The Time I Got Tucker Maxed

Well, hi there readers! Sorry for the LONG extended break…but mono is a bitch, and of course life decided to hit me while I was down already, and I am currently spending my days with the ladies of The View (not really), drinking like Hoda and Kathie Lee (nope), and enjoying my freedom in more ways than one (a new version of two truths and a lie…2 lies and a truth!)


So hopefully this title is intriguing to you- but no, I did not HAVE SEX with Tucker Max. I merely refer to one of his infamous stories. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

SOOOOO….Friday night started like any other night. My friend and I cabbed it down to the new bar, The Phoenix. It was fun, until the only man we had talking to us was some 50-something photographer who knew that he didn’t belong there…it wasn’t as salacious as it sounds. Just annoying. So as any girl has learned to do from multiple viewings of Clueless, we left our perch at the bar and took a lap.

Where we found ourselves in front of a seemingly cute group of guys….who upon closer inspection, I realized that a member of 98 Degrees was in their midst. Yes, Nick Lachey was there. And I have a new rule in life: When Nick Lachey is at the same bar as you, it’s time to go. #ttg

It's always time to go...

It’s always time to go…

So we decided to head up to Jones, as that has always been a particularly “fruitful” bar for me in the past. Well, and sorry if I am putting too many Clueless references in one post, but I personally think that is impossible, but the first object of my affection turned out to be a total Monet…that, and he was annoying. But he gave me his stool, and this I was sitting next to cute friend. And somehow cute friend and I got to talking while my friend and Monet chatted.

Who hasn't had this convo?

Who hasn’t had this convo?

Which obviously led to cute friend and I arm wrestling (something about him being vegan?) and then taking shots from the mysterious jar of vegetables that has always been a mystery to me, which then led to picking songs on the jukebox (which we clearly never heard) and then, yes, being those people and making out next to the jukebox.

So where does the Tucker Max part of this story come in? Keep waiting. It does.

Back at my place (see what I did there….) fun times were had. Not sure how much I really need to get into, but I can assure you the Tucker Max story I am alluding to does not include lube or butts.

Excuse me while I skip over the details…this blog isn’t on HBO you know (nor am I Lena Dunham, thank god), so the next morning, things were nice….as in fun times and nothing out of the ordinary. He left around 8 and asked me for my number…all seemed normal.

And then once he left, I went to the bathroom…and that’s where the Tucker Max of things comes into play. If you recall, in The Austin Road Trip stories, Tucker stays at an Embassy Suites. The glorious story where he shits himself. Well how about I share some in case you are unfamiliar?

I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.


Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours….

The fake Tucker Max from the movie, I Hope They Serve Beer  in Hell

The fake Tucker Max from the movie, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell

I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can’t seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to the front desk, which doesn’t face the lobby. It’s about 4am, and no one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute–CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG –until some poor lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the bathroom in the corner of the lobby.

I turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don’t know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don’t have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling? Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. I am literally pressing my ass cheeks together with my hands. One of the prouder moments of my life.I nearly bust the door off it’s hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud, “AYYYY!!,” that almost literally scares the shit out of me. I jump back to see that this is a janitor’s closet, complete with a small Mexican lady janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitors bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of said female janitor.

I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to crap my pants:

Janitor “No, no se habla Ingles.”
Janitor “AYA, AYA!”

She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing, at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have a large “Restroom” sign over them. Right where the front desk lady said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.

I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either sprint and hope I make it there before I shit in my boxers, or I can stick my thumb up into my ass and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom. The decision is simple: I break into a full-on dead-ass sprint.

Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:

-20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
-30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my ass crack and legs get noticeably wet.
-40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid thigh. I am struggling to keep it together.
-50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs of something hitting the back of my head and ears.

By the time I get to the bathroom door, the end of the 60 yards, I have completely lost it.

I am shitting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap boxers.

I step out of my boxers as I crash through the door. Shit is puddled in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slide off, because my ass is covered in slimy, runny feces….

By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated, and my eyes are tearing up from shitting so hard. I laugh at the inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and see that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of shit that my heels kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. My pink Gap boxers are crumpled in a ball on the sink, with a thick black streak leading from the top of the mirror down to them. This is their final resting place.

Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle, because 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, language and socioeconomic barriers, but the “What the fuck just happened?” expression on her face crossed all boundaries.

Now really–picture this scene: I am butt-ass naked, crap plastered all over my ass, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid shit leading from her directly to me. What would you do? I wasn’t sure. I don’t think there is any defined etiquette for this situation.

I shrug my shoulders, say, “Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh–lo siento. Good night. Buenos noche–or whatever,” and calmly walk to the elevator.

From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her sobbing. The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked shit up on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.

Come to think of it, she wasn’t sobbing. I believe “hysterical crying” would be a better descriptive term. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as shit isn’t going to be me.

Ok, hopefully you have realized that I am the small Mexican lady Janitor in this situation…not the shitter. I wouldn’t really tell you about that if I was…sorry! So once the boy had exited my apartment and I went into my bathroom, I realized something was amiss besides the door hook that was laying on the floor no longer holding my towels, which lay strewn next to the tub. Oh, and by the way, my bathroom is TINY. Like TINY Tiny. Which led me to easily realize the toilet seat was up and there was most definitely some thinks there that had not been the night before. And on the rim, and on the lid, and on the bowl, and on the floor, and on the wall. Have you ever played poop or puke? Because I have…I’m going with puke, just cause it makes more sense and doesn’t physically make me want to wash myself and puke as badly as the prospect of having to clean up a grown man’s poo.

Whoops is right!

Whoops is right!

I kind of hope he calls, just so that I can get the real answer: poop or puke?

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