For those of you unfamiliar with writer Tucker Max, a brief introduction:
8:45: Eddie thinks my site is the greatest piece of literature in existence. He says that he aspires to be like me. He wants to hear more stories about me ridiculing fat people and hooking up with hot girls. I decide he is one of my best friends.
8:49: We walk to a pasta bar for dinner. The waitress is immediately displeased by our behavior, “We usually don’t get people as drunk as you coming in here.” I decide her attitude needs an adjustment, “Do you know who these guys are? They routinely risk their lives so you are free to toss your fat ass around Lincoln Park like some haughty tramp, and you question them? Woman, get us some food and liquor, and be quick about it.”
8:50: The manager asks us to leave.
8:58: We go to McDonald’s. The woman in front of me in line spends more than 5 seconds contemplating her order. This infuriates me, “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?, MC-SEABASS?? IT’S THE GODDAMN MCDONALD’S MENU, IT’S BEEN THE SAME FOR TEN YEARS! IT’S ALL MCSHIT! JUST ORDER!”
8:59: She quickly departs the restaurant. One might have described her departure as “fleeing in terror.”
9:00: I don’t know what I want. I just point at the Dollar Menu and say, “Give me all of that.”
9:05: I am displeased with what I get. I try to send back certain items, like the apple pie. The 14 year-old Mexican boy working the Friday late shift doesn’t understand. I get frustrated and just throw everything I don’t like on the floor.
9:07: We decide to play Rich’s favorite game: Window Pickle Races.
9:09: We have about 8 pickles on the window, each making ketchup and mustard streaked trips to the bottom. We argue about who owns each pickle. These become intense and profanity laced arguments. Military guys use very creative curse words. I didn’t even know I had a “cock-holster” or a “man-pleaser.”
9:14: The last people finally flee in terror. The restaurant is empty. We taunt them, and cheer as they leave. They, along with their small children, are all cowards.
And so goes the beginning of Tucker Max’s Absinthe Donuts story. By 10:30 they are drunk on Absinthe, chastising fat girls, and making college leftists cry. I can’t condone his actions, but Tucker Max is one hell of a story teller. And creatively descriptive! About his vomit and diarrhea episode later that night: “It looks like a tapioca abortion.” Beat that, Chomsky.