George Orwell vs Tucker Max

I am reading two books these days. The first is a complete collection of George Orwells´s Essays from 1928 - 1949. Twenty years of the WWII era equivalent of blogging. During that time Orwell was a soldier in Burma, then a hobo and then a revolutionary and then a writer. The topics range from an essay on the Spanish Civil War to reviews of books of Philosophy to an expose of homeless shelters in England. The second book is entitled I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. It is a collection of anecdotes from 1998 to around 2005, written by Tucker Max, whose claim to fame is a dating application, which is technically a multiple choice test with questions and answers such as

How much does it take to get you drunk?

The smell of alcohol
A few beers
A few glasses of wine
A six-pack
A six-pack of Ripple
I can out drink a Wahoo
I can out drink an Irish Catholic
Ever heard of Motley Crue? I taught them how to party.
"My parent’s won’t let me use scissors.”

When you´ve stopped laughing let me point out that the last line is a quote from Ralph Wiggum on the Simpsons. And get this, ALL the responses include a quote from Ralph. How funny is that? If you, the applicant, guess this correctly then you win something from Tucker. I know, this is unbelieveably generous so I want everyone to have this opportunity by directing you to Tucker´s site, but not without putting up a challenge of my own. Can you guess the name of his website? Anyone? Well, maybe you´ll have a better idea if you continue to read.

Now, my purpose for this article is to compare and contrast these two authors and their work. If I accidentally extoll the virtues of Orwell and thoroughly expose Max for a fraud and philistine then that may be considered an added bonus. I don´t pretend to be unbiased. Believe me, my scoring card already has Orwell ahead by five rounds and the first bell hasn´t even rung. But that´s me. That´s my prejudice and I beg you to overlook it and form your own opinions of the scum turtle known as Tucker Max and the literary luminary knows as George Orwell. Don´t let me influence your final decision at all. Just because Tucker describes his favorite hobby as, "I like to fart in the bathtub and turn around and bite the bubbles." does not mean he can´t be taken seriously. No, on the contrary, it is in times like these that George Orwell chose to examine the common cultural product as a reflection of the generation as a whole. In Orwell´s time he found a violent battle between capitalists and socialists, fascists and democrats, colony and colonizer, a battle that he himself played a major role in with his books and essays. Tucker on the other hand has this to say about his life goal, "To be a celebrity that gets paid to get drunk, act like an asshole, and get drunk some more." Amazingly, this lofty dream is coming true for Mr. Max.

Now let´s take a closer look at these two authors and their respective work:

"No civilized person would wish for an instant to imitate the gypsies´habits, but that is not the same as saying that one would like to see them disappear. Existing in the teeth of a civiization which disapproves of them, they are a heartening reminder of the largeness of the earth and the power of human obstinacy."

So writes Orwell in his 1938 review of Gypsies, by Martin Block, a book concerning the history and status of Eurpoean Gypsies. This is a random selection and Tucker Max deserves the same treatment. After all, Max also exists in the teeth of a civilization which disapproves of him as the following sample will attest to.

"As I sat there on the uncomfortably warm toilet seat, unwiped, smelling my own shit, my ass sweating and falling asleep at the same time - about to come because she was so good [at fellatio] she could bring me to orgasm in a coma-I gave up."

So writes Max in his recollection of an October 2001 romantic affair. October 2001? Didn´t something important happen just a month earlier? What was it? I can´t remember. It´s on the tip of my tongue. Oh, well, nothing important, I´m sure. Nothing that would eclipse important confessions such as these...

"No matter what I did, she wanted more. If I spanked her, she wanted to be spanked until her ass was raw. If I called her a "bitch" during sex, she wanted to be called a "whore." If I called her a "whore," she wanted to be called a "filthy cunt whore." I´m literally a professional at humiliating and debasing people, but this girl was absorbing my entire repertoire and then coming back and asking for seconds."

Would his lover finish the blowjob before or after he finished taking a shit? Would she draw the line or would Tucker Max run out of ways to heighten their sex play? My mind is ablaze with curiosity and thankfully Max has the wisdom to remember and record it. I have scoured Orwell´s collected essays and am saddened to find nary a description of his sex life outside of a recollection of being humiliated by his schoolmarm because masturbation was considered debasing. Masturbation for a teenage boy? Debasing? And giving a blowjob a´la defecation is now a rite of passage. Oh, how fate must laugh at the whims of man. One wonders, was Orwell a prude? A fag? It´s hard to say since his writing focuses on Mussolini, Hitler, Tolstoy and other unentertaining topics. What an asshole, right? Didn´t they have filthy cunt whores to write about in 1930?

I do not know if they serve beer in hell. But I do know what books will stock the shelves of Hell´s library. The seeds of 1984 and Animal Farm are clearly in Orwell´s early essays, but if there is a seed of anything in Max´s book it is of a amateur animation clip involving Ralph Wiggum and a vibrator. Or maybe Ralph will reenact the toilet blowjob with...get this...Lucy from the Peanuts series. How funny would that be? They don´t exist in the same animated universe, see, so it would be even funnier to combine them in a pornographic situation. I can just picture it and it makes me laugh boistrously. Just imagine the hilarious situations you can put two animated characters in. You can actually make them fuck and fellate each other. Think about that! It´s like an unlimited number of possibilities and one day it will be Tucker Max´s responsiblitiy to highlight them all. He will, afterall, need to have something to watch in Hell.

Of course the argument can be made that Tucker does not claim to be a writer of substance. But, and this is the truth, neither did Goerge Orwell. They were both educated individuals who decided to write their thoughts and experiences down for their own enjoyment...not for commercial success. While George Orwell fought in the Spanish Revolution Tucker Max casually insults people of French persuasion because the French surrendered to Germany some 70 years ago. This is as close to a political cause as Tucker Max allows himself to support, and it is mostly for the abuse of a stranger that he does so.

Tucker Max and his friends have their closest historical associates in Alex and the droogs from Clockwork Orange. They are sociopathic, remorseless, unrepentant, amoral, ID-based entities. Call me insecure, call me overly sensitive. No matter, this Tucker individual is a loathsome parasite. His wittier-than-thou manner, maintained while telling stories involving jokes about fat people and clumsy anal sex, is indescribably replusive. George Orwell had no resources to rely on and he produced two of the most referenced dystopian novels of all time. Max simply lives in a dystopia and writes just clear enough to be understood. If he had a nickle for every time he ended up laying on the ground laughing until shit started coming out of his asshole then he would be a rich man. He does have game, that can´t be denied. He can charm the panties off a horny hooker...and manage to get a blowjob without paying for it. The beautiful women he sleeps with (why would he lie about that) are not forced to fuck him. No, they go willingly along and probably consider a one night stand with Max as a test of their own limits, a reminder of why their real boyfriend is so trustworthy. In one of his more revealing anecdotes a girl tells him she has genital warts...and he immediately leaves her. I can only think that this was one of the rare occassions when getting genital warts turns out to be a good thing. Yes, Max represents that unattainable ID mentality we all wish we could cultivate until this stupid thing called "our conscience" gets in the way. Not everyone can have distant and emotionally unavailable mothers like Max. Some of us got brought up thinking we are responsible for our own actions even when drunk. Max is one of those common rat boy types who compartmentalizes so effectively that his behavior when drunk or when recovering from a drunk does not go down on his permanent record. One is tempted to lecture him about the harm he is doing to his body and to the emotions of those he exploits. But what would George Orwell say if he came across Max´s book? I believe Orwell would recognize that Max already knows everything you are going to tell him, that he is in fact an imperfect sociopath because he can only reduce his consience to a whisper with the help of alcohol. A true sociopath is a menace even when completely sober. That´s the difference with "party in a can" personalities like Max´s and real monsters; Max knows he is a fake and the real monsters obey the voices in their heads. Yes, failure to a person like Max is not turning his back on a career in law (AKA filing state paperwork). Rather, failure is knowing you can´t do it without a bottle in your hand. He can´t be a real person, albeit a sociopath, without being drunk. That knowledge kills him and forces him to reach for the bottle and as soon as he is drunk and bulletproof he feels alive. "Record what I´m about to say, because it´s going to be very funny." And to a drunk frat boy who also laughs at movies like Clerks and Clerks II, he probably is very funny.
One can not admire or respect Tucker Max but one must give him credit for recognizing the swine element in society and realizing it fit his swine personality perfectly. One can not ignore an opportunity when it presents itself and Max jumped on this one like a Miami model jumps on a pile of Meth. To turn his back on such an opportunity would have meant a lifetime of inadequacy issues and diet soda. Enter Mr. Tequila and a star is born.

If you still haven´t guessed the address for Tucker Max´s website just remember that Tucker Max must log in to his editing interface while shitfaced so it should be easy for Tucker Max to remember with not a lot of creativity or indirect language to struggle with. The words should just roll off of Tucker Max´s tongue. If you still don´t know what the address is just remember the anecdote Max tells of dancing with a beautiful stranger who later turns out to be himself...in a mirror. That should give you idea of Tucker Max´s perfect mate even though we all know he would only break up with himself after two dates because he was simply trying too hard to be clever. When people try too hard to laugh then it either means they aren´t funny or they are drowning out the doubts they hear with forced chuckles.
If you still can´t guess the address for Tucker Max´s site then it means you aren´t smart enough and wouldn´t get his irony anyway. Too bad for you, you filthy cunt whore.

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I´m not sure who wrote this tune. But I know I´m pretty dissapointed in the playing. I simply haven´t figured out what to do here. It´s sloppy because I´m still practicing. But I have to post it or else there will be nothing to compare to my next video in a year or so. This is where I am at right now with this song. The only way to know I have improved is by seeing where I came from.

Breezin by George Benson

Never underestimate the power of ´70s era instrumental pop. This gem by George Benson reminds me of plaid pants and disco balls. Roller skates and permed hair. Tank tops and swimming holes. Although my performance is cut short due to time limitations it is a bit too modern for this nostalgic tune. But there are some moments of clean playing of good ideas.

Four

Finally, another take on this tune. I´ve only played it a million times but still this has got me going one direction when I should´ve gone another.

Bad Clutch

"She stole the used rubber?"

I asked this question both because you don´t get to say a sentence like that every day and also because I really needed to understand what Ron was saying, or if he was so stoned that he was no longer making sense.

"That´s what got me worried. I looked for it everywhere. She stole it off my cock while I was passed out."

Ignoring the horrible image now developing in my head I ask, "Why would she steal a used rubber?"

"To tell the police that I raped her. You know whores. That´s how I got run out of here five or six years ago. I started getting nasty looks from the taxi drivers and then the sheriff pulled me over in my RV and said, ´drive north.´I didn´t need to be told twice. But on the way north I started hearing this popping sound and I looked behind me and three taxis were chasing me and the motherfuckers were shooting at me with pistols. You know the taxi drivers are the unofficial posse in this country?"

I am under Ron´s dashboard examining his clutch cylinder that totally fell apart this morning. It is a 2003 Ford Focus and 80% of it is plastic. The remaining 20% is aluminum. I am so disgusted that I don´t even care Ron was at one point being chased by taxi drivers shooting at him. The funny thing is that he doesn´t care that I don´t care. I´m not even sure he cared at the time he was being shot at.

"I out ran them for a while but they had called ahead and it got real fucking messy in Loreto. I ended up hiding on top of my RV under a bridge. They had shovels with them. Turns out they thought I was raping girls in La Paz. Why would I rape girls when I can rent their pussies for so cheap? The word got around and they were going to kill my ass. But I got away. How is it looking under there?"

"I can´t believe this car was allowed to be driven. I can´t believe the engineer went to school first. A fucking child who owns a go kart would design a better car. At what point are resources so scarce that people just decide to refrain from manufacturing disposable shit?"

"That good huh? Can you fix it?"

"Give me some fucking credit."

I can fix it. It´s built like a car made of Styrofoam. Awful, but Ron is nevertheless comforted.

"Well, even if you can´t at least I got my shopping done. I got beer. I got a pound of pot. You want some?"

"No."

"You want a whore? I´m thinking about buying one. I´ll just get two. You can get a price break that way because they share the taxi."

"That´s all right."

"No? How is it going with your girlfriend?"

I´ve already explained that the girl he is talking about is not my girlfriend, but he calls her that because it is easier, I suppose, than saying "the girl you want to bang"

"We´ve got some bad chemistry." I say simply, though the truth as I interpret it is too complicated to discuss, involving not just chemistry but also emotional security and relationship roles and philosophy and geometry and language.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I say absurd shit, she takes it seriously and uses the opportunity to scold me and feel superior. Then I defend myself and we argue over nothing. I don't think I've told one joke she thought was funny."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was going to sell a kidney and join the Mexican circus. I said I wanted to manage the game where you throw a ball at a stuffed monkey. I was going to be the stuffed monkey wrangler. "

Ron crushed his cigarette and immediately lit another one.

"How much you going to get for the kidney?"

"See, if she had responded like that we probably would have ended up fucking," I say laughing. "God damn it! No. She has to take me seriously? Over something absurd like a stuffed monkey? She says one absurd thing after another..´I want to sniff glue, I drank tequila for two straight days, how does my hair look, I like that dress but not that one. I like shoes with straps...´bullshit. Absurd bimbo bullshit. Do I take her seriously? No. Do I define her by these random statements? No. But I say I want to go to Honduras and die in a revolution and she goes berserk. It´s like my fucking childhood all over again!"

"I thought you said you were gonna wrangle stuffed monkeys."

Sometimes Ron actually pays attention, which keeps me on my toes.

"Well I say a lot of absurd things. I can say whatever I want and sometimes I say absurd things, but people take me seriously. It isn´t fair. Did you see many cases of plastic explosives in my van? Or AK-47s? Or hand grenades? Or stuffed monkeys? I mean, if I told you...like...I was going to Russia to marry a woman I had never met what would you say?"

Without hesitation Ron says, "Don´t do it. DO NOT FUCKING DO IT! Those Russian mail order broads are completely insane. You´re better off adopting a pretty Russian girl and raising her to be your wife. You´d be guaranteed pussy then. Believe me, the adult women are beyond repair."

I wince as I don´t know how to respond to this response. I went from trying to prove a point by saying something insanely absurd to hearing something insanely absurd...but dead serious. This is a classic conversation with Ron.

"My point," I say, "is that I think out loud sometimes...and my thoughts don´t come out sounding completely normal. People just have to translate. Why is that hard? I don´t speak English. Only two people in my life have figured that out so far. My best friend...who is now dead. And an ex-girlfriend who now dates women. This girl here, she hasn´t figured that out yet. When I say I want to sell my kidney I just mean that I am bored with life...that I want her to make my life more interesting. That, in fact, wrangling stuffed monkeys in a Mexican circus is the philosophical equivalent of being a supreme court justice. See?"

"Jesus Christ, Oggy, you´ve got some admirable traits but sometimes you make no sense at all. Men are supposed to be the ones who speak directly. Don´t be obtuse. Tell her what you mean. Anyway, the way to impress a girl is not to say you would be happier tending a stuffed monkey...under any circumstances...with or without both your kidneys. I mean, think about it."

"Yeah, yeah. You think I haven´t thought about it? That´s all I do. Give me some fucking credit."

This is my new catch phrase. I look back under the clutch pedal, at a world I understand.

"How much does she charge?"

"She's not a hooker, dude."

"It sounds like she's a hooker to me. Maybe she's playing the long con."

"Well, then she's busting my balls for free."

Ron made some guttural sound. "You see, Oggy, I just like fucking regular young girls who want to make some money on the side. I don´t have anything to offer a girl except wisdom, experience and good conversation."

This is Ron's catch phrase and it never ceases to annoy me. He thinks it is funny because he's understating his qualities and sort of being self-pitying but I have yet to find a good response to it other than indifference. I reach under the clutch pedal and feel around the master cylinder. It is in two pieces but all the pieces are connected to a rod that can only be removed by unscrewing the whole pedal assembly. That´s going to suck.

Ron says, "Hey, I actually know a guy who will buy your kidney."

I throw the wrench down and yell, "I´m not selling my kidney! I´m not joining the circus. I´m not joining a revolution. I just like saying it. It sounds good to my ears. It just sounds good to say, ´I want to manage a stuffed monkey game in a Mexican Circus.´That sounds interesting...but I would hate it after five minutes. So I´m not going to do it. It´s absurd. I know it is absurd but saying it is how I cope with my crummy life. Alright? Give me some fucking credit. I like fixing cars and playing guitar. That´s probably what I´ll do for the rest of my life. But that doesn´t sound as good. So I don´t say it as much. If people would just pay attention to what I do and not what I say then there would be no problems."

Ron laughs. "I was just kidding. Jesus. I can see why you two like to argue. You say one thing and mean another. She says one thing and means another. You´re right about the bad chemistry. Although, usually women who argue are the best fucks."

I groan as I look back under the dashboard.

"Yeah? I argued with my last girlfriend all the time and she fucked like a rolled up carpet."

"Well, Oggy, you don't exactly strike me as a cocksmith.

"Eh?"

"I mean, you can probably entertain a girl, charm them, make 'em laugh, sing a few songs, fix their car's brake pads, but when it comes time to fuck 'em, eat their pussies, pull their hair, spank 'em, you're probably no stallion. That's just my impression."

"Can I please try to fix this fucking worthless clutch?" I say shortly.

Ron shrugs. "You can't fuck with metaphors, champ."

"Thanks for the tip. One time..."

"Hey, I´m gonna get a whore. You want one or not?"

After my silence Ron continues, "Fuck it. My back is killing me. I could use a blowjob. You gonna fix that thing or what?"

"I´ll do what I can to this plastic piece of shit."

Ron is already on the phone to his pimp.

"Yeah, make sure she doesn´t have a fat ass this time. OK?" he says loudly into the phone. "NO FATTIES...yeah, that´s what you said last time. Now I mean it. I want her young and with little titties and a tight ass."

He looks at me.

"Big tits just get in the way. Right, Oggy?...No, I don´t care what color her skin is. Just as long as she´s clean and has a tight pussy! I don't care if she's had one or two kids but not a whole litter. The last one you sent was so loose it was like fucking a plastic grocery bag. I...mother fucker!"

Ron looks at his phone and then at me.

"Man, can I use your phone? I just ran out of minutes. I put time on it the other day. I...Goddamn it! I bet that whore used it to call her man last night. The one who stole the used rubber off my cock! Son of a bitch!"

I hand Ron my cell phone and say, "You know what´s getting in the way? This fucking dashboard. Can I take it off?

Ron rips the cap off another beer as he dials his pimp.

"Do whatever you fucking want. You´re the monkey man. I...hey, it´s me...yeah...are we clear? No fatties with loose pussies!"

I cram myself under the steering wheel again. It´s uncomfortable as hell and my neck is going to be sore from holding it at an angle sideways. As I grab a greasy wrench and begin to dismantle the flimsy soybean fiber dashboard of Ron´s Ford Focus I whisper to myself, "I´m gonna be a stuffed monkey wrangler in a Mexican circus. I´m gonna raise sheep in Nepal. I´m gonna be a professional baseball player. I´m gonna ride a motorcycle across the continent. I´m gonna die in a Central American revolution. I´m gonna join a gypsy caravan in Africa. I´m gonna be an astronaut and fly a rocket ship to Mars. "