were just guys who knew an awesome idea when they saw one, and they stood around drinking with us and laughing while SlingBlade and I continued to fuck with Tent City.

Tucker “Tent City, you are sleeping in mud and excrement. Don’t believe me? I just pissed on this hill. Do you know what gravity is? Ask the physics grad students, they’re down there with you because studying the underlying mysteries of the universe doesn’t pay for shit!!”

Someone yelled out, “You know, there are things called BATHROOMS!”

Tucker “Toilets are for pussies and poor people!! I am a conquerer!”

Eventually some of the nerds had had enough and started congregating at the base of the hill. At its top, the hill is about 15 feet high and a good 15–30 yards from the people at the bottom. It was far enough away that you could see the people and interact with them, but not so close that you were near them in any physical sense.

RandomNerd “What gives you the right to keep us awake?”
Tucker “Because I have a bullhorn and you do not! Your fancy book learnin’ should’ve taught you that the strong do what they want, and the weak endure what they must. Now bring me your finest meats and cheeses, and be quick about it!”

There were about six of them, and they all kept yammering at me. It was hilarious.

Tucker “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how awesome I am. Please speak up.”

They actually yelled louder.

Tucker “Again, I can’t hear you, because… I HAVE A BULLHORN.”

They kept jabbering at an even louder volume, and this one dude in particular was fuming. He kinda stepped forward wildly gesticulating at me.

Tucker “I want to keep doing this to see how long you will argue with a man who can speak 100 times louder than you. I bet you are sociology grad students; only an overdeveloped sense of justice can create this kind of indignation.”

A few of them actually chuckled, and one girl nodded her head—I WAS RIGHT! Three of them, including the supermad dude, were soc grad students! And of course, this just made him madder. There is nothing funnier than a disproportionate display of inappropriate and overwrought anger. You know, when someone really fucking loses their cool and completely explodes over something small? To me, that is the height of comedy, and I was determined to make this dude flip his shit.

Tucker “Oh, this is just awesome. Define ‘post-structuralist’ for me.”

He actually started to define it! Like an idiot I laughed instead of letting him finish, and he immediately realized the joke was on him. Fortunately, all of us laughing at him must have taken him to his breaking point, because he walked a few steps up the hill and, shaking with anger, busted out this unforgettable quote:

SociologyNerd “‘Against stupidity, the gods themselves contend in vain!’… Friedrich von Schiller!”
Tucker “HAHAHAHAHAH! Did you just quote a German philosopher at me? You’re standing in mud and piss at 2am, and you just quoted a German philosopher at me?”
SlingBlade “I think he’s calling you out.”
Tucker “OK, I can play this game too. ‘Stop ya cryin’ heifer, I don’t need all dat!’… Mystikal!”
SociologyNerd “‘Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something’… Plato!”

I can quote rap lyrics until the sun comes up. But instead, I opted to come over the top and play the nerd trump card on him:

Tucker “Let’s settle this once and for all. I’ll give you the chance to save Tent City. Throw something at me—anything you want—and if you DON’T throw like a girl, I’ll leave right now. I swear on my bullhorn.”

The Sociology Nerd paused, thought about it, got a look of unbridled hatred on his face, adjusted his glasses, and stormed off in a huff.

SlingBlade “HAHAHAHAHHHAHA!!! IT’S LIKE LITTLE LEAGUE ALL OVER AGAIN!”
Tucker “You can run away to your burlap sack, but it won’t save you from my bullhorn! I am the ruler of Tent City!”

All of the nerds got mad, but their anger never went beyond passive-aggressive complaining. People came and went, some people tried to yell over us, some tried pleading, some tried reasoning, and some just threw things (all like girls). By about 3am, we’d woken up and pissed off enough people that something resembling a mob had assembled. But they STILL wouldn’t do anything other than mill around and be angry. One tool in particular was fed up.

Tool “If we come up there, you’re through!”

Unlike this bald-headed tool, I knew my Greek history, so I said the same thing to him that the Spartans said to Philip of Macedon when he sent them a message saying, “If I enter Laconia, I will level Sparta to the ground.”

Tucker “If.”
Tool “Yeah, IF, buddy, IF!”

It’s frustrating when you make a smart joke, and even a nerd doesn’t get it. OK, fine, let’s see if he can detect condescension:

Tucker [in baby voice] “Who’s dat widdle guy down dere making all dat big noise? He’s jus so leetle! Coochie-coochie-cooo!”

That did it. Four of them got up their courage and ran up the hill. I know the one dude had just “threatened” me, but in the moment, it honestly didn’t even occur to me that they would try to get physical. These grad students had taken our relentless mocking for hours because they were pussies. I mean, pussies are pussies—it’s not just a word.

When they got to the top of the hill, they saw all my friends behind us that they couldn’t see from down below, and they kinda stopped and milled around for a second, unsure of what to do. You know that scene in Braveheart where the two guys pretend to be lost so they can get the English to chase them, and the English take the bait, only to run into a huge group of Scots over the hill, and they become the prey? It was like that. Except with nerds. Seeing their body language completely change, I figured this out… but was in such disbelief, I put the bullhorn down for a second:

Tucker “Wait… did you storm up here… thinking we’d run off?”

The embarrassed silence was all the confirmation I needed.

SlingBlade “HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHHHAHAH! Oh my God, that’s so precious!”

I fucking lit them up:

Tucker “WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO??? NOTHING!! YOU’RE GOING BACK DOWN TO YOUR MUDDY GHETTO! YOU CAN’T BEAT ME! I HAVE A BULLHORN, AND YOU HAVE NOTHING, BECAUSE I AM SMART AND YOU ARE STUPID! NOW GET THE FUCK OFF MY HILL, YOU FUCKING PUSSIES!”

They milled around for a second more, then walked back down the hill. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more like a real warrior in my life.

Tucker “TENT CITY, YOUR PITIFUL ASSAULT HAS BEEN REPELLED! I AM YOUR CONQUERER AND YOU ARE ALL MY SUBJECTS! BOW BEFORE ME!!” [to SlingBlade] “This is so awesome! This must be like what Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan felt like!”
SlingBlade “Jesus Christ, you are delusional.”
Tucker “To be the man, you gotta beat the man! WOOOOOOOOO! And at Campout, I’M THE MAN! WOOOOOOOOO!”

I proclaimed sovereignty over Tent City for another ten minutes in various different ways, and after vowing to return the next day to continue my rule, we went to bed. After twelve hours of dedicated drinking, we’d finally hit our wall.

The Next Day

We didn’t wake up until around 2pm. Once we beat back our hangovers with a 12 pack, SlingBlade came upon this one RV with an awesome spread of food—not just cheap hot dogs and sausages, they had gourmet shit. Judging by the quality and quantity, they were those rare type of grad students who actually had real money of their own, not just government loans. This can mean only one thing: business school tools.

In order to go to business school, you have to have worked for a few years and been good at it, so most of them have money saved. As a result, they not only have cooler stuff than the rest of us, they think they are better’n everyone. I decide to fix that for them. I moseyed over, grabbed one of their bottles of wine, and started chugging it. A girl gasped out loud.

Tucker “Well, I’m sorry, your highness, but I happen to think wine tastes better out of a bottle!”

The entire group looked at me like I had just dropped a steamer in their shrimp platter, except one girl who laughed, so I talked to her.

FunGirl “So you’re the bullhorn guys? I heard them planning your demise this morning in Tent City.”
Tucker “I will crush their puny rebellion. Blood alone moves the wheels of history!”

As I housed their food and hit on the cute girl, SlingBlade tried to run interference before our inevitable eviction, but one bitchy girl was quite persistent:

BitchyGirl “Your friend brought a bullhorn to Campout? I mean, who does he think he is?”
SlingBlade “You must be lucky enough to not have met Tucker.”
BitchyGirl “Why is he drinking our wine? And eating my pâté?”
SlingBlade “He has what the DSM IV refers to as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Also, I believe that he is out of beer.”

I think the fact that I was flirting with her friend actually pissed her off more than me drinking the wine and eating her goose liver. She was the type who would cockblock endangered pandas at the zoo.

BitchyGirl “Can I ask you a question?”
Tucker “If you wonder whether you’re fat, you probably are.”
BitchyGirl “Uhh… no, what I wanted to ask—”
Tucker “Yes, you could stand to lose a few pounds.”
BitchyGirl “And you don’t think you could stand to drink less?”
Tucker “Daddy drinks because otherwise he can’t justify having sex with you.”
BitchyGirl “Have sex with you? HA! You wish!”
Tucker “You can pretend you aren’t into me to keep up appearances, but you know you’re moist right now.”
BitchyGirl “UGH! I could not find you more unattractive. You’re slurring your speech, you have a shirt on that is two sizes too small, is covered in mustard stains and says FRONT LOADER on it, you reek of cheap beer and sex, and you clearly have a drinking problem.”
Tucker “Drinking is a problem only if you’re not good at it. To me, everything you listed is proof that I am very good at it.” BitchyGirl “You disgust me.”
Tucker “I will not apologize for being awesome.”

At some point we found ourselves at the Porta Potties. SlingBlade went into one, but I had to wait because the other was occupied. He came out laughing.

SlingBlade “I just dropped a deuce that could sink the Titanic.”
Tucker [I was so in shock, I put the bullhorn down] “You took a dump in a Porta Potty? What is wrong with you?”
SlingBlade “Alcohol has made me impervious to your attempts at shaming.”

The guy in my Porta Potty came out. As I opened the door to go in, I recoiled in terror.

Tucker “OHH! That is AWFUL!”

He started walking away, like everything was just fine and dandy.

Tucker “Hey you, come back here. Do you know what you just did in that bathroom?”
Guy “Yeah… I uh… sorry about that, man.”
Tucker “Come here and smell this.”
Guy “What?”
Tucker “DO IT NOW!”

Thus is the power and authority of the bullhorn: The guy actually walked back to the Porta Potty and took a sniff.

Guy “Yeah, so?”
Tucker [angry astonishment] “Yeah, so? That smell is not [air quotes] ‘just went to the bathroom.’ That is felonious assault on a toilet. You have raped my olfactory senses. Apologize.”
Guy “What?”
Tucker “APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!”
Guy “OK, fine…whatever…I’m sorry.”

Had we not been drinking for 24 hours straight, and had I not conquered an entire city the night before, I don’t think I would have tried this. But the bullhorn had emboldened me:

Tucker “Now apologize to the toilet.”
Guy “Dude, what?”
Tucker “Repeat after me: I am very sorry and greatly embarrassed that my excretory system could produce such a smell. I promise to eat more bran to prevent such things in the future. Please accept my apology.”
Guy “Are you nuts?”
Tucker “I SAID DO IT!”

I was pretty much joking with the guy, and fully expected him to either walk off or punch me in the face. There is just no legitimate reason to obey me. I was just some drunk idiot yelling at him with a bullhorn…but he gave in and basically said it. After he left, I stood there in mild shock.

Tucker “Did I really just use the bullhorn to make a dude apologize…to a port-a-potty…for taking a smelly dump?”
SlingBlade “That thing is too powerful. It’s like the One Ring that rules them all. After Campout, we have to find a volcano and throw it in.”
Tucker “Let’s make Hate do it. He hates the bullhorn, plus he’s short like a Hobbit.”
SlingBlade “Credit can go with him. He’s a Jew, like Gollum.”

We chilled the rest of the afternoon and evening, planning out how we would fuck with Tent City again that night. But this time, the nerds had come prepared. They must have had spies watching us, because before we even got to the ridge to start our second assault on Tent City, they were standing there with a DukeCop. Still drunk on alcohol and the testosterone rush of the previous night, I decided to handle this the logical way, as Lord Tucker Max, Tent City Conqueror:

Tucker “What’s the problem, Officer?”
DukeCop “You need to stop using the bullhorn.”
Tucker “What? Why?”
DukeCop “The proper response to a lawful order is not ‘Why?’”
Tucker “But officer, I don’t think you understand,” [I hold it front of his face as if he hadn't seen it yet] “I have a bullhorn.”

You know that look a cop gives you when he’s so confused that he doesn’t even know how to respond? If you don’t know that look, it means you haven’t had enough fun in your life. He gave me that look.

DukeCop “You have to stop using the bullhorn for the rest of Campout.”
Tucker “Officer, I can’t stop. I am the ruler of Tent City!”

It was at this point the cop realized I wasn’t crazy or stupid, just really drunk.

DukeCop “You’re not in charge, you’re not even on the Graduate Council. I am a law enforcement officer, and I am giving you a lawful command. You can obey it, or I can arrest you and confiscate the bullhorn.”

I was not prepared for this gambit. I turned to SlingBlade:

Tucker “What do we do?”
SlingBlade “Stop using the bullhorn.”
Tucker “Isn’t there some way around this?”
SlingBlade “I don’t know. I don’t take Criminal Procedure until next semester. But I don’t think so.”
Tucker “Does it matter that he’s a campus cop and not a real cop?”
SlingBlade “We’re on Duke’s campus. He also has a taser. Taser beats bullhorn.”
Tucker “Shit.”

On Day 1, I subjugated all of Tent City. On Day 2, I was defeated by a single rent-a-cop. To fuck with me, SlingBlade took the bullhorn from me and addressed Tent City:

SlingBlade “You are safe to go back to sleep. Tucker has been bested and the bullhorn problem is taken care of. I repeat, the bullhorn problem has been taken care of.”
DukeCop “Hey! That means you too. NO ONE gets to use it again. If I have to come back, you’re all getting arrested.”

As I started to go back to my RV, head hung low in shame, I could faintly hear someone yell out from deep within Tent City:

“I guess the man got beat! WOOO!”

Motherfucker. Even ten years later, it still upsets me that my reign as conqueror lasted only a single night. I had so many people left to insult and piss off.

It’s OK though, I got the last laugh. In the intervening years, my notoriety has made it so that all those people who were there, when they tell other people where they went to school, invariably have to answer this question, “You went to Duke? Did you know Tucker Max?”

I may have lost the battle, but I won the war.

Most of the things I did that summer are not story-worthy; you can only tell the same, “I got drunk on Dom and fucked 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: fucking 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 fucked 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 new black.”

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 fuck 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 made Bambi look 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 fuck 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 fucking. 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 fuck 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 asshole, 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 cock 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 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.

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.

Before I knew it I was fucking 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…shit 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 asshole. 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 ASSHOLE– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH– HOW COULD YOU– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME–BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–OH MY GOD– BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH–I LET YOU FUCK 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, shit 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 shit 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 shit, 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, shit 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.

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.

I was at the gym when I got this text message from my buddy DrunkasaurusRex. He likes to play with my emotions, so I never take his text messages seriously:

5:51pm DrunkRex: There is a midget convention at the hilton in milwaukee here with my girlfriend and [soylentgreen] is here too.

5:52pm Tucker: Fuck you

5:53pm Drunkrex: Im dead serious

5:54pm Tucker: I hate you

5:56pm Drunkrex: Soylent has a free roundtrip ticket

6:00pm Tucker: STOP TEASING

He called me a few minutes later, when I was at home, wiping off the sweat and about to cook dinner.

DrunkRex “Did you get my message? I am in Milwaukee with my girlfriend…and there is a midget convention in town this weekend.”
Tucker “I got your fucking message. Come on man, stop playing.”
DrunkRex “Tucker, I am DEAD serious. They are everywhere. It’s like the circus and The Wizard of Oz are in town at the same time. I swear on my life there are hundreds of midgets here.”
[10 second pause]
Tucker “I am on the next flight.”

It took me about 40 seconds to throw clothes into a duffle bag. Another 20 seconds to sprint out the door and onto Park Avenue. I was in a cab to La Guardia within two minutes of getting the call. The TV and lights were still on in my apartment, I’d left the steak I was going to eat for dinner thawing in the sink, and I was still covered in gym sweat.

None of that mattered; I was finally going to fuck a midget.

In the cab, I was so excited I could barely breathe. I called all my best friends, screaming incoherent babbles about sex with little people. The call to Junior (from “The Vegas Story,” which is only published in I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell) was the best:

Junior “What is wrong with you? Why not just get a midget hooker and be done with it?”
Tucker “FUCK THAT. Just because you buy Dwight Gooden’s World Series ring off Ebay doesn’t mean that you were on the ’86 Mets. Some things you can only claim if you have earned them. MIDGET PUSSY, HERE I COME!!”

I was more excited about this than I was when my book hit the New York Times best seller list. I felt like a six year old on the night before Christmas.

At the airport and in line for my ticket, I am forced to fly Midwest Airlines because they are the only airline that cares enough about Milwaukee to fly there. A very nice, very Midwestern couple is in front of me. The man’s shirt has a picture of cheese on it.

Tucker “You guys going to Milwaukee?”
Guy “Yes sir, heading home after a vacation.”
Tucker “Did you know there are midgets in Milwaukee?”
The man and his wife are silent and confused.
Tucker “HUNDREDS OF THEM!”

They turn around and mumble something about crazy New Yorkers. Whatever, they’ve never fucked a midget, they don’t matter.

The flight was nearly intolerable; my mind was spinning with questions. How do you pick up a midget? Are you allowed to physically pick them up? What is the etiquette for dealing with a midget? When you hug them, can you hold them tight like a teddy bear, and promise to pet them and love them? Do they get pissed if you set your drink on top of their head? No one really talks about this.

What about their day to day lives? How do they get luggage in the overhead bin when they fly? Do they get to live in those cool apartments with the really low door handles and counters? What if a midget punches me in the nuts? Since their arms are too short to reach their crotches, how do they wipe? Or masturbate? Even more to the point, what do their pussies feel like? Are they normal sized? Can they give me head without kneeling? When she’s riding me, can I spin her like a top?

I was in Milwaukee by 10pm. My buddy SoylentGreen picked me up, and we were at the Hilton hotel bar by 11pm. I almost hyperventilated upon seeing my first gaggle of midgets. There were six of them, sitting at a table drinking just like normal people, their tiny little legs barely hanging over the seats, tiny little feet dangling like a toddler’s. Their Miller Lite bottles looked massive as they gripped them with both of their tiny little hands. Their humongous foreheads and brow ridges were raised in excitement as they laughed at a tiny little joke.

Tucker “You know CPR right? I think my heart might explode.”
Soylent “You are so fucking weird.”

Then I saw her: My MidgetPrincess. Her blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes made me think of Gwyneth Paltrow. Her missing neck and bowlegs gave me an idea what Gwyneth would look like if placed in a vise and squished to one-quarter size. As her pigeon-toed feet carried her past my table, I slid down in my chair, hoping to catch her eye. She looked at me and smiled, her mashed-up teeth sparkling in the oily light of the popcorn machine. I gave her an unmistakable “I want to fuck you” look, she shot me back a quick “My spine hurts” face, and I was smitten.

I start planning out how I am going to hit on her, but much to my dismay I find myself feeling something I haven’t felt in years: Nervousness. What the fuck? I literally can’t even remember the last time I was nervous around a girl. Is this what it’s like to be a normal guy? This sucks. Every time I tried to talk to one of the midgets I would start giggling and sweating; it was fucking ridiculous and comical at the same time. I felt like a middle schooler who’d snuck into his sister’s college party. Eventually, SoylentGreen–who thinks he’s better than me because he isn’t obsessed with fucking a midget–had to take over.

I think the midgets took a liking to Soylent because he is barely taller than they are and he looks exactly like Gimli the Dwarf from the Lord of the Rings movies. Within minutes we were sitting with the little people. My MidgetPrincess was at the table, and even though I’d only had like five beers, the room was spinning around her. I would talk, but I couldn’t hear the words coming out of my mouth. She would answer back, and it sounded like a chorus of tiny little angels. Is this what love is like? If so, I might have to try it. Then it happened:

Soylent “So, what’s up tonight at the chocolate factory? Any cool parties?”
MaleMidget “Oh dude, you should come with us upstairs. It’s the last night of the LP [Little Person] convention, there is a big dance on the 5th floor.”
Tucker “Don’t play with my emotions. If you are lying about this, I don’t think I could handle it.”
MaleMidget [looking at me like I am some sort of weirdo] “No dude. It should be fun. Everyone is up there.”

Do you know what it takes to make me speechless? For fucks sake, I had a girl tattoo “I Fucked Tucker Max” over her pussy. You could say that my sense of “Wow” is a bit numb. Knowing that, I ask you to put yourself in this situation and see what your reaction would be:

Go to a hotel. Hit the button for the elevator. Take note of the step stool below the button panel, with the note above it, “Please do not remove stool.” Ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. Walk out into the hallway, and do a double take at the FLEET of Rascal scooters in the ballroom lobby (Rascals are those red motorized scooters that you always see old people on in the grocery store). You might first think you stumbled into a geriatric convention, but you study the people on the Rascals, and realize something: None of their feet are touching the base. They are all midgets! MIDGETS ON RASCALS!!!

Reeling from this discovery, you head into the ballroom and see approximately FOUR HUNDRED MIDGETS!!! ALL OF THEM ARE DANCING TO BABY HUEY!!! AND THEY ARE POPPING AND LOCKING!

I REPEAT: HUNDREDS OF MIDGETS ARE POPPING AND LOCKING!!!

What would you do? WHAT WOULD YOU DO???

I know what I did.

I got a massive erection.

As much as I would love to tell you a really cool story about how I spent the next hour hitting on all the hot midgets, dancing with them, doing tiny little body shots off tiny little bodies, and tossing midgets all around the hotel, I can’t…because nothing like that happened. Basically, I just sat there, vacant as a lobotomy patient, staring at the midgets, in utter disbelief at the scene unfolding before me–it was complete Midget Overload. Six midgets at a table had me nearly catatonic, you can only imagine what 400 midgets popping and locking did. And when I saw the two midgets slow dancing, but the midget guy was so short that the midget girl had to kneel to dance with him…I was done.

I am honestly not sure how the next part unfolded, but I do know for damn sure I had nothing to do with it. One moment I was sitting at a table in the ballroom, staring in utter disbelief at the midget dance party in front of me, the next moment, I was part of a group walking toward the elevator. That group was me, DrunkRex, SoylentGreen, our female friend Jessie…and three midgets, one female and two male.

Tucker [whispering] “Jessie, there are three midgets with us.”
Jessie [normal voice] “I know, I invited them. I think the cute one will fuck you.”
Tucker [still whispering] “I will name all my illegitimate children after you if she does.”

The elevator ride was awesome:

Soylent [to one of the male midgets with us] “So, you like midget girls or normal girls?”
Midget “Fuck that midget shit, man. I want me a BIG girl! [pointing at Jess, who is half black, half Italian] Soylent, you think you could set me up with some black pussy?!”
Soylent “Fuck! Goddamn man, that is Afro-Italian pussy…what do you think, I’m running a midget convention whore house special? I’m not fucking her, you are welcome to knock yourself out trying fucker!”
Tucker “Hey man, can you talk to dolphins and pilot whales with that huge forehead of yours?”
DolphinMidget “Fuck you asshole! Did you come with Jessie, I’m gonna fuck her in front of you!!”
Tucker “EEK EEK EEK!! That’s dolphin for ‘I’m sorry.’ But you already knew that.”
DolphinMidget “Hey, you guys want to smoke some rock? I got a connection in Milwaukee, this taxi driver. I’m gonna call him in a minute.”

At the hotel bar Jessie starts to go to work on my MidgetPrincess. Jessie is pimping me so hard, she’s doing everything short of smacking me up for having short money. Being pimped by a girl to another girl is pretty much the optimal situation for a guy, so I did the best thing I could do: shut the fuck up, smile at the MidgetPrincess when she looked at me, buy everyone beer, and hope for the best. Guys, when you have a girl running game for you, the more you speak, the greater the chance you’ll fuck it up. Be quiet and let the girl do the work. Women trust women, not men. The less you interfere, the less game you run, the better. Sounds counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Welcome to women, enjoy your stay.

When I got beers for us all, I discovered something mildly amusing about Milwaukee. If you are ever there, order a Budweiser. Seriously, people FLIP OUT at you. I was confused at first, until it was explained to me: the city of Milwaukee is basically owned by Miller Brewing Company, and of course their big rival is Bud, presumably because they are located in St. Louis. Hey Milwaukeeans, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Bud, MGD, Bud Light, Miller Lite–it’s all shitty beer. No one cares except fat-assed cow-town hicks, i.e., all of you. Get over it and focus on something important, like not being such fat asses.

At one point, DolphinMidget accosts Jessie when she is in the women’s bathroom.

DolphinMidget: “Hey, baby…wanna get down?”
Jessie: “Uhhh, no.”
DolphinMidget: “IT’S ‘CAUSE YOU HATE MIDGETS ISN’T IT?!”

Though she did not fuck him, Jessie found out the answer to a question we all had. She came back from the bathroom giggling:

“I just saw him pee! He pulled his junk out of his pants, and laid across the toilet sideways. It was awesome!!!”

At closing time, the whole crew–three midgets included–came back with us to Soylent’s place to party. As we crossed the street, several cars zoomed past, so I reached down to hold the hand of my MidgetPrincess, you know–because I’m a gentleman and shit.

She reaches up to grab my hand, but hers is too small to grasp mine…so instead she wrapped her entire palm and Jimmy Dean sausage fingers around just my pinky.

I’m going to pause here so the visual of me crossing the street with a hot midget holding my pinky can sink in (and yes, as soon as she did this, the image of playing with a toddler came into my sick, sick mind).

In the elevator, MidgetPrincess grabbed my butt,

MidgetPrincess “Damn, you got a fine ass.”
Tucker “I do pilates.”
MidgetPrincess “Do you really? I bet you are good in bed.”

There isn’t a better opening than that. Did I come back with a smooth line? Did I woo and charm her, sealing the deal with a suave and debonair retort?

Tucker “I wanna make a mess in yer mouth.”

That’s what I said. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Thankfully, she thought it was funny, because if she had been offended and left, I am pretty sure I would have slit my wrists with the closest sharp edge I could find (and for the record, I have never done pilates, I don’t know why I said that either).

We get into Soylent’s apartment, she pulls me into his bedroom, and we start fucking. See, this is why you need good friends, in fact, this should be one of the measures of how good a friendship is: Will your buddy let you fuck a midget in his bed? If the answer is yes, then you know that dude is solid.

Clothes off, I slid right in. Her pussy was not that tight, in fact, it basically felt normal. First question answered.

One of my favorite positions is me on top with the girls legs over my shoulders. I like that position because it gives my dick a more direct line of entry and, if I position my hips right, I hit the girls g-spot in the process. For the most part, I am all about myself in bed, but if everyone can win, why not go with that? Plus, when her legs are over your shoulders, you control everything that is going on, and I am a big fan of dominance.

After a few minutes of missionary, I move to throw her legs over my shoulders. Normally when I do this, the girl’s knees are over my shoulders and her lower legs are either in the air or resting on my back, depending on how I hit it. It went different with my MidgetPrincess. I grab her legs, push them up on my shoulders, but instead of having her knees next to my ears…her feet were next to my cheeks…and a few of her toes went into my mouth…yes, her legs were completely straight.

This was a bit disturbing, to say the least. About ten seconds later, she made me stop because I was hurting her. Even though her pussy is a normal width, it is much shallower than the average pussy, and with her legs on my chest (and her toes in my mouth), my dick was smashing into her cervix. Second question answered.

Only one final question: I got on bottom and had her ride me. Despite my best drunken attempt, I was not able to spin her like a top on my penis. It might have worked if my dick was longer, but alas, I am an average white guy.

She passed out when we were done, and I joined the party that was still going. Flush with excitement and pride, I triumphantly threw my hand in the air and yelled across the apartment,

“RAISE YOUR FUCKING HAND IF YOU’VE EVER FUCKED A MIDGET, BITCHES!!”

The other two midgets raised their hands. Thanks assholes.

We kept drinking and hanging out, and like an hour later DolphinMidget comes up to me and Soylent.

DolphinMidget “Hey man, can I borrow twenty bucks? That taxi driver I called is out front.”

Is a crackhead midget hitting me up for a $20? So he can smoke some rock?

DolphinMidget “I really need a hit, and I lost my wallet, man. Please.”

He is. He really is.

I truly live a blessed life.

POST SCRIPT #1: Why do I want to fuck a midget?

I should probably answer the question I have been getting more than any other since I posted this: “Why are you so obsessed with fucking a midget?” There are two reasons:

Reason 1: Novelty
At this point in my life, I have been with hundreds of girls. I was into triple digits before I put up my site four years ago (Sept 2002), and after four years at the peak of my game–with a dash of internet celebrity thrown in–I am past the point of even being able to round to the nearest hundred.

Because of this, normal sex has lost its novelty, and become almost rote to me. Don’t get me wrong, I really like women and I still really like having sex with them, but one of the main things I used to enjoy about hooking up was the challenge of the pursuit. That is pretty much gone for me now; I barely even remember the last time I had to go out in search of girls. I literally don’t have enough dick for all the pussy that gets thrown at me just through my site. When you fuck that many girls, the excitement of random sex disappears. I have to find novelty in weird places, and one of those places, for me at least, is midgets.

[Yeah, I know what you are thinking: "What asshole bitches about having TOO MUCH PUSSY? FUCK YOU!" Gentlemen, welcome to the perverse and contradictory nature of fame. Someone very famous once told me, "Tucker, celebrity is like death. You can't understand it until you get here, and once you are here, you can't explain it to anyone who isn't." Be careful what you wish for, fellas.]

Reason 2: Conquest
The search for novelty by itself doesn’t explain my pathological obsession with fucking a midget; it’s more about the sport of it. Fucking a midget is such a big deal to me because it’s basically my final sexual frontier. To understand this, you have to go back to when I was in college. One day while sitting around drunk, my friends and I started comparing sexual conquests. I thought I was pretty cool because I had hooked up with all the major races: white, black, Asian, Arabic, Indian (feather AND dot). But one of my friends trumped me. He had fucked a female Canadian bodybuilder (who could bench press more than he could). Wow. Not many people can say that. That’s fucking cool.

Intrigued with the notion that someone had done something cool that I hadn’t, the next day, I started my Sexual To Do List. It was long and ambitious, but I had confidence in my ability to conquer it (the full story of the Sexual To Do List will be in my next book, Assholes Finish First). Before this story, I had checked off dozens of categories and have basically completed the bulk of the list….except one major category: “A hot female midget.”

This four word sentence had been sitting on the top of my list for going on eight years now. As I checked more and more types of women off the list, that one remained, staring at me, always there, mocking my efforts and castigating my failures. It’s the one arena I’ve always yearned to conquer and the one that has consistently eluded me. The last meaningful box to check off my list. It’s become my white whale, and I have become Ahab in my pursuit.

You see, I have fucked an amputee and a set of twins. If you add in a midget, you are looking at a legendary trifecta. How many other people can say they have done that? Seriously, raise your hand if you even know someone who has done that. Yeah, some of you have fucked midgets. Some of you have fucked amputees. Some have even fucked a set of twins. But how many can honestly say you have done all three categories? I’m not going to say that I’m the only guy on earth who has done this, but I would bet you could fit all of us into a Prius.

Understand, it’s not about the midget. I don’t have a midget fetish. Now that I have fucked one, I could care less about fucking another one. Some things in life you want to do just so that you can say you’ve done them. Now I can say that I have fucked a midget.

POST SCRIPT #2: The odds and ends

-I don’t think I gave DolphinMidget any money when he hit me up for crack, but the next morning I was missing like $60 from my wallet. I am not going to accuse him of theft, because my wallet never left my pants and I can’t imagine midgets could be good pick-pockets, you know, with their stubby sausage fingers and all. But then again, you never know, maybe he used his massive forehead to magic the money out of my wallet and into his tiny little crack pipe. If they can’t talk to marine life with it, that thing has to serve some purpose.

-When we were at the hotel bar after the dance, there was another hot midget in a backless red top. She was sitting by herself on a bar stool, and out of nowhere, fell off. That was funny, but not nearly as funny as what happened next: She decided to get back up on the stool by herself. She literally climbed up onto the stool, and looked EXACTLY like an orangutan. It was awesome.

-Random quote from the night:
Jessie “Some of these midget dudes are ripped!”
Tucker “No, you don’t understand. They have regular sized muscles and tiny little arm bones, so they just look ripped.”

-To all Little People that want to tell me how awful I am for writing this, I look forward to reading your tiny little emails, full of tiny little rage: tuckermax@gmail.com

-I do have some pics of the midgets in question, but not many. There are two problems:

1. They are camera phone pics and they suck.

2. I never asked any of them if I could post the pictures, and without consent, that is not only illegal, but totally fucked up. I choose to live my life in a public manner and I can deal with the consequences, but I am not going to insert someone else into a public light without their consent (except for hypocrites who have already thrust themselves into the public light and huge douchebags who think they are already famous).

EDIT#1:-My first hate mail:

“From: [redacted]
To: tuckermax@gmail.com
Date: Aug 10, 2006 9:46 AM
Subject: The Midget Story

You said you looked forward to “tiny little emails, full of tiny little
rage” telling you how awful you are for writing the “midget” story. Well,
here’s one:

I have never been one of your fans, nor will I ever be. I heard about
your “midget” story through a so-called friend who thought your story was
hilarious. Well, I read the whole thing. I read it in utter disgust. I
honestly feel sorry for you and the brain you have been dealt in life.
First of all, we “midgets” prefer to be called little people or dwarves. I
equal the word “midget” to the word “nigger”. It is offensive, and reminds
us of days when we were considered beneath other human beings.

Secondly, the ways in which you describe little people are truly revolting. How can
you rip on entire group of people who can’t help the way they are? I can’t
even begin to fathom your sick mind. Finally, I was there at the Little
People Convention in Milwuakee, and I wish that I had seen you and known
what you were doing. I guarantee that you would have been thrown out of the
hotel.

Oh, by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, which I would not be
surprised, I am a little person. I graduated valedictorian in my high
school class this year, and I am majoring in film at college. I look
forward to showing you what a real little person can do in life, but I am
sure that whatever I accomplish in life, I will become more successful than
you in more ways than one.

Please write back. I would looooove to hear what you have to say.”

My response: “I would write you a response, but my computer won’t let me type in a tiny little font.”

EDIT#2: He responded with this: “Wow, is that the best you can do? I thought that would shut you up.”

And I came back with this: “Midgets get angry over the littlest things. You should work on your
short temper.”

EDIT#3: Another great midget hate mail:

“Message from: dianes123@aol.com
Subject: Midgets

Hey asswhole,

Did you even go to college? Let me guess some fucking cuny college right because you are too fucking stupid for any good college.

Guess what asswhole, midgets are doctors, TV executives(btw – never want any gigs from CBS- you have just been banned), and lawyers (which I am sure you will come in contact with soon!). They have better jobs than you and obviously a better education.

You are an ignorant ass who should donate his time to the military. I heard Bush needs some good bullet shields in Iraq, your background matches the job.

D”

How to get a signed copy of AFF: If you want a signed copy of “Assholes Finish First” but couldn’t make it out to a tour stop, you can buy one off my merchandise page. I only have a few hundred signed copies of AFF left, so if you want one, get it now.

How to get a signed copy of IHTSBIH: You can buy a signed hardcover copy of “I Hope They  Serve Beer In Hell” also. There are substantially more of these than there are signed copies of AFF, but they’re not unlimited. I signed several thousand, and once they’re gone, that’s it.

Funny Pictures: This was the night my tour assistant, Brittney “The Skank Whisperer” Cason wrote about on her blog. I have a midget on my shoulders and a giant next to me holding the umbrella (she’s 6’3”). Not pictured: The five deaf girls with me.

-Someone at the Philly stop has a sense of humor. Click the picture to see the title of the white book.

-My protestors are getting pathetically lazy. They taped this to the outside of the store in Boston and just left.

-About to start the signing at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

-I’m so big in Portland, even Jesus came out to see me.

-In Tampa, a pregnant woman wanted me to sign her stomach. So I put this:

-In LA, did Dr. Drew for the third time. Pretty much my favorite press thing to do, and the only thing I like about LA.

-I got served with a law suit, right before the Charlotte book signing. It was pretty funny.

-This dude was at the Charlotte signing. As soon as I saw him, I yelled out “BABY RUUUTH!!” Without even flinching, he yelled back “FRIIIIEEEEND!!” So awesome.

-This is the clincher. In Denver, this dude came out, got me to sign his back, and then got it TATTOOED INTO HIS BACK. Wow:

Book reviews: I didn’t send my book out for reviews, because my first one sold millions of copies without them, and this book debuted at #3 on the best seller list without them, so fuck it. But some people did reviews anyway, and they were pretty much all positive; this one was my favorite, with this one second.

Nightline: I did a ton of press for the tour, most of it uninteresting, but the piece on Nightline was OK.  (except for the fact that they interviewed me for 25 minutes about Karen Owens, and showed none of it. So I wrote something about her and The Duke Fuck List and put it here)

More press: These are some more articles or interviews or random things that I thought were pretty good or worth reading:
Good interview with a writer who gets it
A great interview, perhaps one of the best I’ve ever done
A writer who watched the Buffalo signing and wrote up his thoughts
Good interview before the Denver signing
An interview that centers around Japanese culture, but is still interesting
Some guy got caught stealing my book from a book signing
A funny review of the Portland signing
Review of the Houston signing

The numbers: Over 32 stops I signed a total of 10,200 books, which averages about 320 books a stop. I have no idea how many pictures I took or how many people I met or how much I drank or any of that shit or how many girls I hooked up with; at some point, you just stop counting.