I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, page 1
I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL
I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Introduction to the Movie Tie-In Edition
THE TUCKER MAX STORIES
The Famous Sushi Pants Story
The Night We Almost Died
The Blowjob Follies
Everyone Has “ That” Friend
Tucker Fucks a Fat Girl; Hilarity Ensues
The Now Infamous Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle
Quite the Vacation
Tucker Goes to Vegas
The Foxfield Weekend
The Austin Road Trip
My Key West Trip
Girl Beats Tucker at His Own Game
Tucker Tries Buttsex; Hilarity Does Not Rnsue
This’ll Just Hurt a Little
The Ut Weekend
The Pee Blame
Tucker Goes to a Hockey Game
The Absinthe Donuts Story
The Most Disturbing Conversation Ever
She Won’T Take No for an Answer
Tucker Ruptures his Appendix
The Sex Stories
Tucker has a Moment of Reflection; Ends Poorly
The Dog Vomit Story
The Midland, Texas, Story
The Worst Tucker Story Ever
Tucker Goes 3-Minute Dating; Hilarity Ensues
The Tucker Max Book Tour
TheBunny—For whatever issues we’ve had, and there have been many, no one has been more solidly in my corner. Not my parents, not my friends, not even my dogs. She is a very special person. [BTW, she is an excellent writer in her own right and I suggest you check out her site: thebunnyblog.com. But finish my book first.]
PWJ—I am a proud and complex man, and as a result, I have to face most of my problems alone. But sometimes even I need someone to go to, and PWJ was there to help pull me out of the two lowest points of my life. Friends like this are beyond rare; they are priceless in the truest sense of the word.
Nils Parker (aka Drunkasaurusrex)—I would call him the Robin to my Batman, but that underestimates the importance of his contributions. Robin is replaceable; Nils might not be.
Donika Miller—It’s hard to describe why Donika has been so important to my development as a writer. She is someone who really gets it, but isn’t seduced by my bullshit. She sees through the crap to the real issues, she isolates the problems I don’t see, she does more than just add value—her critiques turn good writing into great writing.
My law school friends get a separate mention, not only because they’ve had to put up with more shit from me than almost anyone, but because more than half these stories wouldn’t exist without them playing the foils: PWJ (he gets two mentions), SlingBlade, Hate, Credit, JoJo, Golden-Boy, El Bingeroso, JonBenet, and Carolyn (my first year roommate). In a very real way, these guys helped mold the person I am today.
Those who have always been there to help whenever I asked, who’ve saved my ass in several situations, and who otherwise have contributed something tangible to this book: Luke Heidelberger (without whom my site probably wouldn’t work at all), Max Wong (my mentor in the entertainment business; plus she gives great critique), D-Rock (who has gotten me out of lots of fights and always calls my shit out when I need it), TheCousin (the JV me), Dickless Vonboffinsheep Bedwettter, the Turd (always willing to give me a vacation spot), Junior, Skippon, Sharts, Ford, Elliott Throne, Josh Sall, Zach Albarron (the craziest guy I know), Laura, Christine (whose commentary was golden), and all my other “real life” friends.
I have to thank my agent and my editor. My agent, Byrd Leavell, has not only believed in me from day one, he has fought for me where almost no one else would. I am probably too fucked up to ever get married or even have another serious long-term relationship with a woman, but I can’t imagine dumping Byrd. As for my editor, Jeremie Ruby-Strauss: I’ll get all the press and the credit, whatever there is, for this book, but he deserves some of it. He not only got my vision for this book, but actually fought all the bullshit bureaucratic battles to maintain that vision. Without these two guys, I would still be just an Internet writer.
To anyone I’ve forgotten who should have been in here: I am a bad person and I’m sorry, but if you know me well enough to deserve to be in the acknowledgments, you already know that.
[I’m also going to throw in a thank you to the moderators on the Tucker Max Message Board. It’s a weird place, but they do a great job making it fun (and making me enough money in the process so I could finish this book in peace without having to worry about paying bills): Joseph “JoeyHustle” Hansen, Jon Tando, Ben Hanson, Erin O’Leary, Jess Allen, Brian Stieglitz, Mike Gill, AncientMariner, Boozy, SoylentGreen, CJ*, Dark Helmet, DietCokehead, Foxfyre, Wahoo, KimChi, madd scientist, Slappybird, SqueekyCleen, and WillyDuer.]
I want to give special thanks for the revised and expanded edition to Bart Fehr and Dorit Iacobsohn. They did an amazing job copyediting my work.
to the Movie Tie-In Edition
The creation of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell: The Movie was built, in no small part, on the popular success of this book. From the soldiers who passed their tattered, dog-eared copies around the platoon to the travelers who bought it in the airport before catching a flight to the ones who stole it from next to the shitter at their friend’s house and forced him to buy another copy, all of you helped make this movie a reality. It was your desire to laugh and your fundamental lack of basic human decency that propelled I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List and into theaters across the country. For that, we owe all of you a real debt of gratitude. So thanks.
—Nils Parker, producer and co-writer of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell: The Movie
Nils is right, thanks are in order for everyone who worked on the book and on the movie. Thanks to all of you, I appreciate everything each of you has done.
But there’s one man whose battles and sacrifices and struggles stood out from the crowd. This person, more than everyone else combined, is responsible for the greatness that is this book and the awesomeness that is the movie.
He struggled for years, fought the system, turned down the easy payday, and kept true to himself and his art. His unwillingness to compromise his vision and his steadfast belief in his abilities were inspirational, watershed moments in the history of creativity that we called upon in times of indecision and crisis. His superhuman effort brought all of this together, and without him, none of us would be enjoying any of this. I owe him everything.
And so we ask Mr. Tucker Max to please accept our humble thanks. He is the wind beneath our wings, and we thank him from the bottom of your hearts.
—Tucker Max, author of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, the book, and producer and co-writer of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell: The Movie
My real name is Tucker Max. Unless a full name is used, all other names are pseudonyms.
The events recounted in these stories are completely true. Certain dates, characteristics, and locations have been changed in order to protect me from criminal prosecution or civil liability.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed living it.
THE FAMOUS SUSHI PANTS STORY
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 reservation is for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded, full of the types 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 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 fourth 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 ago 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. If the spotlight is not shining directly on me, I feel small inside.
10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class on it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudoscience. 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 horseshit 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 wannabe Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.
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.
10:27: 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 (I once went to the ER for drinking too much whiskey, but I don’t tell them this).
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.
12:18am: 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,
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.