Assholes Finish First Read online

  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 A, B and C. 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 inevitab
le 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 Pesonality 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.