I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (Tucker Max, #1)

by Tucker Max

I wrote the book on pickup lines, so I head over to her and drop one of my favorites: “Did you invite all these people? I thought it was just going to be the two of us?”

I turn to see the hot girl crumpled in a ball on the ground, holding her face and moaning in agony. I accidentally walked her face-first right into a light pole. As her friends ran up to see if she was OK, I just stood there, watching my best shot of the night evaporate, said, “Well, I guess I’m not getting laid,” and walked into the restaurant.

Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle. At this point, if I don’t laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the lobby, I think to myself, “Who else on earth could be having a worse night than me?” My question is immediately answered. I see a trail of shit, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than the small Mexican lady janitor. Her eyes met mine. We may have been separated by numerous religious, linguistic, cultural and socioeconomic barriers, but the expression on her face crosses all boundaries.

Ladies, let me give you some advice. You can throw all your stupid fucking chick-lit, self-help, why-doesn’t-he-love-me books out, because this is all you need to know: Men will treat you the way you let them. There is no such thing as “deserving” respect; you get what you demand from people.

You know that noise girls make when they are so pissed that they can’t even form words? It’s a sort of cross between “uh” and a reptilian hiss?