Tucker goes to a hockey game

alanon

alanon

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Alanon
While I was hard at work this morning (read: screwin around on the interweb), I ran across this guy's blog like site and started reading his stories. Some can get raunchy, but this one got me laughing more than anyone should probably be laughing at 8:30am on a tuesday morning...

Tucker said:
Sometimes even I need a night off, and after an intense Thursday and Friday hanging out with JoJo, I decided to spend a relaxing Saturday hanging out with a friend of mine from high school who happened to be in town that night. We'll call him "Mark."

He shows up at my place around 4pm with a 30-pack of Old Style, which we manage to polish off rather quickly. As I am trying to decide how to steal some more beer from my neighbors, a commercial comes on for a regional professional hockey team, which coincidentally has a game in two hours. Mark wants to go see hockey. He considers it the best idea of all time. I disagree. I want a relaxing night.

Somehow he manages to convince me that drinking 15 beers and then going to a hockey game can qualify as a "relaxing night."

But not only does he want to go to the hockey game, he desperately wants to bring the CamelBak, having read about it in the UT Weekend Story. I pause and consider my options. I can:

A) refuse to go anywhere, knowing myself well enough to see that this night is obviously on course to become a catastrophic trainwreck.

B) agree to go to the hockey game, but refuse to bring along the CamelBak, because it will quite obviously result in my early demise.

C) say "fuck it," throw all caution and temperance to the wind, go to the game with the CamelBak full of Tucker Death Mix, and dare the consequences of my actions to catch up with me.

You've probably read some of my other stories, what do you think I did?

I load up the CamelBak with Tucker Death Mix [Everclear, Red Bull and Gatorade], but this time, instead of Everclear, I use real Kentucky moonshine. My mother lives in Kentucky, and one of her neighbors makes moonshine in his barn. Seriously.

We arrive at the arena fully shit-housed. We don't have tickets, and the only scalper we can find has got to be the dirtiest, poorest, shittiest looking crack addict in Chicago. He is trying to sell two ratty tickets. They look like he got them with a McDonald's Super Value meal. This does not stop me from bargaining with him. I am a master negotiator, especially when drunk:

Tucker "How much for the tickets?"
Crack fiend "40 each."
Tucker "Get the fuck outta here? Do we get a handjob too? Are you kidding? I'll give 20. Total."
Crack fiend "Awww, come'on man. Deez is good seaats, yo."
Tucker "You know...scalping is illegal."
Crack fiend "Man, don gimme dat shit. Deez is 8th row, at the co'na."
Tucker "40 is steep. After all, you're just going to spend the money on crack."
Crack fiend "Man, fuck you."

We settle on $40 total, find our seats right before the game starts, and much to my displeasure, there are about 10 women total in the entire arena. Not that we came to the game to pick up girls, but there is always that hope. I loudly say to Mark, "Jesus H Christ. What the fuck is this; Gay Hockey Night?" These two dorks on the left look at me horrified, while the old guys on the right start laughing. Fuck the idiots on the left.

We start talking to the old guys, bitching about women and whatnot. One of them starts telling us a story. "Yeah, I was with these two beautiful girls the other night. Wonderful girls. The night was going great until they started using all sorts of horrible four-letter words. Horrible, horrible four letter words, like "can't"..."won't"..."don't"..."stop." Horrible, horrible four letter words." These old guys were cracking us up. Of course, we were quickly approaching Tucker Max Drunk; a dancing Tele-Tubby would probably have had us in tears.

Because I can see the entertainment value from miles away, I start talking to the low-rent Jude Law on my left. I immediately wanted to punch him in the face. He was one of those annoying psuedo-intellectuals; horn-rimmed glasses, drinks Pinot Grigio by the glass at bars, buys poetry books but never reads them, avoids red meat, shops at the Kiehls counter, acts indignantly offended by Howard Stern, like to drop names like "Foucault" and "Sartre" in normal conversation. We all know one or two. I kept laughing to myself, because he looked exactly like Chachi from Happy Days. He thought he was better than me because I was drunk and acting like an idiot, while he was composed and polite. Yeah, I got something for him.

He condescendingly asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm a writer. Then the fun began:

Him "Really? I used to be a writer, until I went to law school." A fastball down the middle.
Me "Really? I never would have guessed. Where'd you go to law school?"
Him "The University of Texas."
Me "Well, I guess not everyone can go to a good school. So what did you write?"
Him "Mostly freelance think-pieces for magazines and newspapers."
Me "So you were an out-of-work copy editor?"
Him "Uh...no. My last piece was published in the Utne Reader."

IS THIS GUY FUCKING SERIOUS?

Me "I bet you're very proud." I laughed, but he just ignored me. "So what do you do now?"
Him "Uh...well, I'm a lawyer. That's why I went to law school."
Me "Suuuper. So, Chachi, where are you from?"
Him "I'm from Texas."
Me "I bet you were real popular there."

He didn't respond. Mark and I order a couple more beers. The game was boring, so I keep fucking with Chachi. His aggravation is growing visibly, but he's the type that signs anti-sweatshop petitions, so I'm not concerned about any forthcoming violence. I continue:

Me "I've been to Texas. I liked it. But I've heard some strange things about the laws there. You're a lawyer: Is it true that you can have open containers in the car, as long there is one less than the number of people in the car?"
Him "Uh...I'm not really sure. We didn't really study that in law school."
Me "Did you ever drink?"
Him "Uh...yeah."
Me "And you never drove afterwards?"
Him "Uh...no."
Me "You don't believe all that Mothers Against Drunk Driving propaganda do you?" He ignored me, so I continued, "Is it true that in Texas you can shoot someone if you find them sleeping with your wife?"
Him "No, that's not true. It's a myth."
Me "I don't know Chachi, I think it's true. What about if you come home, and you find a guy on your porch, nosing around, and your wife is inside, and she's naked. Can you shoot him then?"
Him "No."
Me "What about your wife, can you shoot her?" He didn't answer. "What if there's a guy in your yard, and he's naked, and he's looking at you funny. I bet you can shoot him then."
Him "No, you can't."
Me "What if some guy is on your porch, and he's dancing all funny, like a hippie, and your wife thinks he's attractive? Can you shoot either of them? What is the self-defense standard in Texas--'He needed killin'?'"
Him "What? Are you serious?"
Me "I'm just trying to figure out the law here buddy. You never know when you might have to come out blazing."

He and his friend get up and leave, but he leaves his beer in the cup holder. As soon as he was out of sight, I pour half his beer into mine, finish it off, and head to the bathroom. When I get there, I see Chachi standing at the urinal, so I bust out in song:

"THE STARS AT NIGHT, ARE BIG AND BRIGHT [CLAP] [CLAP] [CLAP] [CLAP] DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!!"

He looks over, not amused. I make a little gun with my thumb and index finger, point it at him, and go "POW!" He is even less amused. Fuck him if he can't take a joke.

The second period comes around, and Chachi doesn't return to his seat, so I finish his beer. He's not going to need it. Mark is busy sucking on the CamelBak, and appears ready to slip into a coma. Then it happens, that defining moment that I wait for every time I go out drinking:

Right before the second intermission, some guy comes up and asks our section if anyone wants to go on the ice and shoot pucks against the mascot,

"OH ME ME ME!! I WANT TO DO IT!! ME ME ME!!"

The guy kinda stares at me hesitantly, but since no one else in the 1/4 full section dares get up and challenge my drunken enthusiasm, I become the chosen one. I get down to the staging area behind the penalty box, and the other two participants are a girl who was so skinny she looked like she spent three weeks on the Miami 48-hour Miracle Diet, and a fat guy who uncannily resembled the Comic Book Guy from The Simpson's. I asked him if he owns a comic book store, and I guess this is a joke he's heard often, because he got kinda mad at me. Unsure of how to react to his visible anger, I say "Worst. Reaction. Ever." This didn't help.

The waifish usher explains the rules to us: We get a hockey stick and a puck, and are allowed to take one shot against the mascot, this big, furry, dog looking thing. Anyone who scores gets tickets to the next game. I chime in,

Tucker "I don't want to go to the next game. This place sucks."
Usher [stares at me with contempt for a minute] "You can't take your beer on the ice with you."

Once on the ice I flip off the crowd, and start my advance on the mascot. Right before I am about to shoot the puck, genius strikes me.

I hurl my stick at the mascot to confuse him, kick the puck into the goal, tackle the mascot into the net, pull his jersey over his head, and start delivering directed body shots into his ribs.

Raise your hand up if you've ever heard a professional team mascot say "What they fuck are you doing, you asshole?"

I'm not sure if I have ever laughed so hard as when this big fuzzy brown head let loose with a rapid fire barrage of curse words. I am so in tears laughing at him, that I can barely keep up giving him body shots. Of course, my laughter only makes him madder, and I eventually lose the upper hand. He gets me rolled over and ends up on top of me. He is now completely engrossed in the fight, and starts hitting me back, all while I am laughing hysterically.

The crowd went nuts. I mean honestly--picture this scene in your head.

The entire time, the announcer is standing 10 feet away, completely dumbfounded. He had no idea what to do or say, until the mascot got on top, when he finally comes over and pulls the mascot off of me. It actually took him a few minutes to get the mascot composed. The mascot had completely lost his shit; he wanted to keep fighting me, especially after I got up and threw my hands in the air, receiving boisterous cheers from the crowd.

I was escorted off the ice, to continued cheers, when someone who appeared to be in charge started throwing around a lot of words like "assault" and "battery." I paused, staring at him while I composed my thoughts, and said,

Tucker "I'm sorry, but I stand by my decision. I am now a member of the elite club of people that have fought a professional team mascot. You sir, are not in that club."

He stared at me, completely silent, for what seemed like three or four minutes, and then just turned and walked away. I was kicked out of the area, and told not to ever come back.

I had to wait by the car for a good hour and a half until dumbass Mark came stumbling out. When I asked him why he was so late, and didn't leave when I was kicked out, he looked at me strangely and said,

"You got kicked out? What did you do?"
Click to expand...
 
Oh fuck that's some funny shit.
 
what blog is this from?
 
www.tuckermax.com

***EDIT: DO NOT OPEN AT WORK. APPARENTLY THE SITE IS DISLIKED BY SOME CONTENT FILTERS***
 
Last edited:
i lost it when "genius struck him".
 
Omg you brought TuckerMax on here. Ive been reading his shit for a while now, and hes a funny asshole. I love him.
 
That's funny stuff... So I tried to go to the site from work and I get this...

Access denied to http://www.tuckermax.com/
The URL you entered is categorized as Erotica and Sex and has been blocked to maintain the business interests of the company, ensure regulatory compliance and/or protect the safety and security of associates and customers.

Thanks Al. The internet police will be here soon to escort me out of the building. -.-
 
Websense FTL at my job also ; ;
 
Damita said:
That's funny stuff... So I tried to go to the site from work and I get this...

Access denied to http://www.tuckermax.com/
The URL you entered is categorized as Erotica and Sex and has been blocked to maintain the business interests of the company, ensure regulatory compliance and/or protect the safety and security of associates and customers.

Thanks Al. The internet police will be here soon to escort me out of the building. -.-
Click to expand...


Sorry for the inconvenience, just for you I will cut and paste another story here. :P

TuckerMax said:
The Famous "Sushi Pants" Story
I used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull has been usurped by the portable alcohol breathalyzer. The same device that cops have been using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now offered by the Sharper Image for $99. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.

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 reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type 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 highly 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 forth 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 distant 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.

10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. 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 horse-shit 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 wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.

10:10: .07

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.

10:26: .09

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.

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.

12:18: 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, BITCH??" The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.

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.

12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn't go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.

1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.

1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.

1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.

1:14: I can't figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.

1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to "get that fucking light out of my face." The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. "Son, where are your pants?" Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn't laugh. Another long pause. "You're not driving tonight are you?", "Oh, NO, NO, NO...no sir, I don't even have a valid driver's license."

1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.

1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don't know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.

1:24: I can't find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn't thrown up yet. I tell them to "kiss my fucking ass." My last clear memory.

8:15am: I wake up. I don't know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.

8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.

8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can't find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.

8:22: I drive home anyway.


Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's fucking ridiculous. That thing is awful. All you do is drink in order to increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.

My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.
Click to expand...
 
Heh thanks for the additional story Al. I'll check out the site once I can get out of work.
 
This is funnier than shit.
 
Kage said:
I think the question that needs to be answered is: How funny is shit?
Click to expand...

In order to answer that question, you have to read the entry entitled "Tucker Tries Buttsex, Hilarity Does NOT Ensue."
 
Now that sounds like a promising blog entry! Buttsmex ftw! ... actually, all this talk has me raring to go. Shyrra, to the rectumobile!
 
Huh I wonder if this really happened. I guess I should watch the news some more. Would be funny as all hell if this actually happened/
 
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