Assholes Finish First
offended 52 of the 54 people on the clown bus and 97% of the persons at the first 5 or 6 stops. Oh, no. The defining moment of this evening was when you were arrested after you walked dead into the middle of Sixth Street on a Saturday night, still wearing your floaties and with your bullhorn—something akin to walking on the Hollywood freeway at 6:00 pm—and ordered all traffic to stop, declaring, “I AM Tucker Max.” As I watched from the doorway of the pub, two cops approached you from the other side of the street. Your reaction? You turned the bullhorn on the rather portly male and barked, “Don’t fuck with me, tubby! I wouldn’t want a donut store to lose its best customer.” To the female officer, “Honey, you might have nice tits but I can’t tell underneath all that polyester. Let’s have sex in your patrol car and find out.” Cuffs and the clink for you—although I swear I thought I saw the female cop actually laugh.”
    I legitimately don’t remember dancing with an old lady, or any of that shit with the cops, which sucks. It’d be one of my proudest memories.
    Nils explained what happened from the time I passed out in the paddy wagon until I woke up in jail:
    “The most amazing part of our bumpy ride to Travis County Jail was the arrival, when the cops opened the back of the paddy wagon to let us out. I walked out easily. You werefacedown on the corrugated metal flooring, with your feet splayed out and your hands cuffed behind you, and the cops would not help you. They just shouted at you to “get the fuck out of the wagon.”
    What you should have done was shimmy your way down the length of the floor on your stomach and basically slide out backward until your feet hung over and you could land upright. Instead, you were intent on getting to your feet INSIDE the paddy wagon but without using the benches or the wall to help. And that’s exactly what you did. You somehow used your face to balance yourself as you slowly got to your feet. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen, drunk or sober. Even the cops were impressed.
    After staring, then laughing at us as we made our way through booking, they had us take our clown makeup off for the mug shots. I think you used up the remainder of your cognitive ability with that Houdini paddy wagon move, because by this time the only actions you were capable of were the involuntary ones: breathing, blinking, farting. The guys behind the counter recognized this and allowed us to go into the bathroom together (apparently against policy) so I could help you remove your makeup and prevent you from faceplanting into the sink.
    This was the first opportunity I had to look at myself in the mirror. The amateur application of clown makeup always leaves something to be desired. After 8 hours of drinking, eating, laughing, sweating, and yelling, you stop looking like happy-go-lucky fun clown and start looking like live-in-the-sewer-and-gnaw-on-small-children’s-bones clown. Your makeup was equally streaked, but when I went to scrub it off, it sloughed off into the paper towel in a single layer, like the charred skin of a 3rd degree burn victim. It was remarkable.
    Once they took our mug shots, they set us down in a large, open holding area filled with rows of white plastic chairs and other nonviolent offenders. For the most part, everyone kept to themselves, and you fell over passed out on a vacant row of chairs.
    Nothing of note happened for the next 45 minutes or so. That’s when you started puking. EVERYWHERE. I’ll never forget it. It was this viscous, dirt-brown mixture that rocketed out of your mouth like someone was jumping up and down on your stomach. You never woke up, I don’t think you even made a sound, you just puked. And puked. And puked some more. It just kept coming. Watching you from across the row of seats, it felt like staring into the mouth of a sewage runoff pipe spilling toxic sludge into a white linoleum lake.
    Lake TuckerPuke. Right then

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