Assholes Finish First (27 page)

I sold out. It might not be obvious how, so let me explain.

These people—
my fans
—were the very definition of posers. They read my stories on the internet, saw in me everything that they weren’t but wanted to be, and then tried to have what I had by pretending to be something they weren’t. They weren’t out to do what I do—celebrate life, drink for the enjoyment of it, and experience the happiness that comes from being around people you like—they were trying to fill the holes in their souls by sucking my essence out of me.

I couldn’t consciously explain all this at that moment, but I could feel the icky residue of their self-loathing all over me. I could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at me. I was not a human being to them. I was an image. An object for them to use to cure their insecurities and negative emotions. And even worse, they expected me to dance like a monkey for them, to be the person they were too afraid to be, to do all the things they wanted to do. They wanted a marionette.

These are the worst kinds of posers, the ones I relish mocking, and I should have absolutely killed them. But I didn’t. Not one single fucking insult. If I had randomly stumbled in there with Jojo and SlingBlade, I would have lit those fucking posers up. But in the moment, I did nothing at all. I treated these people differently, simply because
they were my fans
.

I’ve gone through my life never caring what other people thought, doing the things I wanted to do and being the person I wanted to be. But by not lighting these fucking posers up the way I normally would have, I was tacitly admitting to myself that I DID care what they thought. Even though
I hated them as people, as fans, I cared. I cared because without them, I wouldn’t have fans, and without fans… I wasn’t who I thought I was. So I did nothing. That is fucking selling out, plain and simple.

I’m sorry to get so serious in the middle of a story that is meant to be funny and entertaining, but all I can do when I write is put down what I remember and felt about the events and actions of my life. That is basically the extent of what I remember about that Sunday at the semi-pro wrestling in the Elks Lodge in New Jersey. There is no joke to make. I sold out that day. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen or make up a bunch of insults and funny jokes that never occurred. That would be selling out again, in a way. Better just to truthfully admit my flaws, learn from them, and move on.

Part 7: The Trip Home and the Fallout

Nothing else of note happened on Sunday, except two big things: At some point on Sunday, Rockwolf had the audacity to put up a post on the message board about what he did on Saturday, and then fill everyone in on what happened.

After he jumped out of the RV window and ran off, Rockwolf made his way back to the Teaneck Marriott, got into Nils’s room with a key he stole off Nils, and ordered like $250 of room service, which was mostly two bottles of champagne, that he then took with him and went home (he lived on Long Island).

We tried to call Nils and tell him about this—and to see when we could come get him out of jail—but no one could find Nils. I don’t mean that no one could reach his cell; that was obviously turned off because he was in jail. No, I mean that no one could find any evidence that he even existed. After he left the 32nd Precinct and was transferred to The Tombs for arraignment, he disappeared. All day Sunday, the NYPD claimed to
have no record of any Nils Parker ever being in their system. That was not good.

Considering that Nils was a real friend, I actually cared about his welfare and spent most of Monday morning tracking down what happened. Eventually, we found out that his name had been entered incorrectly into the system, “by accident.” His first and last names were reversed, hence no one had been able to locate him and that’s why he wasn’t arraigned until Monday afternoon. Dude spent TWO DAYS in The Tombs. Another reason not to be a dick to cops.

His uncle and I got him out of the clink, and then he called Rockwolf and threatened him. Rockwolf almost started crying on the phone and swore he’d mail him not only a check covering the cost but also an apology. And he did. Nils still has the apology letter:

With that handled, it was time for the RV crew to head back home. The drive was grinding. The keg was tapped, the beers that hadn’t been launched at cars on Saturday were now empty, and we’d even emptied the bar.

The RV looked like it had been looted. Blood, feces, urine, cum, menses, beer, liquor, and grape jelly covered every surface. At least half of the interior was ripped out, ripped up, or broken. The stove no longer had anything removable on it; grills, knobs, everything had been either tossed out the window or broken for drunken enjoyment. The pillows, curtains,
and curtain rods were long gone. Ever seen a picture of Detroit? That’s what our RV looked like.

Surveying the damage, TheGinger was catatonic. Sippy had a thousand-yard stare. He looked like a fresh military recruit who’d been rushed into battle, seen the worst carnage imaginable, and left part of his soul on the battlefield. PigPen was so proud that he’d had sex with a real, living girl that he refused to shower or clean himself. He smelled like the panty hamper of a sorority house.

Tucker “Hey, TheGinger, remember how worried you were about the cleaning deposit? Seems like it was yesterday.”

TheGinger “The cleaning deposit? At this point, I’m seriously worried they’re going to make me buy the RV!”

Soylent “There’s a solution to that.”

Soylent pulled some matches out of his backpack.

Soylent “You bought the insurance. We can always just torch it.”

Sippy “WHAT?!? Haven’t we had enough police contact this weekend?”

Tucker “It would be a fitting end to the weekend.”

We discussed the pros and cons of setting the RV on fire and trying to claim a total loss on it, but TheGinger was too paranoid we’d get caught. He ended up canceling his credit card before we got the RV place, and we made sure to return it after they closed, so we didn’t have to be there.

Everything in my life changed after that. That weekend represented the end of an era for me. It was my last truly reckless, balls-to-the-wall, risk-everything-because-I-have-nothing-to-lose weekend. Christ, how the fuck do I top that? Burn down a city? I mean, I basically did the maximum amount of awful, illegal shit without crossing the line into a serious felony. To go any farther, I’d have to do something that even I couldn’t walk away from. I did plenty of crazy shit after that, but nothing quite like the
TuckerFest weekend. I think part of me knew that I’d pushed the limits to their absolute breaking point and it was time to ease up on the throttle. I still sometimes marvel that we all made it out of that night alive. Soylent read the first draft of this story and said:

“Reading it on paper, it almost doesn’t seem real. And I was there.”

It was also the first time I’d thought of myself as a “celebrity.” Even though I was just a ridiculous celebrity judge of a broke-dick wrestling event in New Jersey, it was the start of my weird journey into fame, and I had no idea just what I was getting into…

I
NTRODUCTION

I wanted to write a best-selling book that made me famous, and my first book did just that. In most ways, the success I’ve had thus far is a dream come true. But here’s what they don’t tell you about achieving your dream:

Once you get it, it’s never, ever what you expect it to be.

Take women for instance. Before I wrote
I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell
, I did great with women, but not really any different from any other awesome guy out there. Yeah, I had game, but I still had to go out and get girls. I couldn’t just sit at home and expect them to come to me; no normal guy can, regardless of how awesome his game is.

Once the book became popular, that changed radically. Over the past five years or so, I’ve been with so many girls, it’s hard to actually quantify. You remember that cartoon
Duck Tales
, where Scrooge McDuck goes swimming in his giant vault filled with gold coins? Since 2006 or so, it’s been like that for me, except with vaginas.

So what happened? How did I go from “great game” to “a sea of vaginas”? Fame. Being famous changes EVERYTHING. Normal men line up for women, but women line up for famous men, and once I became even a little famous, they lined up for me. I took full advantage of it, and I got tons of hilarious stories from this period… except they weren’t
exactly
the same type of stories as before.

Accordingly, I have divided this book into two sections. The first part—what you just finished reading—was very similar to my first book in style and content. The second half of this book is slightly different. It is made up of interrelated sex and hook-up stories from the period in my life after
IHTSBIH
came out (30–34), the time during which girls started
coming to me by the thousands. I call them the “The Post-Fame Sex Stories.”

Looking at it from the outside, you might think having all these women wanting to fuck you would be amazing. In some ways, it really is everything you imagine it to be—and more. But everything in life is a trade-off, even the greatest thing you can imagine.

Having an essentially unlimited amount of free pussy is like owning a Ferrari: It’s super-exclusive and hard to get, and everyone who doesn’t have one kinda wishes they did and is a little envious of those who do. But when you actually own it, though you may love certain things about it, you realize what a serious pain in the ass it is, how much it breaks down, and how expensive it is to maintain. You know about the hidden costs that those who don’t own a Ferrari will never understand.

Biggie said it best: “Mo money mo problems.” Pussy is no different.

T
HE
T
ATTOO
S
TORIES

I don’t have a tattoo, nor do I ever plan on getting one. I barely know what I want for lunch, how the hell will I know what I think is cool at 25 won’t utterly repulse me at 45?

I have nothing against tattoos on other people, but I’m getting pretty sick of flipping a girl over to fuck her from behind and being confronted with another piece of crappy slut art. Yes, honey, I’m sure your specific whore brand has all sorts of unique symbolism that will prove how special you are, but you need to stop turning your head to tell me about it, because I really don’t care.

Despite my personal opinion of them, I have gotten used to whore brands, because they’re like HPV: Most of the female population has them, but has no idea how or why they got them. What I REALLY don’t get are women who put tattoos on or around their vaginas. I mean… WTF? I can’t imagine the scenario where I’d let someone jab a needle full of ink into my penis or ball sack.

In my journey through the vaginas of this great nation, these are the four tattoos that have really made me stop and question where my life is going. Or more accurately, where my penis—that brave but naïve soldier—is being deployed.

A
REN’T
Y
OU
L
UCKY
?

Occurred—November 2002