I sat watching television. It had been a long week at work and I found comfort in petting my dog, drinking a glass of wine, and watching “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” with my roommate (who finds my commentary on all television shows hilarious. He doesn’t say as much, but I can just tell).
Then: a tear in the very fabric of my universe. It was an ad for the movie of “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” which is based on the best selling book by the same name, which is based off the internet essays based on the zany escapades of Tucker Max.
Also known as my arch enemy.
Also known as Douche-bag Supreme.
Also known as That Guy I’m Jealous of.
To those familiar with Tucker Max’ writings, you may misinterpret my jealousy. I don’t envy his drunken sexual exploits or his wild disregard for social niceties or his feverish insistence that he gets blow jobs at the turn of every corner.
In fact, I’m jealous that his stupid, crappily written, predictable stories have been emailed around the earth a countless number of times, made into a book, and made into a movie. I know it took him years to cultivate a big audience, and I know he is a total tool. But still. It makes an aspiring famous writer question oneself.
Should I be writing more about stupid, demeaning, dangerous things? What if I’m too old to do stupid, demeaning or dangerous things? Should I be writing more about watching T.V. and being frustrating about the amount of sodium in frozen food entrees?
I could write about the stupid shit I did in high school and college, but I know it won’t measure up to the stuff that serious partiers did. I mostly read books and went to academic lectures, like Ray Bradbury, Noam Chomsky, and Kurt Vonnegut. I also watched a lot of episodes of Blind Date. Hardly the stuff of infamy.
Sigh. I guess I just have to stick to the plan. Keep writing, be open and honest, and make a live-sized voodoo doll of Tucker Max.
he’s classless, mysoginistic and just plain gross…and karma will catch up to him. down with tucker max, up with PLM!