I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Page 4

  Blowjob Betty

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

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

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

  I shot my load into Betty’s mouth.

  The roommate screamed and ran back out the door.

  I had not cum for about three days before this encounter, and thus I had a Peter North-sized eight-roper waiting for her. This did not sit well with Betty, especially because she was not expecting it.

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

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

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

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

  I ended up having to take her to the hospital. Not for asphyxiation—she wasn’t choking after all, the cum just surprised her and got in her nose. Nope…in my enthusiasm to save her life, I had succeeded in breaking one of her ribs.

  The highlight of the night was at the ER when the doctor told me that I did a very good job with the Heimlich. Apparently, you’re actually supposed to break a rib if you do it right.

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

  A Satisfying Meal

  My personal favorite blowjob story happened with a girl I hooked up with only once. I met her in some city, out at some bar, on some night—I barely even remember what she looked like (thank you, Dollar Beer Night). I am pretty sure she was engaged, but it wasn’t to any of my friends, so I didn’t care.

  The girl did a pretty decent job sucking me off, especially considering how much I drank, and I finished in her mouth. Like a pro, she kept her lips wrapped around my dick till it was dry, but when she came up, there was a strange look on her face. She contorted her expression a little, opened her mouth like she was going to vomit, which of course made me pull back quickly, then all of a sudden:

  “BUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPP!”

  The girl belched like a drunken sailor—OFF OF MY CUM!

  Easily one of the proudest moments of my life.

  EVERYONE HAS “THAT” FRIEND

  Occurred—various, 1999–2001

  Written—June 2005

  While at Duke Law School, I made some of my best friends on earth. Guys like PWJ, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Hate, JoJo and Credit made my three years there some of the best of my life. Even though all of them were awesome in their own way, one friend stands out: “SlingBlade.”

  SlingBlade is white, about 6'1", a generally good-looking guy except for his huge nose. Picture a younger Owen Wilson, fucked up nose and all, but with a buzz cut. The first time I met SlingBlade was in the law school library. JoJo was sitting with him at a table shooting the shit, and I joined them. Even though I didn’t know him at the time, when SlingBlade started talking about a movie he’d just seen, saying things like, “It was so bad I had to hit myself in the hand with a tack hammer to take my mind off the pain it caused me,” and “I’d compare watching that thing to masturbating with sandpaper,” I knew that this kid was hilarious, and I wanted to hang out with him some more.

  Over the ensuing months and years I’ve gotten to know him much better, and it seems like every layer I uncover is weirder and more hilarious than the next:

  OCD, GI Joe, and His Nickname

  When I first went over to SlingBlade’s apartment, it was to pick him up on the way to a bar. This was about a month or so after I met him in the library, and I was a little weirded out: his place was a shrine to obsessive-compulsive disorder. He kept it meticulously clean and spartan to the extreme. The only things in the living room were a TV on a stand, a single chair in front of it, and a PlayStation2 at the base of the TV. The controllers had the cords wrapped around them, placed on each side, equidistant from the PS2 base, which itself was perpendicular with the TV stand. On his shelf were about 300 DVDs, perfectly aligned and arranged alphabetically by genre. He had a lot of the standard guy movies like Scarface and Godfather, but most of his collection was sci-fi. He had every Star Wars and Star Trek DVD I’d ever heard of, and lots I hadn’t.

  His bedroom had only a bed and a desk. The bed had Batman sheets and a Green Lantern comforter. Just about every free piece of space in the room was occupied with dolls, or as he calls them, “action figures.” He must have had like 100 various toys all over the place, most of them were set up like they were fighting each other; the GI Joes were battling the Spawn characters, Superman and the Justice League were squared off against Star Wars figures, and dozens of other genres that I didn’t recognize were locked in frozen combat with each other. I was momentarily encouraged by the hot Jeri Ryan poster on the wall…until I realized that she was dressed as Seven of Nine (the character she plays on Star Trek). The kicker was a talking Yoda doll that he had on his desk. I walked by and the thing blurted out, “Size matters not.” I punched it, and it chirped at me, “Beware the Dark Side.”

  Tucker “Dude, have you ever brought a girl back here?”

  SlingBlade “Yeah…once.”

  Tucker “What did she say when she saw all this?”

  SlingBlade “I don’t know. Nothing. It was dark.”

  I am not a toy expert, but one thing I did notice was that he had both the older and the newer GI Joes. Because I loved my GI Joes—when I was TEN—I jokingly asked him about them:

  Tucker “Are the new GI Joes better than their 80’s counterparts? I don’t see how you can beat the old school Snake-Eyes.”

  SlingBlade [The exactness of this response is due to the fact that he re-wrote it for me. From memory. You think he might be OCD?] “The answer is a resounding yes. The old figures suffered from a potent and debilitating malaise known as Wasting Rubber Band Syndrome.

  WRBS occurred when you held the legs of Duke or Roadblock, the only two GI Joes you had since your parents were poor and hated you, and spun around the top portion to create a ‘super-spinning punch’ wherein the figure would triumph over his enemy, much to my adolescent delight. This punch was an amazing tool, used only under dire circumstances, such as when Cobra (populated by conscripts from my sister’s Barbie collection who were sold into white slavery) was about to overrun your Lego fortress. Why Lego, you ask? Because your parents wouldn’t spring for the GI Joe base. God forbid you should spend twenty dollars so your lonely son, who spent his formative years confined to quarters for things like “back
talk” and “auto theft,” could have a cool fortress for his only friends. Coincidentally enough, I won’t be springing for the silver package when I stuff those two idiots into the old folks home in a few years. Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?

  Anyway, after enough super-spinning punches, the rubber band would snap, and your GI Joe would be cleaved in two. You would then cry, as your supply of friends had been effectively cut in half.

  There was also a secondary problem named Fatigued Thumb Syndrome. FTS was when the GI Joe received a constructive form of leprosy due to overuse, and their thumbs would fall off, rendering them incapable of holding a weapon. Once the thumb was gone these figures became almost useless. At this point the only thing they were good for was renaming them for one of your enemies at school and then melting them on an open flame or destroying them with a firecracker. Neither problem exists in the current version, from what I can tell.

  In unrelated news: I’m still single.”

  Looking through his DVDs, I saw a movie that didn’t really fit with the sci-fi/gangster themes of the rest of his titles: Sling Blade. I love that movie, and asked him why he had it. He told me it was his favorite movie, and started reciting lines from memory, in the same low, baritone gravelly voice that Billy Bob Thornton used in the movie.

  [In case you have never seen it, Sling Blade is a fantastic movie about a semi-retarded man named Karl Childers. My buddy SlingBlade relates on a very personal level with Karl (played by Billy Bob Thornton) because they are both very sensitive people who feel disconnected and hurt by a world that doesn’t understand or appreciate them, and as a result must wear a social mask that is different from their inner self. The only major difference is that SlingBlade is a fucking genius, while Karl Childers is mildly retarded.]

  This was only like the fourth or fifth time I’d ever hung out with him, so I didn’t really understand how unpredictable and random he could be. After we got to the bar and had some drinks, I was talking to a hot UNC soccer player, and SlingBlade was playing wingman with her friend. I guess the girl he was talking to was an idiot, because eventually he got bored, and when he gets bored you never know what he’ll do to entertain himself:

  Girl “So, do you like Duke?”

  SlingBlade [imagine his voice in a low, baritone rumble, like Billy Bob Thornton’s in the movie] “Some folks call it a Kaiser blade, but I call it a sling blade, hrmmmm.”

  Girl “Excuse me?”

  SlingBlade “I reckon I want me some of them French fried taters, hrmmm.”

  Girl “What did you say?”

  SlingBlade “I reckon you ’bout dumb as post, hrrmmm.”

  Girl [to me] “Your friend is scaring me.”

  Tucker “Me too.”

  After a few nights of this, I stopped trying to fight it and just went along, because after all—it is pretty damn funny. We’d be talking to some girls, and if they bored us or pissed us off, we’d just bust out with these improvised mini-montages from the movie. Usually, I’d play the role of Doyle Hargraves, the abusive boyfriend (played in the movie by Dwight Yoakam):

  SlingBlade “I reckon this’n girl ’bout to fuck you, hrmmmm.”

  Tucker [in a redneck voice] “Boy, you shut yer mouth or I will beat the dog shit outta yew.”

  SlingBlade “I want me some of that there vaginer, hrrmmmm.”

  Tucker “Dat’s it! Linda—I’m bout fed up with this retard hangin’ round the house!”

  Random Girl “What is wrong with you two?”

  The McGriddle Argument

  Even though he can be weird in a lot of ways, SlingBlade is a legit comedic genius. The purest example of this is “The McGriddle Argument.” On the message board attached to my site, SlingBlade and I were talking about a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich called the McGriddle. This is the basic transcript of the discussion:

  Tucker: “Dude—that thing looks disgusting. It has to be nasty, with the syrup shit in it. What is that?”

  SlingBlade: “I can only assume from your cavalier attitude that you have yet to partake of the wonderment that is the McGriddle. Let me enlighten you. What happens is the One True God grows them on trees in the Elysian Fields using a heretofore unused incantation. He then proceeds to magic them down to your local eatery where whatever Ghetto Bastard cook your McDonald’s has rescued from welfare that week proceeds to wrap it in cellophane and pass it along to you, the fortunate consumer. You proceed to ingest this finery in the vain hope that your obviously overmatched taste buds can somehow grasp the delectable intricacies it is suddenly faced with. Is that egg? Why yes it is, and bacon too. But wait—they didn’t add…yes they did, yes they did indeed. They added cheese. And then, then my friends, they wrapped it in a sumptuous pancake bun! As your taste buds try to process that amazing piece of information, IT hits them…the syrup nugget. THE MOTHERFUCKING SYRUP NUGGET! It announces itself with a burst of confectionery grandiosity the likes of which your palate has never seen.”

  Tucker: “So you like them?”

  SlingBlade: “If you EVER speak ill of the McGriddle again I will personally force-feed you one while I fuck you in the butt using the wrapper as a condom and then donkey punch you when the infused syrup nuggets explode in your mouth.”

  Ironically, I think more people on my message board have commented on that than anything I’ve ever written there.

  “Welcome to My Life”

  But of all his little quirks, one characteristic truly defines SlingBlade: his issues with women. The first few times we went out, the same basic thing happened: I’d hit on a hot girl, he’d play wingman and hit on her friend, but invariably he’d get depressed and/or upset with her, insult her, and she would run off crying or get mad at him. At first this was bothersome, because the hot girl I was talking to would usually leave with her pissed off/upset friend. But after I got used to it, I was more intrigued than upset. This was a decent-looking guy who was not only blowing pussy, he was doing it on purpose. Who does this?

  I had to drag it out of him, but I discovered what is perhaps the most defining story of his life: he and his high school girlfriend, the love of his life, went to different undergrads. He never cheated on her because he is an honest and moral man, but she did not possess the same integrity. She fucked half her school, and never told him. At least not until he went down to visit her and didn’t understand why all these guys kept coming by her room asking her what she was doing later…until she dumped him and asked him to leave. He has never recovered, and still cannot deal with women on a meaningful romantic level.

  After that sort of trauma I can understand having issues with intimacy, but he should still be able to hook up. You don’t have to be in love to fuck, right? Even though SlingBlade agreed with that notion in principle, it didn’t work for him in practice.

  You know that saying, “Any club that would let me be a member, I wouldn’t want to join?” SlingBlade assumed that any girl that he liked enough to want to fuck, wouldn’t want to fuck him. But any girl who did want to fuck him without first knowing him and respecting him, he automatically thought was a whore…and he refused to sleep with a girl he regarded as a whore. This absurd Catch-22 pretty much guaranteed that SlingBlade got no ass.

  Add in his low tolerance for stupidity and his utter disdain for whorish female behavior, combine it with the fact that many of the girls I hit on fit right into either the dumb or slutty categories that he hated, and you have a recipe for hilarity. This is only one example:

  A few months after law school graduation I went up to DC to visit SlingBlade for a weekend. He was in bad shape, even for him. Working 70 hours a week doing document review as a temp (the lowest level of legal work), living in a crappy overpriced apartment in Alexandria, no women or prospects, SlingBlade was as thoroughly depressed as I’ve ever seen him. From what I could tell, the only thing that brought him joy was beating his roommate at Tetris. I decided to take him out, get him drunk and see if I couldn’t get him out of his despair.

  We pre-p
artied at his place and got hammered, then went to some bar in Clarendon that was packed with hot girls. Across the bar I see what I think is a super-hot girl.

  Tucker “Look at her; that girl is hot.”

  SlingBlade “She probably looks alright when it’s dark.

  Tucker “What are you talking about? She’s hot.”

  SlingBlade “Here’s a shock. Let’s see: she’s a tall slutty blonde, and you are drunk. Cupid has spoken.”

  We walk over there, but before I can hit on her I realize much to my dismay that SlingBlade was right: Her hot face and great tits are paired with ghetto booty and elephant legs. This girl had a cover-of-Maxim upper body and a World’s Strongest Man lower body.

  SlingBlade “HAAHHAHAHHAAH—Welcome to Zerosville, population: Her.”

  Tucker “I need some more shots.”

  SlingBlade “Well, you know who to go to if your car gets stuck, and you need a push.”

  Tucker “Dude…just leave me alone right now. If I hook up with her, you can make fun of me all you want tomorrow, but let me have my illusion tonight.”

  She comes over and starts flirting with me before I can even get my shots down. I played it coy as I talked to her, but not because I was trying to run advanced game; I was trying to hurry up and get drunk so her legs would look skinnier.

  Tucker “So, what do you do?”