Assholes Finish First (12 page)

How was everyone else doing? Let’s see.

Hate

Hate was his usual charming self. This exchange typifies his approach. He would storm up to a group of women much too aggressively, and introduce himself in his stadium voice:

Hate “LADIES! HAVE YOU TRIED ANY OF THE THUG PASSION??”

Girl [
to Credit
] “Your friend is scaring me.”

Credit “Yeah, he does that to all of us.”

Jojo

At some point, a young lady in an angel costume arrived at the party. About an hour and fifteen minutes after that, she disappeared into a bedroom with the Black Unabomber.

Jojo and FallenAngel did not emerge for quite some time. After about twenty minutes of this clandestine interaction, Credit, who drank one and
a half Thug Passions and was in their grip, got wind of this and walked in on them four times in the next hour. (He did this not only because he was drunk but also because he and Jojo are ridiculously co-dependent. It’s awesomely hilarious.) Sometimes he knocked, sometimes he demanded they stop what they were doing, sometimes he brought Hate or me with him. Strangely, Jojo did not seem to lose his shit over this. That’s probably because his shit was at the bottom of a cognac bottle in the backyard, but whatever.

Anyway, Jojo found a way to lock the door, they commited their acts of miscegenation in private, and an hour later, they came downstairs. Being the good friends we are, we were cool about it:

Hate “THE FALLEN ANGEL ARISES!!!”

Tucker “THE SNEAKY BLACK GUY DOES IT AGAIN!”

Credit “YOU HAD SEX WITH HER!”

FallenAngel didn’t understand why we kept calling her that, so Jojo spent an hour on the stairs having a heart-to-heart with her about whatever it is drunk girls like to talk about. She thought he was a sweet guy who was listening intently to her but discovered otherwise when she looked over and found him leaning against the railing, asleep.

PWJ

PWJ was smitten with a girl in a white, dressy outfit:

PWJ “What are you supposed to be?”

WoodNymph “A goddess.”

PWJ “You should tell people you are a wood nymph. Did you ever read mythology? Mortals who hooked up with goddesses always came to rather unpleasant ends.”

WoodNymph “Well, we wouldn’t want that happening, would we?”

His sister had earlier made him promise not to go home with WoodNymph, and he had agreed. Well, WoodNymph convinced him to walk her to her car, parked on a major street. On the way there he
remembered that he was a smart lawyer who could parse his logic and still get what he wanted. He had promised not to go home with WoodNymph. He said nothing about hooking up with her in her car.

He started kissing her neck, she gave him a lap dance, and things started going really well… until the passing cars started honking. That’s when she realized she was standing outside her car on a busy intersection with her shirt up to her chin, bra undone, with a guy’s hands down her pants, while she was reaching back around with his dick in her hand.

For some reason this embarrassed her. She got in the car—shirt still up—and sped off.

Credit

I found Credit completely fucked-in-half drunk, to the point where he might have qualified as dead in several states. He was sitting next to a very, very unattractive girl in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit:

Credit “You better watch out. I’m a red belt in tae kwon do.”

Fattie “Oh, yeah? I’m a third-degree black belt.”

Credit “I don’t believe you.”

Fattie “I’ll count to twenty in Korean.”

Credit “I’d rather you broke my neck and left me for dead than continue this conversation.”

She actually started counting in Korean. I know a little Korean, because in boarding school I tutored all the FOB Koreans in English and chemistry. In return, they gave me bowls of kimchi noodles and taught me a little Korean. So when I say she had a GOOD accent, I know what I’m talking about. This wasn’t some bullshit she learned off the internet. Ugly or not, a white girl counting in Korean intrigued me:

Tucker “How the fuck do you know Korean?”

Fattie “I work in intelligence. Korean is my specialty.”

Tucker “Intelligence? For who?”

Fattie “The NSA.”

Tucker “You work for the NSA? Get the fuck out of here, you do not.”

She showed me her government ID card. I can’t remember if it said NSA on it or not, but I don’t think it did, because I still didn’t believe her. I called one of my friends who knows about these things and asked him how I could confirm this. He gave me a question to ask her, something I can’t remember and made no fucking sense to me at the time. Her answer, which also made no sense to me, sold him, though, “She’s a legit spook.”

Holy shit. Fattie works for the National Security Agency! That is the largest spy agency in the world, five TIMES bigger than the CIA. “Fuck a spy” is on my Sexual To-Do List, directly after “Fuck a midget.” I’ve hit the jackpot!

Except for one thing—she was not attractive. On a scale of 1 to 10, she should have hung herself. Her body looked like a nesting doll made of owl pellets. She did not have a redeeming physical quality about her, maybe aside from her vagina, if in fact she had one of those.

It quickly became obvious she would fuck me. And I desperately wanted to fuck a spy. But she was so unattractive… I almost could not look at her. Seriously, some of the women I’ve fucked should have
THIS SIDE TOWARD ENEMY
stamped on them, but if I fucked her, she’d be the worst. EVER.

I didn’t know what to do. Since my friends were around and would see me leave with her, I would not be able to disassociate the memory and pretend she was hot when I told them the “I fucked a spy” story later on. But this might be my only chance to mark spy off my list. I needed advice. I went to the bar and discussed my options:

PWJ “Dude, not good. Not good at all.”

Tucker “She’s not that bad. She’s fuckable at least, right?”

SlingBlade “Yes, I know Mr. Peepers, Tucker would fuck a beehive.”

Tucker “When I get to the bottom of this drink, she’ll be fuckable.”

SlingBlade “No, Mr. Peepers, I don’t think that’s a bottomless drink.”

PWJ “If you wake up next to her, you’re going to scream in terror.”

Tucker “Dude, she’s a spy! In the NSA! That’s big-time.”

Hate “You realize if she takes you home, she’ll never let you leave. She can make you disappear, Max.”

SlingBlade “That is, in fact, the only justifiable reason to hook up with her: if you decide you don’t want your penis anymore.”

Jojo, either understanding my dilemma and wanting to be a good friend, or more likely wanting me to do something so awful he would have blackmail material on me for the rest of my life, handed me a full glass of Thug Passion.

Jojo “Drink this.”

As shit-housed as I already was, chugging the Thug Passion was like throwing jet fuel on a tire fire.

Tucker “Cognac is rough. Is this why rappers act so stupid all the time?”

Jojo “Quit your bitching. Are you going to make history or not?”

Tucker “I don’t know man…”

Jojo grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and in his best Mystical Negro voice, said:

Jojo “Tucker, you’re a single, 26 year old man. At this point in our lives, it’s all about the story.”

Tucker “You’re right! I’m gonna do it!!”

I confidently marched off to secure my place in history… by fucking the ugliest, fattest spy on earth.

PWJ “If we have to go save him, we’ll need to use the reflections in our shields to conquer her.”

Hate “Gentlemen, I think this makes it official. We have lost our religion.”

Credit “We had religion?”

SlingBlade “The rest of us did, not you. You’re a Jew, you killed our Lord.”

I have only spotty memories about what happened after that. I know I left the party with her and we went back to her place together, and I’m confident that I inserted my penis into some orifice at least once, and maybe twice. I have no idea if I actually came or what the sex was like. I have a vague recollection of just wishing it would end.

I woke up the next morning with a hangover that would impress Dean Martin. It was awful. I remember lying there, not recognizing anything around me and wondering where I was and how I got there. I felt some movement next to me. It was the spy. She got up from the bed, reached over to the side wall, and turned on the light. I was immediately presented with a view of her naked body: It looked like a latex glove stuffed with oatmeal. There were two huge blotched bruises on her ass. They shuddered and jiggled as waves of motion sent her lard-packed blubber rippling. She had so much pubic hair protruding from her ass crack I thought she’d shit a wig.

All at once I pondered the metaphysical exigencies of my existence. Why I was in this room? Why I was naked? Why was I staring at this discolored bag of adipose and cellulite?

Then the smell of latex hit my nose. Then seminal fluid. Then strawberry air freshener.

I vomited.

Not the type of vomit demanded by a stomach forcefully ejecting poisonous effluvium that it thinks will cause it damage. It was a quick one; essentially the same type as two nights earlier with the Georgetown undergrad and her Three Wise Men shot. You know how people say, “I just threw up in my mouth a little”? Yeah, well, I actually did.

Except I didn’t catch it all in my mouth. Some of the puke got on her sheets and pillow. Not a lot, but enough that I couldn’t hide it and had to confess when she asked me if I just threw up on her bed.

Every time I think I’ve hit bottom, every time I think I can sink no lower, every time I think I have slammed face-first into the bedrock of depravity, I find a new low. It’s like my life is a limbo contest with the devil holding the stick—how low can Tucker go?

This morning it was waking up with the most repugnant sea donkey in the universe, throwing up when I saw what I had just stuck my dick in… and then being shamed by her for it.

Feeling guilty about throwing up in her apartment, as I left, I asked for her number. She rolled her eyes, gave me a “no one is buying your shit” look, but still wrote her number on a piece of paper for me before I left.

As soon as I was outside, I crumpled up the paper and threw it away.

Ungrateful bitch.

The Fallout

Over the next few days, we all exchanged emails recapping everything, filling in El Bingeroso and GoldenBoy on what they missed. OF COURSE, everyone ruthlessly busted my balls for hooking up with Shrek the Spying Sea Monster. But then, into that mix, PWJ dropped this:

From: PWJ

To: Hate, Tucker Max, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit; Jojo, SlingBlade

Subject: I have to come clean

OK, I’ve been letting Credit and Max take all the heat for the party events, but there is something I haven’t told anyone, and I have to come clean.

You see, there was a SECOND Catholic schoolgirl at the party…

Tucker’s schoolgirl spy was pear shaped, unattractive in every way, and a complete disaster. Nothing could fix her. This other one had a pretty face. She could be very cute. However, she would have to drop a good 60 pounds first. She was an attractive bowling ball.

Nonetheless, I am talking to this well-endowed chick in this awesome Native American outfit (another story altogether) and this Catholic schoolgirl comes up to us and just sits there listening to me with this shit-eating “I love you” grin on her face. Hanging on every word. She goes to the bathroom. So I figure, what the hell. Acting purely on instinct and hormones at this point, I follow her upstairs, pull her into my bedroom, and begin to hook up with her. She is into it but makes me promise to just kiss. After about 5 minutes, I start feeling her up. She says, “I thought we would just kiss.” I pulled my hand out, rolled over, and said, “Hmmm… OK, I’m done kissing. It’s time for you to go.”

She gathered her stuff, at the door turned and said in one of the most pitiful voices I’ve ever heard, “You know, I thought you were a nice guy. But you’re just like all your friends.” She left. I chuckled for five seconds, and passed out.

Anyway, fast-forward to next morning. Bad. My sister is driving me to the airport. Tells me how glad she is I didn’t hook up with the WoodNymph, because every time she hooks up with a guy, she goes psycho and all she’ll talk about for the next two months is that guy, and my sister would never want to have to deal with that with her own brother. I sink into my seat.

Then the kicker. She starts talking about the Catholic School Girl (not Tucker’s, mine) and how she’s had the worst two years. Was engaged, fiancé was supposed to fly in from Germany, never showed up, never called, just completely ditched on the wedding. Then she found out she had cancer. It receded, but
she just found out two months ago that it was back, and that party was the first time she went out since she found out.

At this point I’m ready to shoot myself. In my defense, at least it was a two-girl night. I’m rationalizing now.

The good news is that, as of now, my sister is still talking to me. Well, she is at least talking to me enough to tell me that Tucker is banned from her house and her life forever.

From: SlingBlade

To: Hate, Tucker Max, GoldenBoy, El Bingeroso, Credit, Jojo, PWJ

Subject: re: I have to come clean

Oh, boy, PWJ is going to hell on a heat seeker. I remember that second girl coming downstairs looking PISSED.

And from what I can recall, the girl I hooked up with was not unattractive, definitely above average for general population and thusly a veritable goddess in that party. Although she did have kind of bad skin. And I submit for bonus points two items:

a) college cheerleader

b) shaved

And I ended up hooking up with that girl while Jojo was passed out two feet away. Which may have been a mistake as she has called me twice since Saturday to discuss her emotional problems. I feel like Tucker. I am currently trying to avoid any and all contact with her, an act complicated by my lack of caller ID, answering machine, and the refusal of Hate to tell girls that call that I’m not home. Cancer, thy name is Jolene.