Dumbass Alert

I just got done reading Tucker Max's "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell," and I must tell you this is the world's biggest a-hole.

Don't get me wrong; I haven't read many books in a shorter period of time than this one. I laughed out loud plenty of times. He basically recalls the tales of his 20s that revolve around getting shitfaced drunk and fucking everything that walks. In most cases, one happened before the other. If you're a typical guy, and often times I am, and you like movies like Old School and Wedding Crashers, you'll laugh at this book, but you'll definitely think Max is a complete cock. Arrogant, immature, in love with himself -- and those are the nice things I'd say about him.

But I do admire his courage for having the balls to publish his outlandish tales of bacchanalia, and first-person accounts are what I prefer to read anyway. He's not a bad writer, but his subject matter got fairly repetitive.

Near the very end of the book, though, there was a part where he began to question how often girls might have gotten over on him the way he did so many times with seemingly every girl he slept with. That took me down my own memory lane, and here's the first thing I remembered:

The most serious relationship in my life began in 1999 and ended in 2002. Wanna hear about our first phone call?

I lived in Cincinnati at the time, and a co-worker named "Jane," who had a serious boyfriend, was driving down to Louisville, just 100 miles away, to fuck somebody else behind her boyfriend's back, and, bored on the way there, she called me and was trying to line something up with me the following week. Her own personal trifecta of harlotry.

She broke up with her boyfriend a short time later, we started dating immediately after and, in case you need an irony fix, we moved to Louisville together about a year later.

In looking back, I don't think Stevie Wonder would have missed that call. I'm a complete moron.