The Absinthe Donuts story
by: Tucker Max
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STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. FUNNY AS HELL, BUT EXPLICIT.
I used to think that I'd seen everything. I had experienced so many things that I had become jaded with life; nothing affected me anymore. I was world-weary in the truest sense.
That was before I drank absinthe. That devil juice is brewed from the urine of Lucifer. Now I know why Van Gogh cut off his ear and why Toulouse-Lautrec painted funny looking midgets; it wasn’t mental illness, it was that goddamn absinthe.
A few weeks ago one of my old friends, we’ll call him “Rich,” was in town to visit. This is the story of that night:
6:00pm: Rich shows up at my place. I have not seen Rich in 7 years. He has put on at least 60 pounds of muscle. I am shocked at his size. He is with one of his friends, “Eddie.” They are both in an elite special operations unit that is shipping to the middle east in a few weeks. Eddie is Hispanic, tall, angry, and muscular. He looks around my apartment as if deciding what piece of furniture he wants to break first. I consider that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.
6:01: “So Tucker, I hear you finally learned how to drink a little bit?” Rich smiles at me. They have 2 cases of beer with them. I think maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.
7:00: They tell me some of the best stories I have ever heard. Many are tales of clandestine and violent death brought upon unsuspecting international terrorists or stories of sex with third world hookers. I think that this was a good idea.
7:05: We finish our first case.
7:45: I tell them two of my best stories. They are in tears laughing. Eddie tells Rich that he was right, I am the funniest guy he’s ever met. I think that this was a great idea.
8:40: We have finished both cases, and a few shots of moonshine. I am already 6 beers behind each of them, and feeling the alcohol. They look like they could do an iron man triathlon. I begin to think that maybe I am not in their league, drinking wise. This worries me. Then I remember that I am Tucker Max. I am no longer worried.
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.
9:15: The manager comes out and asks us to leave. Eddie is confused, “We can’t get kicked out of McDonald’s? This is like the DMZ of drunk eating. THIS IS WHY WE CAME HERE!”
9:16: The manager is a frail Mexican woman. She is scared of us. She goes behind the counter, then tells us to leave again. She waves the phone at us, threatening police intervention. We go.
9:45: We arrive at the party. I find the friend who invited me, and introduce my friends.
9:46: We are apparently drunker than I calculated. My friend is appalled, “Dude, man…I told you not to show up this drunk.” Apparently he is confused. I politely attempt to straighten him out, “Who the fuck are you talking too?” This angers him, “Man--look around. This isn’t that type of party.”
9:47: I spend a good 45 seconds perusing the scene. It is a large townhome. There is a big bar, with a bartender. There is a table of hors de’oeuvres. I see several sweater vests. A few anti-war buttons. A couple guys holding glasses of pinot grigio. I tell my friend, “You sir are incorrect. It most decidedly IS that type of party.”
9:48: We walk directly to the bar. I turn to my friends, “Gentlemen--this is going to be a show. You kill terrorists; I destroy poseurs and idiots. Get a drink and watch the artist at work. These people think they’re better’n me.”
9:48: I order 3 top shelf vodkas. They only have well. This angers me, “WHAT KINDA LOW RENT SHIT IS THIS?” I argue with the bartender. I think he is hiding the good stuff from us. I tell him that my friends kill people for a living, and that unless he produces good vodka, he will become a “target of opportunity.”
9:50: An attractive girl comes up and asks what the problem is. I tell her that the rat-fink bartender is trying to make us drink cheap donkey piss. She laughs at this. Since I literally wrote the book on shameless flirting, I shamelessly flirt. She flirts back. I tell her that flirting is nice, but it’s not getting me drunk. She looks at me seductively, and tells me to follow her upstairs. “Can my friends come?” She smiles, “Of course.”
9:51: Eddie whispers in my ear, “Man, I thought your stories were at least a little bullshit, but we haven’t even had a drink and we’re gonna run train. Rich was right; you are the fucking MAN.”
9:52: She takes us to a bedroom. There a few other people there. They are smoking pot and drinking. There is a solitary bottle on the table with greenish liquid in it. The label has the word “Absinthe” on it. I don’t know what absinthe is. I am not afraid.
9:53: The girl takes three glasses, pours sugar over ice, and then pours the green liquid over the ice. It turns clear. This fascinates us. She hands us the glasses, smiles, and says, “This is better than anything down there.”
9:54: I take a sip. Goddamn--my neck muscles flex involuntarily. I can feel my heart start beating irregularly. This shit doesn’t fuck around. I drink more.
9:56: The girl starts kissing one of the pot smokers. Eddie whispers to me, “So much for the gangbang.” I frown at him, “How long have you known women? Dude--They’re all whores. Except our mothers. Just stick to
9:59: One of the guys tells us about absinthe. He says he brought it back from Europe because it is illegal in the US. Apparently, it is very strong (160 proof) and has hallucinogenic properties. I tell him he smells like patchouli oil and bong water. Rich and Eddie laugh hysterically. Tucker has an audience.
10:18: Absinthe is the fucking shit. I am on my second glass, and I’m Fucked-in-Half drunk. Rich and Eddie want to see full-on Drunk Insult Tucker. Loaded up with hallucinogenic alcohol, Tucker is happy to oblige.
10:20: We station ourselves in the kitchen. A fat girl walks in. It’s game time. “Well, say goodbye to all the leftovers.”
10:21: Apparently, this fatty seems to think she can hang. The Medina Division made better tactical decisions:
Fatty What did you say?”
Tucker “Can you not hear me? Are your ears fat too?”
Fatty [Look of astonishment, stares at my friends cracking up] “EXCUSE ME?”
Tucker “I’m sorry. Really I am. [I open the fridge] Would you like cheesecake or chocolate cake? Probably both, I’m guessing.”
Fatty [Turns and leaves in utter astonishment]
Tucker “Hey Sara Lee, I was only kidding! COME BACK HERE--MY FRIEND LIKES TO GO HOGGIN. MORE CUSHION FOR THE PUSHIN! IT’S LIKE RIDING A MOPED!!”
Tucker has arrived.
10:23: Rich knows me from undergrad, and knows how to ride my hot streaks by provoking me, “Come on man, you can do better. There are plenty of people around here to make fun of.”
Express elevator to hell, going down. I give him my voice recorder and a simple order, “Don’t miss anything.”
10:26: I see a girl wearing two colored tank tops over each other. This is too easy:
Tucker “Hey 1985 Madonna, are you gonna get the person who did that?”
Girl Did what?”
Tucker “Spilled 80’s all over you.”
Girl [Confused look]
Tucker “I know I’d be pissed if I looked like an extra from Desperately Seeking Susan.”
10:29: Eddie points out a girl wearing the standard anti-globalization outfit. It is topped off with a “No Blood for Oil” button. Rich whispers in my ear, “You gotta get her. Come on man. Do it--for us…for your country.” Eddie starts humming the God Bless America.
10:29: I storm over. Rich says into the voice recorder, “Target acquired…we are weapons hot.”
10:30: I introduce myself to her as Alger Hiss. She doesn’t get the joke. Time to be blunt:
Tucker “Do you hate the World Bank?”
Girl Uhh, umm, well, I mean, yeah, I feel that...”
Tucker “You don’t hate the World Bank.”
Girl I don’t?”
Tucker “No. You’re mad at your father. You just want daddy to hug you more.”
Tucker “You were a sociology major weren’t you?”
Tucker “What was your major?”
Girl [Pauses] “Uhhh, English Literature.”
Tucker [Pause—to give her a look of contempt] “Did your parents send you a bill for college? How are those Marxist Literary Critique classes working out for you? You work at Barnes and Noble don’t you?
Girl NO--I wor--“
Tucker “Shouldn’t you be blocking an intersection right now? How many anti-sweatshop petitions have you signed--EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE REEBOKS ON. Very-anti globalization to wear those with your animal tested Clinque make-up made in Nepal. Well, at least you’re consistent in your shameless hypocrisy.”
Girl What a fascist piece of shi--“
Tucker “Wait—You ever wake up in the middle of the night because a couple of cats are clawing each other to death outside your window? That’s what it’s like listening to you speak.”
Girl [A mishmash of stammered half insults]
Tucker “Seriously--If I stuck my dick in your mouth would that shut you up?”
Girl Wha…YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!“
Tucker “HEY--Don’t blame me for the wound in your crotch.” [As I walk off] “By the way, you owe us a rib.”
10:31: I turn to Rich and Eddie: “She’ll never recover from that. She’ll never be the same. I’ve completely ruined a human being. Years of expensive therapy and costly drugs can’t reverse that kind of damage…yeah, I have an upper management role in Hell reserved for me.” Rich looks at me and says into the voice recorder, “Damage assessment: Total.” I got the joke the next day.
10:32: We spend the next 45 minutes talking to girls. Surprisingly, most do not seem thrilled to talk to us.
11:16: The fat girl from the first kitchen encounter comes over. With reinforcements. Her backup: A small frail dork that looks like he just finished a Magic The Gathering tournament, a heinous Asian girl, and a greasy haired fat doofus in a camouflage vest. I ask you--Am I here right now? Is this my life?
11:17: The girl starts saying something about what a horrible person I am. I stare at her, but I am not listening. I am preparing myself. I am B-Rabbit. This is the final battle rap. I will win the hostile crowd:
[I interrupt the fat girl] "Ward, I think you’re being a little hard on the Beaver, [as I point to each in turn] so is Eddie Haskell, Wally, and Miss Cleaver."
[To the fat guy with greasy hair in the camo vest] “Look out everyone! It's the Pillsbury Commando! Hey Chunk, when was the last time you washed your hair? Does it give you more hit points to have that grease helmet? I hate to break the news, but +5 defense only counts in Dungeons and Dragons.”
[To the ugly Asian girl] “Why you no rike me? You want me frip over? You no piss me off! ME FIND YOU IN POCKING ROT!! YOU NO TAKE MING ARIVE!!”
[To the small frail dork--I notice he has a lazy eye] “Dude--Look at me when I’m talking to you--BOTH EYES AT ONCE. Are you really this ugly or are you just playing? EVERYONE, BE CAREFUL, THIS GUY LURKS UNDER THE STAIRS AND TRIES TO LICK YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU PASS BY!”
[To the original fatty, pause for effect] “Why do you do this to yourself? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? Look, I’m gonna give you some advice-leave the party, take the geek squad with you, go to Denny’s, order about 10 Grand Slam Breakfasts, and eat your pain away. Won’t be the first time will it?”
11:19: I am finished. The kitchen is quiet, except for Eddie and Rich laughing. The four freaks are completely speechless. Everyone is staring at me. I blurt out, “WHAT? I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would’ve done.” Eddie and Rich promptly remove me from the kitchen.
11:42: The absinthe is kicking into third gear. I am feeling euphoric. Manic even. This is the weirdest drunk I've ever had. I decide it is time to get my little pencil wet.
11:54: I see a hot girl. I walk over and use one of my favorite lines, “Hi. I haven’t insulted you yet, have I?” She laughs. I am in.
11:58: I see the large diamond and accompanying gold band on her finger. Hot Girl is Married Girl.
12:06: I talk to Married Girl for a few minutes. I try to think of a good way to broach the marriage subject to find out if she wants to hook up with me. This is difficult, as my mind is a spinning miasma of absinthe.
12:07: I can’t think of anything new or good, so I decide to go with my standard married shtick, which has never worked for me, ever, not even once:
Tucker “So you’re married?”
Married Girl “Yeah.”
Tucker “Is it a good marriage?”
12:08: Married Girl looks at me, looks down, looks back at me, and almost breaks into tears. Married Girl begins pouring her heart out to me. I guess she didn’t drink any absinthe. Because she is hot, I decide to be nice to her.
12:23: Married Girl gets to an emotional part and does actually start to cry. I suggest we go into another room so we can “talk in private.” Married Girl readily agrees and tells me that I am “so nice.”
12:45: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Holy shit this is working! Being nice is great! Who would have ever thought?!?
12:47: Married Girl breaks into tears again. I console her.
12:51: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
12:56: Married Girl breaks into tears. I console her. And undo her bra. With one hand. I got skillz.
12:59: Married Girl and I are hooking up.
1:05: Married Girl breaks into tears. I just stare at her. I suggest to Married Girl that perhaps the best thing to do right now is to go with what feels natural, and not worry about other painful things in her life. As proof that I am doing this, I tell her that my friends are shipping to Iraq soon, but I’m still at a party hooking up with her. Married Girl agrees with this logic.
1:06: Married Girl and I are hooking up. Clothes are off.
1:12: Married Girl breaks into tears. Again. “I don’t know; I…I…I just can’t do this. I’m not like this.”
1:13: I get up and return to the party. Tears do not make hooking up fun. Being nice sucks.
1:15: I tell Eddie there is a girl waiting for him in the bedroom next to the guest bathroom. “Really?” I hand him a condom, “Oh yeah dude, she was asking me all about you. She’s already got her clothes off and everything. Go to it.”
1:16: Rich and I laugh hysterically as Eddie goes into the room. We fully expect Eddie to come out any minute.
1:20: No Eddie.
1:25: No Eddie.
1:30: No Eddie. I want to go in and see what’s going on, “Hey--it’s my pussy after all. I primed that pump!” Rich convinces me to stay away, “Hey John Maynard Keynes; hold off. This could be the last pussy he’s getting for awhile. Military women are ugly.”
1:43: The friend who told me about the party has been dispatched to throw me and my friends out, “Dude, everyone here is scared of you. Your friends are huge and you have successfully insulted everyone. That one fucking girl you said owed you a rib or something—dude, she was crying to [the host]. Literally crying. You're like Attila the Hun. You laid waste to this party.”
1:46: Rich convinces me to that we should just leave Eddie, “Dude, he’s an operator. He can find his own way home. The kid made his bones in Bosnia, I think he can find his way around Chicago.”
2:04: Rich wants pussy. I take him to a club. I hate clubs.
2:05: We got a place called Rive Gauche. It should be called Lotsa Douche. Almost as soon as we walk in, some skinny bag of pigshit starts spinning glow sticks right in my face. This enrages me. I shove him down and kick him in the spine.
2:05: Rich bear hugs me and carries me to a VIP booth before anyone figures out what happened.
2:07: I pass out in the booth.
2:30: I wake up to see Rich trying to eat the face of some skank. She looks like something he scraped off his shoe.
2:36: I am not feeling good. Mr. Absinthe is about to send me a bill for his services.
2:44: I make it to the toilet. I can feel the vomit coming.
2:45: My intestines, without subtlety, tell me that I have a higher priority. I nearly pass out on the toilet from my colon’s version of Shock and Awe.
2:47: As I am crapping out my internal organs, Mr. Absinthe teams with Ms. Poetic Justice to eject everything in my stomach right out of my face.
2:48: I lean to my left to prevent vomit from getting on my clothes, but my shift moves my ass off the side of the toilet seat and causes me to shit watery diarrhea all over the toilet seat and floor.
2:49: I look over at the shit, catch a whiff of it, and start vomiting again. On top of the shit.
2:53: I stand up, clean myself, and survey the damage. It looks like a tapioca abortion.
2:58: I come out of the bathroom and inform the line that “I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.”
3:04: Back at the VIP table. Rich has nearly undressed The Skank and is investigating all of her orifices. His hand will never smell the same.
3:12: The Skank has a friend. She is staggeringly drunk. She makes fun of The Skank and tells me I am hot. Maybe clubs aren’t so bad.
3:14: The Friend tells me I am way too sober. I agree. We go shot for shot with vodka.
3:40: After about 6 shots, she tells me, “I think I am getting really drunk. I always do stupid things when I’m drunk.” Strike up the band, we have a winner.
3:50: Rich takes The Skank to the bathroom to fuck. The friend says to me, “About time. I’m surprised she didn’t just go down on him at the table. That’s what she did last weekend.”
4:12: The Friend does not mince words, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to fuck in a club bathroom. I have standards…well…some standards.” I can’t make this shit up.
4:15: The Friend hands me her keys. I ask her, “You want me to drive your car?” She says, “Well, you’re more sober than I am.” This statement makes me laugh. I am so drunk I am not sure I could read.
4:30: She lives far away. I don’t know where I am.
4:35: We cannot find parking. She has me drop her off at her building and tells me to come up when I find a parking place. I decide that she is a bitch.
I think that she will “accidentally” get my dick in her ass when we are fucking doggy style.
4:40: I still cannot find ANYWHERE to park. This is infuriating me.
4:45: I parallel park the car into a space that is too small. I try to force it in. The car gets stuck. I slam on the gas, the wheels spin until they catch the curb and jump the car onto the sidewalk, crashing it into a storefront.
4:46: I get out of the car. I am INSIDE of a donut shop. With the car. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I investigate the damage. There are broken and fractured tables scattered all across the store. The car has only a few scratches. I am in shock and completely unsure about what to do. I am have never driven a car into a store before.
4:47: Thankfully the donut shop is closed and empty of people. I still don’t know what to do. I start laughing to myself. I look behind the counter, but the donuts are all put away.
4:48: I decide that while I find this funny, the car owner, the donut shop owner, and the police would not find it funny. The letters “DUI” leap to mind. The phrase, “felony hit and run” also appears. I wipe my fingerprints from the entire car, throw the keys into some bushes, and take off running.
4:49: I get my cell phone and desperately call Rich. I tell his voice mail that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should he tell The Skank what my name is, who I am, or anything about me. It is Tucker Luck that on the one night when I need to stay anonymous I have someone in special forces to run my operational security.
4:50: I am still running. I lost count of the number of blocks I had traveled somewhere around 30.
5:10: I finally get home. I am completely fucking exhausted. I must have run at least 5 miles, probably more. My feet are bleeding, but I am safe. I pass out.
Epilogue: Rich was smart enough to not only give The Skank a fake name, but a fake phone number. It’s standard operating procedure for him anyway. It’s been awhile and I haven’t seen anything in papers or police reports, so I guess I am OK.
It turned out that Eddie and Married Girl hooked up about 4 times and then they both passed out. The hostess found them the next morning, screamed, both Eddie and Married Girl jumped up, threw on their clothes and tore out of the house. Both were guests of people who were invited, so neither knew anyone who lived in the house.
When asked about how he succeeded with Married Girl where Tucker failed, Eddie simply smiled and said, “That was easy. I walked in and she was already naked. The hardest part was done. After that it was just a little patience and some sweet talking. Come on man; I run black ops for a living--this was cake.”
To get in touch with Tucker, visit TuckerMax.com!
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