The book, I hope they serve beer in hell (ISBN 978-0-14-102945-0, Penguin Books, 2006) opens with a short story on how the author Tucker Max challenges everyone in a bar to a drinkathon, monitoring the progress with a portable alcohol breathalyzer. He revels in being the center of attention, but then vomits into the bushes outside the restaurant.
He wakes in the morning sleeping in his car and his blood alcohol concentration is .09, still over the limit to drive. A rather juvenile story, but perhaps this was from when he was young (but since it was three years after he graduated, he would have been in his mid 20’s, which is not really “young”. “Immature” is a better adjective.).
The second story revolves around getting drunk and baiting a bunch of rednecks. Tucker Max was the designated driver but did not enjoy the experience. “Being the only sober one in a group of retarded drunks is not fun. From now on, I’m drinking and driving.” He was an undergraduate at that time, and uni undergrads are well known for drunken antics; however, most would deplore Tucker Max’s decision.
The third story was, in essence, a list of girls who had performed blow jobs on this incredibly juvenile author. Come on (no pun intended), a blow job is a blow job is a blow job. By this stage I was finding the book so boring I decided to skip a few chapters, so I hope you’ll forgive me.
In about the fifth story in, where he describes being sacked from a law firm for stupid behavior, “I acted like a drunk retard and they couldn’t tolerate my potential liability. What could I expect them to do? Pat me on the back and get me a hooker and some beer? That would be pretty cool, though.”
The back cover has “Actual Reader Feedback” such as, “I am completely baffled as to how you can congratulate yourself for being a womanizer and a raging drunk, or think that anyone cares about an idiot like you. Do you really think that exploiting the insecurities of others while getting wasted is a legitimate thing to offer?”
Of course author Tucker Max does also offer the other side of the coin. “I’ll stay with God as my lord, but you are my savior. I just finished reading your brilliant stories, and I laughed so hard I almost vomited. I want to bring that kind of joy to people. You’re an artist of the highest order and a true humanitarian to boot. I’m in both shock and awe at how much I want to be you.”
All I can say to that is “Let the saints preserve you.”
At B. 460 it is not an expensive book, detailing the drunken antics of some very juvenile quasi-adults, without the decision making abilities that most young adults manage to develop. If you have a table with unequal legs, this book might just be the answer, but please don’t read it. I only did because I had to. Pulp prose at its worst.
