I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Page 6

  SlingBlade “LINE UP THE SHOTS MAX. YOU KNOW THE DRILL—I GET SHOTS OR THEY LEAVE CRYING!”

  For the most part, the only way he will play wingman with girls he doesn’t like is if he is intensely drunk…cue five shots of Jagermeister; it’s time to loosen up SlingBlade.

  We get a table and drink and talk. The girl SlingBlade was talking to, Girl 2, thought he was funny and laughed at his jokes, and everything is going great until Girl 1 decides to fuck it up by telling SlingBlade that she has a boyfriend but cheats on him all the time, especially with guys like me. Oh man…

  SlingBlade “Well aren’t you just spectacular. I’m glad to see that those ‘Worthless Whore’ lessons turned out well for you.”

  Girl 1 “Uh, you can’t make fun of me. You are wearing a Batman shirt out to a club.”

  SlingBlade “I’d rather fellate a hot curling iron than listen to fashion advice from you.”

  Girl 1 “You NEED fashion advice, you dress like an action figure.”

  SlingBlade “Better an action figure than a Bowery prostitute.”

  I tried to calm this down, but they got started again.

  SlingBlade “Do you have anything else in your life besides work and fellatio? I’m not counting the empty syringes and used condoms decorating your apartment floor.”

  Girl “YES! I do lots of things! What do YOU DO besides work? Watch Batman cartoons all day?”

  SlingBlade “Woman, do not disparage Batman, or you will find this fork sticking out of your eye. Not only do I watch Batman, I go to the gym. You should try it some time.”

  Girl “Excuse me jerk, I run.”

  SlingBlade “Run?!? What, do you run to the refrigerator during commercial breaks? Huh, fatty?” [This girl wasn’t fat at all, but SlingBlade likes to push the obvious female insecurity buttons.]

  Girl “You are a real asshole.”

  SlingBlade “Settle down Slim, don’t hate the messenger. Just curious: have you ever eaten just one of anything?”

  Tucker “Stop it.”

  SlingBlade “She has—the forbidden apple.”

  Tucker “Hey dick head, here’s my beer bottle, go peel the label and shut the fuck up.”

  I took Girl 1 to the bar to calm things down, because unlike Colonel Masturbation, I wanted to fuck the girl I was talking to. Girl 2 actually thought SlingBlade was funny, so she stayed at the table to talk to him:

  Girl “So you’re single?”

  SlingBlade “I prefer ‘vaginally-challenged.’”

  Girl [laughing] “You’re so funny. I can’t believe you’re single.”

  SlingBlade “I’m a 25 year old socially anxious, premature ejaculator, and I’m wearing a Batman t-shirt to a club. Is it really that implausible?”

  After a few drinks I got Girl 1 settled down and back to the table, and Girl 1 and Girl 2 immediately went to the bathroom together.

  Tucker “So, your girl seems into you. And she’s kinda hot. You going to finally close a deal?”

  SlingBlade “I don’t know. She has a 2 year-old kid…oh well, at least I know she fucks.”

  Tucker “You want more shots?”

  SlingBlade “Yeah, whatever. It’s not like I can hate myself any more than I do now.”

  It was George Burns who said, “It takes only one drink to get me drunk. The trouble is, I can’t remember if it’s the thirteenth or the fourteenth.” The same could be said for SlingBlade about hooking up. For him to hookup he has to perfectly hit his drinking sweet-spot. It’s got to be enough alcohol that he is truly fucked up, but not so much that he loses control. The problem with this is that his tolerance is terrible, which leaves him without much margin for error. If he doesn’t drink enough, he still thinks the woman is a slut, and he won’t touch her, but if he drinks too much, he throws up and/or passes out. It’s a delicate balance to get him into his Hook-up Zone.

  We do one shot, and then another. At this point the girls return from the bathroom, and he smiles when he sees Girl 2. I get excited because I think I may have hit the spot exactly. I look over about 30 minutes later, and his head is buried in his hands, and he is muttering to his drink:

  SlingBlade “Alcohol, I know I can trust you. You won’t leave me like that dirty whore did, will you?”

  Girl 1 “What’s wrong with your friend?”

  Tucker “He has a problem with women. And alcohol.”

  SlingBlade “My liver hurts, my liver is dying.”

  Girl 2 “He is really funny.”

  SlingBlade “If you aren’t completely repulsed by me, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Girl 2 “You aren’t repulsive.”

  Girl 1 “Yes he is.”

  At that moment a guy with crutches walked by our table toward the bathroom.

  SlingBlade “I wish I had crutches like him, because then I could beat myself to death with them, which would be preferable to my night thus far.”

  Since the bathrooms are the small one-person-at-a-time type, the crippled guy had to put his crutches outside the door while he pees. Seeing this opportunity, I decided to lighten the mood at his expense. I run back there and throw his crutches in the empty girls’ restroom. At the table, I cannot control my giggling, because I know what is coming next:

  “WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY CRUTCHES?”

  Girl 2 “Hehehehhe—you two are both so funny!”

  SlingBlade [in the SlingBlade voice] “How would a man go’bout contactin’ da’ po-lice, were he so inclinded, hrrrmmm.”

  Tucker “Oh Christ…not again.”

  Girl 1 and I decide to take her car and go back to her place (you know, for sex—something normal people do), leaving Girl 2 and SlingBlade to the Fates. Though I did not see what happened next, SlingBlade recounted it to me the next day:

  He kept drinking until Girl 2 left. Without him. Apparently she got fed up with him alternately passing out and calling her a whore in the SlingBlade voice. After her departure he wandered around the bar, finally deciding that he needed to go to the bathroom.

  As he walks to the bathroom, he starts veering to the right, and in an attempt to correct this he flings himself to the left. Instead of correcting himself, he ends up slamming head-first into the wall, which lays him out straight on his back. This is directly in front of a bunch of people, all of whom naturally laugh at him.

  He’s so hammered that he just lays there for a minute, trying to remember how to stand up. Eventually he rolls himself over, but can’t get up on his feet. Instead he starts to crawl, arm over arm, military-style, to a nearby chair. Once there, he pulls himself up on the seat, looks over to the crowd who was watching and laughing, points to himself and yells:

  “Still single ladies!”

  Where Is He Now?

  SlingBlade is a different person now than he was when all these stories took place (most of them occurred between 1999-2002). Even though I begged him and begged him to start a site similar to mine where he could display his prodigious comedic talents, he repeatedly declined, instead pursuing a very different field. It ended up working out well for him, and he is a much happier person now, mainly because of this new job. He has asked me not to write anything about his current occupation, and of course I’ll respect his wishes.

  And yes, though he has sold all his action figures on eBay (for a profit, as he likes to note) and no longer sleeps on Batman sheets, Sling-Blade is still very single.

  Update 1/20/2008

  SlingBlade is now married. For real, I was even at the wedding. And believe it or not, she’s hot (a solid 5-star), and seems like a very nice girl. So seriously, would all the socially awkward women out there please stop sending me email asking to be set up with him. Aside from the fact he would have hated you anyway, he’s now off the market.

  TUCKER FUCKS A FAT GIRL; HILARITY ENSUES

  Occurred—March 2000

  Written—August 2004

  We’ve all done it.

  We’ve all accidentally fucked a fat girl.

  You star
t the night with the best of intentions, but somehow you end up in one of those blacked-out, where-the-fuck-are-my-pants drunken states, and wake up with some girl who is packing more ass than a Sir Mix-a-Lot video. Getting smashed and goin’ hoggin’ is almost a rite of passage for the American male. There’s no shame in that.

  This being said, very few of us have fucked a fat girl on purpose. I will be honest: I may be a member of that club, but it’s up for debate. Let me explain:

  It all started in February of 2000, the first month my website was up. I was 23 years old and in my second year of law school. TuckerMax.com originally started as a Date Application Page that I put up to settle a bet. My friends thought the page was hilarious, but wanted to see some results:

  PWJ “Tucker, the site is awesome, but you need to actually meet a girl through it.”

  Tucker “I don’t know.”

  Hate “Max! How could you put that site up and not hook up with at least one girl through it? That’s weak.”

  Tucker “I don’t know; there have been some crazies emailing me.” Hate “When has that stopped you in the past?”

  SlingBlade “This is opposed to the crazies that you pick up in bars?” PWJ “Dude, you can’t put this thing up and never go on a date or hook up from it. You have to. At least one girl.”

  Tucker “Fine. Might as well. What’s the worst that could happen?” Hate “OH YEAH! That line of thought always serves you well!”

  But I didn’t just promise my friends that I’d go out on a date with a girl I met through the site. I ended up promising that I’d do my very best to hook up with her.

  So of course as soon as I make this promise, I get no applications from any girls near the Durham, NC, area. I know this sounds ridiculous now, as I get dozens of propositions a day from girls, but you have to remember that back when the site started, it was almost totally unknown outside my circle of friends. Maybe 30 people a day saw it, if that. There were only like three of my stories up, and the notion that this site would become anything beyond a silly joke never even crossed my mind. If you had told me then that within two years my webpage would become my launching pad to fame, I would have laughed at you and told you stop sucking the glass dick.

  One week went by, nothing. Two weeks, nothing. I was starting to get a little desperate, thinking about all the shit I was going to have to eat from my friends because I couldn’t even get a date off my own Date Application Page, when finally a girl emailed me. She had just moved to Raleigh for a job, knew no one, and thought I was funny. We emailed a little, and she seemed cool and normal enough, but I had to make a couple requests before she sent me a picture of her. Once I got the pic, it was clear why it took her three emails to work up the courage to send one.

  Ladies and gentlemen: She’s a fatty.

  Normally, this would have been an easy decision. I’d just say, “Get the fuck away from me and go back to your trough,” and everything would be fine, but this time it was different. I had PROMISED my friends that I would hook up with a girl from my webpage, and FatGirl was my only option.

  I put her off for a few weeks with cutesy email banter, while I prayed for a girl without a giant oversized pig heart to email me.

  One week…two weeks…nothing. Finally, I consulted my friends on what I should do. I showed them the picture:

  Hate “WOOOOOOO-WEEEEEEE! YOU GOT YOURSELF A CHUNKER! FORGET THE DATE, LASSO HER AND TAKE HER TO THE STOCKYARDS!”

  PWJ “Yeah, you did promise. She might be your only chance.”

  SlingBlade “Just make sure you take her to a bar that doesn’t serve food. You can’t afford that kind of date.”

  El Bingeroso “Wow. Yeah man, that sucks. Wow…but you did promise.”

  Hate “WOOOOOO-HOOOO! MAX YOU ARE MAKING US PROUD! GOD BLESS THAT WEBSITE!”

  After some deliberation, I decided to meet FatGirl out. It still makes me laugh to this day, but I legitimately thought that this would be my only shot at hooking up with a girl through my website, and I didn’t want to blow it…even if it meant I had to go pork diving. I justified it as such:

  Tucker “Well…maybe she’s lost weight. She said it wasn’t a good picture.”

  [Everyone in unison] “HAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.”

  SlingBlade “Lost weight? What, you think she caught that secret rubella epidemic sweeping the Carolinas? When was the last time a girl was better-looking than her INTERNET DATING PICTURE?”

  Tucker “Well, she does have a cute face. You can’t fake that.”

  El Bingeroso “This is not going to end well.”

  Hate “Max, just when I think you’ve tapped out, you find a whole new way to fuck up!”

  Tucker “Fuck you. I hope all of your children have birth defects.”

  I agreed to meet FatGirl at a bar in Durham, The James Joyce. I flatly refused to tell any of my friends where we were meeting, and made them promise not to come looking for me, in case she turned out to be morbidly obese, as opposed to just normal fat, like in her picture. Like an IDIOT, I didn’t think about extracting promises for what would happen after the date. A rookie mistake that will haunt me my entire life.

  FatGirl was seated when I got there, and looked pretty much exactly like she did in the picture—fat. We started talking over beers, and she was exactly like her emails: a nice, sweet girl without a whole lot going for her. It quickly became obvious that she was very much into me, and after about three beers she really started loosening up. The turning point in the conversation was this:

  FatGirl [with a seductive, portly, dimpled look] “Tucker, are you a player?”

  Tucker “Uh, no… I mean, not in the way you are thinking. A player is someone who is only out to have sex for the sake of sex, and will do or say anything to hook up. Yeah, I mean, I like sex, but I won’t do anything to hook up with a girl. Well…normally, at least.”

  FatGirl [still with the seductive, portly, dimpled look] “I think you’re a player Tucker Max…but I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  Well, this one is locked up. The night is obviously going to end in sex if I want it to, but I still had to decide: Do I bail on this date, avoid the ignominy of having sex with Miss Piggy, and pray that another girl emails me for a date, or do I just suck it up, take the opportunity in front of me and fulfill the promise to my friends? I went back and forth on this in my mind.

  Good Tucker “She has a really cute face.”

  Bad Tucker “She is fat.”

  Good Tucker “Well, she isn’t disgustingly obese. She’s only like 30… 40… -ish…pounds overweight.”

  Bad Tucker “What does that mean? Because she doesn’t need a crane to leave her house, it’s somehow OK? She’s FAT.”

  Good Tucker “But I promised my friends, and this might be my only chance to hook up through the site.”

  Bad Tucker “Right…but SHE’S STILL FAT.”

  I end the debate by moving my army across the Rubicon: “Bartender, get me a shot.”

  And then I burned the bridges behind me: “Make it cheap tequila. With a beer back.”

  Yes, I know that fucking fat girls is against the rules for any self-respecting guy, but the rules have a loophole. That loophole is called alcohol. God bless it.

  With each tequila shot and beer combo, she lost weight. Her face, which was previously only cute, became sorta hot. The night started improving.

  Then it went to shit. I chose the James Joyce because I knew none of my friends would be there that night, as on Wednesdays they always went to a bar in Chapel Hill. But there are more people that drink in Duke Law School besides my friends. Namely, two loud-mouthed gossiping bitches in my class, Carry and Amy, who were at the Joyce that night.

  I tried to hide when I saw them walk in, but it was no use, their scandal radar was too sensitive. They immediately spot me:

  Carry “Hey Tucker, I was just about to—”

  She stops mid-sentence when she sees the land beast I am with. I wish I had a picture of the look on
her face. Complete and utter confusion, with a hint of disgust and twinge of contempt. I almost laughed…then I remembered that I was the one with the fat girl.

  Tucker “Hey, we were just about leave.”

  FatGirl is standing behind me waiting to be introduced, but that is not happening.

  Carry “Wha—who—uhhh… Tucker…”

  I am out of there before she can finish her thought. There is nothing at the end of that sentence that I want to hear.

  FatGirl and I end up back at my place (I knew my roommates, Hate and Credit, would still be out drinking). We have sex, and both pass out afterwards, even though it was only about 11. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol, the fumes, or the PTSD that put me out. Probably some happy combination of all three.

  The gods of alcohol often entertain themselves at my expense, but sometimes they throw me a bone. Waking me out of an alcoholic stupor normally requires nothing short of ice water and a fog horn, but somehow I awoke in time to hear Credit and Hate slowly open the front door to our apartment and start creeping towards my door, conspiratorially whispering to each other. I spring out of bed, dive at the door and lock it just in time to prevent them from charging in.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about their yelling and banging on the walls:

  Hate “MAX!! BRING OUT THE FATTY!! LET’S SEE HER!!!”