David Spedaris is old news. I am currently trouncing Spedaris in the humor category and in the category of “Who is the hot slut of the month?” I think the pressure was too much for him and he has retreated to his chateau and his baguettes and his coterie of fawning admirers on NPR. Au revoir, Monsieur McStink. So now with that pipsqueak out of the way, I train my sights on the great white whale of Amazon’s humor category, Tucker Max, who has been dominating this list since I began tracking it several weeks ago.
Who is Tucker Max? According to the back cover of his book: “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women than is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a raging dickhead.”
This is going to be difficult: I think I like Tucker Max.
It’s hard not to like a guy who so consistently throws up on himself. Literature has a long list of lovable alcoholic scamps who embarrass themselves and act like pigs. Judy Blume, for example.
I have always had a special fondness for assholes who know they are assholes and fully embrace their assholeness. It’s sort of how I acted when I was in high school, minus the alcohol and sleeping with girls. So, in retrospect, I guess it’s not how I acted. In fact, now that I think about it, I fucking hated the guys who acted like that. The only difference between Tucker Max and those guys is that those guys didn’t keep blogs. Would I have liked them if they had? If they were good writers, perhaps.
But still. Regardless of whether or not I like Tucker Max, he is still the enemy and I would very much like to cut off his balls and choke him with them (metaphorically speaking).
How do I do that?
I’ve already played out the whole literary feud thing. It worked well, but now it’s over. So what about a real feud? What if I challenge Tucker Max to a fist fight?
Here’s what I’m thinking:
I cannot beat up Tucker Max. I know that. He used to be some kind of athlete and in his pictures he looks like he’s in decent shape. I, on the other hand, can barely stand upright for more than twenty minutes at a time. The last time I threw a punch was also the last time I got my ass kicked. I was eleven. Her name was Kara, and she took karate.
But if Tucker is half the alcoholic that he claims to be, I might have a chance. I’m counting on a couple things going my way. First of all, I’m hoping he shows up to the fight drunk. If his book is to be believed, that’s pretty much all he does, right? So why would he abstain from booze for a fight with a fey VH1 commentator? He wouldn’t. In fact, my strategy is to schedule the fight for eight in the morning, when he will either still be drunk from the night before or completely hung over. Either way that levels the playing field somewhat.
Second, even though he looks like he’s in good shape, his liver has to be a mess. If I can get a couple good shots to the liver, I might do enough damage to that organ that all the toxins that have been accumulating in there for the last decade or so spill into his bloodstream, killing him. Yes, I think I could actually kill Tucker Max. At the very least, I might accelerate his inevitable cirrhosis, which may not win the battle, but will eventually win the war (when he dies from liver failure).
So Tucker Max, you drunk, misogynistic motherfucker – I am officially calling you OUT! I am going to fist fuck every hole in your boozy little body until you crawl away like the sniveling little bitch that you are. YOU’RE DEAD!