Light, you're the man. You need to post more stuff. Let me know if you need another writer or something. I'm the fake Tucker fan from the other site, as well as the guy who wrote part 7 of the interview transcript (I don't know who wrote the first six parts - I just got tired of waiting, so I wrote my own).
16 pages of questions. And he answered maybe 5 of them. And by answer, I mean:
1) ignore most of the question, post something that kind of looks like an answer but isn't.
2) claim that he answered it years ago and therefore you're an idiot
3) promise to answer it sometime in the future. (at which point you'll be an idiot)
I don't think I saw one straightforward, direct answer.
It's kind of cute how most people are scared shitless they can't call bullshit on him but "my buddy doesn't believe you" or "I once read a website that called you a liar."
The comments on the last post are over 5000, and appear to be broken.
You are now the epicenter of showing the world that Tucker Max is a liar and a doucebag.
A heavy burden of responsibility has been placed on your shoulders, the burden of letting Tucker be himself, and showing that he is in fact quite the doucebag in both word and deed.
Oh, and if you could figure out how to contact Blogger support with the error code from Cockly's blog, that would be great. I posted a message with the error code in the Blogger help group on Google groups, but so far, that hasn't been of any use.
I've got the faith. I just hope that everyone over there knows to come here. Although, chances are that the faithful who believe Otto is a lying d-bag already know and visit this site. Maybe this 5,000 cap is a blessing in disguise in that it keeps away the idiots who came to clog up the comments.
By the way - how many "positive screening" posts can he put up before even that gets old. Eventually it'd be nice to see an objective, third-party, non Tucker Max affiliated website say something positive about his movie. So far the only real coverage has been from a script reader, and Gawker, both of whom slammed IHTSBIH
Come on, Light! Tucker has said interesting shit lately. Today's blog post on his movie site is probably the most egotistical, boastful, and self-congratulatory collection of words I've ever seen a human being write. I think the best part of the post is the irony when he says he has stopped talking about things that have happened to his movie that don't happen to "normal" movies because it would sound like boasting.
I never thought it was possible to literally suck your own dick, but I wouldn't wager against Tucker being able to do it.
Also, did you see this thread? Tucker claims he wrote a rap song, and then says Nils actually wrote most of it. Additionally, he implies that he is a rapper. Plus he completely loses his shit when a guy claims writing a rap song isn't easy. It's a fine addition to the legacy of Tucker Max douchebaggery.
Normally I'd remain a loyal fan of Tucker's, but his revelation of his creating a rap song for his album, then DEFENDING his skills as a rapper (while simutaneously creating a fake account to discredit the kid who was calling him out) is the end of the line for me. This whole thing stunk of a bad vanity project from day one, this is just the culmination of it all.
There are numerous reasons why bit players slip through the cracks--they read well but choke on set, we cast them off tape and they are different in person, the director doesn't understand the right way the line/scene needs to be read, or--this happens more than you'd think--the bit player is a fucking idiot who just can't do anything right. Which would explain much of the reason why they can't get better parts. Plus, we were casting in Shreveport, there is not much of a talent pool there. Sometimes we have to take what we can get."
No, the real reason is because you filled the movie MMA fighters, washed up porn stars, your drinking buddies, ex girlfriends, yourself, internet celebrities, etc. Ok, so that probably qualifies as "cast off tape" or "fucking idiot", but it was 100% your decision.
You chose to film in Louisiana. Other people have filmed there. Are they preemptively blaming Louisiana locals for their films' failures?
That old blog has many gems taht need to be repeated here.
Does this kid Greg have the balls of a twelve year old? From his post:
"At the dive bar, a couple of my friends and I ventured down to have a drink with Sean, Nils, Jen, Jeff and Tucker (Tucker being the main attraction on their end anyway). We all sat at the bar while Tucker held court at a table, talking about the film. An especially adventurous one of my friends (read:drunk) bought a round of shots for their table, in the hopes of being able to get them to come over and talk with us.
Didn't work. They nodded, said thanks and went right back to work. Heads down, talking shop."
Hopes that they will talk to them?
Did I miss something? Was he talking about Martin Scorsese and Jack Nicholson discussing a crucial scene in The Departed, or was he talking about a group of unknown pussies who are making a low-budget paint by numbers comedy?
How anyone on the planet could be intimidated by Tucker Max in any way shape or form is very hard to comprehend.
Pussies.
----
Here is what Tucker Max and his group of clueless misfit followers fail to realize.
They are the bad guys.
Imagine watching the Karate Kid movie and instead of Daniel kicking Johnny Lawrence's ass in the final match, in Tucker's world the Kobra Kai assholes would win. They would cheat their way to victory with no redeeming qualities. At the end of the movie they would remain unlikable assholes. No one is rooting for them at all. Ever.
Well, that's basically what Tucker and his small group of asshole friends are. They are the Kobra Kai dojo. Only they can't see it for themselves. They swept one too many legs. The can read the Art of War everyday of their lives and they still won't win.
I hope their egos are not as fragile as they appear because I think a world of disappointment is coming their way.
I used to visit the Tucker Max Douchebag blog quite a big, and even helped debunk a few of Tucker's bullshit stories. We collectively need this outlet for laughs, as Tucker concludes his short-lived internet fame with a real-life version of Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star.
WCIAM, TAT, blah blah. Well actually I wouldn't mind losing those parts with douceblog.
Notice in the Dec 22 post he mentions as a reason why prediction is impossible "the economy". Betcha he ends up pontificating lots more about that and it will end up being entirely reponsible for ruining his perfect moviemaking adventure.
The 3 main characters are: Tucker - fratty douchebag protagonist Aaron - anti-social bitter friend (based on SlingBlade from the book) Jeff - lug-headed groom to be
(note: Aaron's name has been changed to Drew for the film)
The story starts off with Tucker having sex with a deaf girl whose mid-coitus screams are interpretated by neighbours as a rape in progress. Cops are called and, hearing the screams, break in and manhandle Tucker to the ground to "rescue" deaf girl. Tucker says "Don't tase me, bro!". I'm not kidding. Deaf girl gives abuse to the cops and tells them she was about to cum.
At this early stage it's pretty obvious that it's not exactly Citizen Kane.
The next day Tucker meets up with his friends. He tells them about deaf girl and they mention he's already had a mute girl earlier in the year. Now all he needs is a blind girl as "he's 2/3 the way to a Helen Keller". We then get dialogue and scenes which explain what each of them is about. Aaron has just broken up with a long-term girlfriend after walking in on her sucking off local white rapper, "Grillionaire". He is now bitter and disillusioned with all females. Jeff is due to marry his long-term sweet heart in a few days time. Tucker decides that the 3 of them should go to the infamous Baby Dolls strip club. It's infamous because there's a midget stripper there, although Tucker doesn't let on to the other 2 that this is why they're going.
They lie to Jeff's fiancé and off they go. They get drunk and eat McGriddles, and get drunk some more. Tucker makes fun of people who seem to exist purely to suffer an insult and then fade into the background. They go to the strip club, Aaron pisses off every stripper that comes up to them. Jeff gets drunk some more. Tucker pays a sassy stripper $200 to take Aaron home with her. Jeff gets too drunk and hits a stripper in the face by accident, he gets thrown out of the club and ends up in jail after abusing a cop. Tucker hooks up with a married woman who can't resist his charm. Tucker experiences diarrhoea in a hotel lobby. Tucker *beep* a midget called Rainbow Brite. Aaron's heart of bitterness is cracked by playing GI Joe with the son of the sassy stripper. He then has sex with sassy stripper.
The fallout from Jeff's drunk tank jailtime is that Tucker is uninvited from the wedding. Inevitably he decides to show up at the reception anyways, he grabs the mic from the best man and makes a rambling speech talking about how he had sex with a midget and had diarrhoea. Amazingly everyone loves it, *slow clap*, he earns the respect of the newlyweds and the bride's Baptist family. He then unveils a bouncy castle for the kids to play on.
Everyone begins to enjoy themselves and Tucker leans back with his friends as they notice a blind woman being led by a guide dog across the room. Tucker goes after her, his friends roll their eyes like "Oh Tucker!". The End.
He pretends that his appearence on Opie and Anthony doesn't exist. When the first legit reporter does a few simple google searches on Tucker they will find his website and a few planted articles and interviews. Then I'm sure they will see a pattern emerge as they discover that 99.9% of the population think Tucker is a jerk. Not sure how Tucker and his two friends will do damage control over the entire internet. Good luck guys.
Here is what the average Tucker fan writes on his forums hoping that they get a response:
'Tucker, I am so glad you are doing this movie blog. I can't wait to see the film. I am really proud of you and Nils for being so upfront with all of us. My question to you is this, and I hope I don't piss you off because that is not my intention because I think you guys rock, but is the movie you see now different from the movie you saw in your head last year? Don't answer this if you already answered because I might be a jerk for not doing research. Othwerwise I can't wait for the film!' Off to rape my sister!'
'Tucker I love your book! Me and my friends almost got Tucker Max drunk last week before we went out to beat up some gays. I bet your movie will make a billion dollars. I hope I don't upset you with my next question but I really want to know if you think that this movie experience is better than you thought it would be. Will you market the film? Will there be multiple copies of the film or just one shipped theater to theater? Hope I didn't cross the line, I'm just curious to see what you think. Off to help my friend rape his sister!
Tucker I have a few questions about the movie, if you don't mind. If you do mind I am sorry. My bad. Will the movie be in color or black and white? I think color would rock. I read your book like each week and I piss my pants each time. Next time I read it I will wear a diaper or at least line my chair with newspaper. I can't wait to see this movie. I hate fags and blacks. I have to go now because my friend is helping his friend rape his sister and I need to film it!
Light, you have to do a post about how Tucker kept saying his beerinhell blog would not be about self-glorification, but rather to show how a movie is made. I feel that the last 4-5 posts have been nothing about how he feels his movie will be the best ever made. Then he includes select stories and rantings from his best friends to back him up. I can't wait to see who he 'chooses' to distribute this film and if it even comes out in the theaters at all.
I feel that the last 4-5 posts have been *completely* about how he feels his movie will be the best ever made. Then he includes select stories and rantings from his best friends to back him up. I can't wait to see who he 'chooses' to distribute this film and if it even comes out in the theaters at all.
So dude, I was wasted, right? I had like 18 beers, 7 gallons of top-shelf gin administered intraveinously, some Mexican jumping beans, a smear of peyote, six-and-a-half flagons of table wine, and three roofies I mistook for percocet. Oh well, it’s still cool, right? I went out with my two insane buddies from the military, both of whom are jacked and think I’m hilarious. We all looked good — despite the sizable arsenal of alcohol and narcotics coursing through my bloodstream, my hair looked great and I had no puke on my pinstripe shirt. Rad!
So we go to this party, and it’s lame. Everyone there is infinitely lamer than we are. I called some chick fat using eleven-letter words, and everyone around me laughed and told me how funny I was. I wish I’d recorded the words coming out of my mouth, because by now I’d have a Pulitzer or at the very least, a Peabody. [I know they don't give Peabodys to writers, but I bet they'd make an exception for me. Maybe even the Nobel Prize dudes would give me a call too. I'm that awesomely excellent. AND I have good hair. I swear this is all true.]
Yeah, and there was a guy there trying to score girls. I called him a jerk because he was drinking a lite beer, and again, the entire room collapsed into laugher and adulation directed towards me and my excellence. My buddies from the military laughed so hard, one of them ejected his central nervous system through his mouth. It was gnarly. He then picked it up, put it back in the appropriate place and continued to shotgun imported beers in the bottle. That’s how badass we were: we’d pioneered a way to shotgun a beer in a glass bottle. Fucking awesome!
So by this point, we’ve been drinking at this party for three straight days, as the sunrises and sunsets have blurred into one ambiguous continuum. I was wasted based on another absurd amount of intoxicants I’d shoveled into my Hollywood-bound visage, and yet, I was still cool enough to look good doing it. Every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to mate with myself but, ignoring the obvious narcisstic danger of such notions, I abandoned those desires and instead turned my sharp attention to the quality of girls in the room. There were some really ugly ones, and I told them so, inciting laughter and praise wherever I stumbled. True story.
Then, I happened upon his impossibly-attractive woman. She was the mother of my best friend’s mailman’s uncle, and when I was a kid, I thought she was a MILF. Did I also mention I originally coined the phrase “MILF”? I am fucking awesome.
She was upset about something I considered meaningless, like her husband dying or something, and I figured she might need to be consoled in some fashion. I decided the best option was to get her a well-crafted cocktail like a Whisky Sour or a Tom Collins, and then escort her to a well-furnished, dimly-lit bedroom in the upper reaches of the house where we could talk and I could learn of her troubles, all the while administering heartfelt, appropriate words of encouragement and perspective that could ease her woes.
After a while, my speech and soothing vocal patterns made her feel better, and she instantly found me to be extremely sexy. I gave her a look, and we retired to the cool tile of the bathroom where I sexually pleasured her for close to a year. Seriously. I gave her gratification in every possible way, to the point where our souls intertwined and ascended to the heavens in orgasmic bliss, like that scene from some movie I loved as a teenager.
Of course, I wasn’t in love with her because of the impossibility of me being emotionally close to anyone but myself and my awesomeness, so after a while, I faked my sixth orgasm [the previous five were of epic proportions, of course], maneuvered out of the bathroom and put my clothes back on. My military buddies came in, and took turns railing her while Emerson, Lake and Palmer played on the stereo and the sun came up over the horizon.
I went to a strip club, where I delivered more psyche-crushing barbs to a whole host of strippers, waitresses and patrons. Several lipstick-heavy whores offered to give me a free lap dance because one time last summer I’d helped them fix the air conditioning that keeps their nipples hard. I had to laugh at the absurdity of this situation. I shit you not. It was crazy. I eventually had a daisychain going with two girls named Maxine and Cherry. It was awesome.
By this point, I was wasted. Several more days had passed in the cool, slightly damp air of the strip club, and I was sobering up fast. According to the position of the sun in the sky, I guessed it was now mid-afternoon, and so I headed for the exit. On the way home, I ingested a cheeseburger, stole a police car which I then used to demolish a pizzeria [which is a crazy story for another time, totally], drank a few more beers and lost consciousness. I woke up in my own bed, with all of my personal possessions intact, no consequences and no lasting physical or emotional repercussions.
I later found out my military buddies went to Mexico and started a civil war before breakfast, which they told me about when they came home and made us all pancakes.
“Just an average Connor X Tuesday night,” I thought as I double-dogged two broads from behind. Whoa. Hold on. Back up a minute. Rewind. Let’s start at the beginning.
I was chilling with my boys, watching “the game” and doing tequila shooters. No big whoop. Like I said, average Tuesday night. I was maybe thirty shots deep when my boy Shawn suggested we go down to the trendy new nightspot where all the vapid cunts and collar-popping asshats got together to try to bump uglies. So we all piled into the patented Connor-mobile (heh, of course I’m not drunk driving, officer…) and went to the spot.
Now bear in mind, I’ve got like seventy shots in my gut at this point, so I’m a little sloppy. But hey, I’m Connor X. The night’s just getting started.
We roll into the club and I just see this vast expanse of vapid cunts. One vapid cunt steps up to me and barks, “you’re kinda cute.” I look at my boys and just know. Countdown to destruction in five…four…three…two…I smirk and reply, “Yeah, I know. Now who ordered a doggie bag? ‘Cause we’ve got a genuine d-o-g on our hands!” Her lip quivered and then she pulled out a gun and shot her face off. Roasted. Toasted. And burnt to a crisp. I high-fived my boy Steve-o and walked to the bar.
I started pounding beer shots. I had probably eighty mugs of beer before the barkeep said, “Whoa, fella, I think you’ve had enough.” With a wide grin spreading across my beer-encrusted face, I told him, “Enough’s enough, ‘fella’.” He toppled backwards into the shelves of beer and booze and his head fell off. Score one for the Con-man.
I slammed about twenty more beerskis and…whoa. Let’s just say I was starting to feel it. “Let the games begin,” I told my boy Jakester.
I scoped out the room. “Jokers to the left of me; jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with me, myself, and I,” I thought. I scoped out one broad and the veins in her rack were busting out of their seams. I sidled up to her. “Hey, I think there’s something wrong with my receipt.”
“Hm?” she asked inquisitively.
“Yeah,” I yeahed. “It doesn’t have your number on it.”
She laughed like a hyena and then laughed some more. I took this opportunity to pound a booze shot. I had her eating out of my hands, literally!
Just then a popped-collar assbasket walked up from literally out of nowhere. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asked the broad douchely.
“Not as much as your breath is bothering me, twathandle,” I deftly proclaimed. “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, say hello to the dog-faced boy. I don’t know whether to shake your hand or give you a pat on the muzzle.”
I knew I had another burn in me before I closed the casket on this one. I tore off his popped collar and threw it across the mighty Potomac , deftly proclaiming, “Fetch, Lassie.” He aged two hundred years right before my eyes before promptly decomposing, like that dude in the end of Last Crusade. I flashed my infamous “pwned” grin and with a twinkle in my eyes, turned on “the game.”
I told the broad my infamous “dirty knees” story and before long, she was literally eating out of my hands. “I think you should meet my friend,” she flirted in my direction.
“Game on,” I volleyed back.
Flash forward to two hours later and I’m sack-deep in some premium poon tang. The two broads are doing orgasms left and right. We’re getting it on so hard. Racks are bouncing everywhere. Clits stand at attention and then nut girl stuff all over the place. You name it, these broads and I did it. 69. Doggie style. Karma sutra. Just low-down, nasty sex stuff. If I told you, you wouldn’t even believe me. Let’s just say, do the words donkey punch ring a bell? We made sex for like three days (Viagra? Yeah, right! Meet Connor-agra!) and I was just nailing these broads. Racks, boobs…you name it, I nailed it. It reminded me of the time I got a blowjob while skydiving off the Eiffel Tower . But that’s a story for another day…
Then it hit me. These weren’t just broads; they were vapid cunts. I hastily busted my nut and shuffled them out the door. “Call me?” they said in unison. “In your dreams,” I shouted back, slamming the door in their vapid faces.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It was my boy Chas. “We’re hitting the new hotspot nightplace; you wanna come with?” Without hesitation, I duded in the affirmative. We rolled out. Oh yeah, I was also totally drunk, having done lots of beer while slamming the sleazes. But not too drunk, because I have a very high tolerance (what can I say? When you “get your drink on” as much as Connor X, you’re bound to build up a tolerance). We rolled up to the hotplace nightspot. It looked new and shiny in the crisp autumn air.
I took my pants off and we went inside. The bouncer stopped me. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” he meekly asked. “It’s the no-pants zone and I am the zonester,” I hurled back as I strolled in with nary a care in the world. He fell backwards in his bouncer chair and cracked his skull on the baseboard. Brain matter and spinal fluid leaked out in a gross way. I didn’t give a crap.
I scoped out the broad situation. Affirmatory. Broad at 10 o’clock . I sauntered up. “I’m Connor X. Spank you very much.” She melted like butter in my hands and was also literally eating out of them. After I shot the shit with her for a while, I said, “my place or yours?” She vapidly suggested mine and we got a cab and headed back to Connor X H.Q. for a night of romance. Or so I thought. On the cab ride over, the broad began:
“I know who you are. You’re that website guy who writes purportedly true, most assuredly emotionally stunted stories about your alleged sexual misadventures. You grossly exaggerate or entirely make up stories about yourself because you so desperately seek the fraternal approval that has been missing from your life ever since you graduated college and all your friends grew up, and you know that the internet is a vast wasteland of insecure, socially inept young men who have let years of timidness and rejection fester into a palpable misogyny that your tall tales can validate, and they will worship you accordingly.
“I have no doubt that you are the ‘asshole’ you claim to be, but not in the way you claim; your stories are a study in embellishment and l’esprit d’escalier. You go out with your friends and maybe call a woman fat behind her back, but then you go home and write down everything you wish you’d been clever enough to say. Even if I’m supposed to believe you consistently have the presence of mind to cut all your adversaries to the quick with your witty barbs, if you truly drink as much as you claim, there’s no way you’d remember all your little quips.
“And anyway, even if every one of your stories is true to the word, they just show a startling hatred towards women and an utter disregard for others. You write these stories about your borderline sociopathic tendencies, demonstrating an utter inability to relate to others on a basic human level, and you’re lauded for it by thousands of internet users with a similar lack of empathy. It’s as though you’re autistic, except your inability to understand others as human beings with wants and needs just like yourself extends to a kind of malice that would never occur to someone with autism.
“You’re a sick joke. A little boy. But what’s scary is that your hostility and outright lack of any sense of connection with your fellow human beings, whether truly actualized in your supposedly factual stories or not, is something that a large sector of internet males who are similarly alienated from the rest of humanity admire and seek to emulate. You are a cancer and the world would be better off without you.”
Though Alexa isn't accurate, it does give you an idea of how a website is performing. Tucker recently dropped out of the top 100,000 websites ranking. He hasn't had this few website hits since late in his first year online.
Tucker is like a third-rate professional wrestler, struggling because his gimmick has worn thin on the audience. I wonder if the geniuses at Darko have noticed. Perhaps they need an email of the recent rankings.
What do they mean when they say AT&T Mobility shackles? Are you saying an iphone that has been unlocked can make phone calls fo free? Been watching too much TV I guess are they untraceable? [url=http://unlockiphone22.com]unlock iphone[/url]
check this link, SGUqJyVX [URL=http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/]uggs outlet online[/URL] for gift NIoFCLoS [URL=http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/ ] http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/ [/URL]
42 comments:
Light, you're the man. You need to post more stuff. Let me know if you need another writer or something. I'm the fake Tucker fan from the other site, as well as the guy who wrote part 7 of the interview transcript (I don't know who wrote the first six parts - I just got tired of waiting, so I wrote my own).
an article that exonerates tucker max, which may never get publish, is proof enough for me that tucker max isn't full of bullshit
16 pages of questions. And he answered maybe 5 of them. And by answer, I mean:
1) ignore most of the question, post something that kind of looks like an answer but isn't.
2) claim that he answered it years ago and therefore you're an idiot
3) promise to answer it sometime in the future. (at which point you'll be an idiot)
I don't think I saw one straightforward, direct answer.
It's kind of cute how most people are scared shitless they can't call bullshit on him but "my buddy doesn't believe you" or "I once read a website that called you a liar."
Light is awesome. eh doesn't post enough, but eh doesn't afraid of anything.
knowing there are people like Light out there fighting for truth and justice gives me strength enough to don't afraid of anything my own self.
fags
Anybody notice that the thread is no longer a sticky and he hasn't actually answered the questions?
Light - we need you to pick up where tuckermaxdoucebag left off. It looks like the comments section can't handle any more than 5,000.
Light, you need to fully take over the duties of
tuckermaxdoucebag.blogspot.com
The comments on the last post are over 5000, and appear to be broken.
You are now the epicenter of showing the world that Tucker Max is a liar and a doucebag.
A heavy burden of responsibility has been placed on your shoulders, the burden of letting Tucker be himself, and showing that he is in fact quite the doucebag in both word and deed.
Oh, and if you could figure out how to contact Blogger support with the error code from Cockly's blog, that would be great. I posted a message with the error code in the Blogger help group on Google groups, but so far, that hasn't been of any use.
Keep up the good work!
Oh man - I'm so not ready for this power. I'm gona have to get my act together and start posting again.
Tucker! - start doing interesting shit again!
I've got the faith. I just hope that everyone over there knows to come here. Although, chances are that the faithful who believe Otto is a lying d-bag already know and visit this site. Maybe this 5,000 cap is a blessing in disguise in that it keeps away the idiots who came to clog up the comments.
By the way - how many "positive screening" posts can he put up before even that gets old. Eventually it'd be nice to see an objective, third-party, non Tucker Max affiliated website say something positive about his movie. So far the only real coverage has been from a script reader, and Gawker, both of whom slammed IHTSBIH
Come on, Light! Tucker has said interesting shit lately. Today's blog post on his movie site is probably the most egotistical, boastful, and self-congratulatory collection of words I've ever seen a human being write. I think the best part of the post is the irony when he says he has stopped talking about things that have happened to his movie that don't happen to "normal" movies because it would sound like boasting.
I never thought it was possible to literally suck your own dick, but I wouldn't wager against Tucker being able to do it.
Also, did you see this thread? Tucker claims he wrote a rap song, and then says Nils actually wrote most of it. Additionally, he implies that he is a rapper. Plus he completely loses his shit when a guy claims writing a rap song isn't easy. It's a fine addition to the legacy of Tucker Max douchebaggery.
Normally I'd remain a loyal fan of Tucker's, but his revelation of his creating a rap song for his album, then DEFENDING his skills as a rapper (while simutaneously creating a fake account to discredit the kid who was calling him out) is the end of the line for me. This whole thing stunk of a bad vanity project from day one, this is just the culmination of it all.
I've been bamboozled for too long.
From the other site....
There are numerous reasons why bit players slip through the cracks--they read well but choke on set, we cast them off tape and they are different in person, the director doesn't understand the right way the line/scene needs to be read, or--this happens more than you'd think--the bit player is a fucking idiot who just can't do anything right. Which would explain much of the reason why they can't get better parts. Plus, we were casting in Shreveport, there is not much of a talent pool there. Sometimes we have to take what we can get."
No, the real reason is because you filled the movie MMA fighters, washed up porn stars, your drinking buddies, ex girlfriends, yourself, internet celebrities, etc. Ok, so that probably qualifies as "cast off tape" or "fucking idiot", but it was 100% your decision.
You chose to film in Louisiana. Other people have filmed there. Are they preemptively blaming Louisiana locals for their films' failures?
light, it's time to step up. i'm one of the former doucebag contributors who needs a new outlet to call tucker a doucebag on
That old blog has many gems taht need to be repeated here.
Does this kid Greg have the balls of a twelve year old? From his post:
"At the dive bar, a couple of my friends and I ventured down to have a drink with Sean, Nils, Jen, Jeff and Tucker (Tucker being the main attraction on their end anyway). We all sat at the bar while Tucker held court at a table, talking about the film. An especially adventurous one of my friends (read:drunk) bought a round of shots for their table, in the hopes of being able to get them to come over and talk with us.
Didn't work. They nodded, said thanks and went right back to work. Heads down, talking shop."
Hopes that they will talk to them?
Did I miss something? Was he talking about Martin Scorsese and Jack Nicholson discussing a crucial scene in The Departed, or was he talking about a group of unknown pussies who are making a low-budget paint by numbers comedy?
How anyone on the planet could be intimidated by Tucker Max in any way shape or form is very hard to comprehend.
Pussies.
----
Here is what Tucker Max and his group of clueless misfit followers fail to realize.
They are the bad guys.
Imagine watching the Karate Kid movie and instead of Daniel kicking Johnny Lawrence's ass in the final match, in Tucker's world the Kobra Kai assholes would win. They would cheat their way to victory with no redeeming qualities. At the end of the movie they would remain unlikable assholes. No one is rooting for them at all. Ever.
Well, that's basically what Tucker and his small group of asshole friends are. They are the Kobra Kai dojo. Only they can't see it for themselves. They swept one too many legs. The can read the Art of War everyday of their lives and they still won't win.
I hope their egos are not as fragile as they appear because I think a world of disappointment is coming their way.
"Gettum a body bag!" -- Indeed.
Thanks for providing a landing pad, Light.
I used to visit the Tucker Max Douchebag blog quite a big, and even helped debunk a few of Tucker's bullshit stories. We collectively need this outlet for laughs, as Tucker concludes his short-lived internet fame with a real-life version of Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star.
Hooray for Light!
WCIAM, TAT, blah blah. Well actually I wouldn't mind losing those parts with douceblog.
Notice in the Dec 22 post he mentions as a reason why prediction is impossible "the economy". Betcha he ends up pontificating lots more about that and it will end up being entirely reponsible for ruining his perfect moviemaking adventure.
The 3 main characters are:
Tucker - fratty douchebag protagonist
Aaron - anti-social bitter friend (based on SlingBlade from the book)
Jeff - lug-headed groom to be
(note: Aaron's name has been changed to Drew for the film)
The story starts off with Tucker having sex with a deaf girl whose mid-coitus screams are interpretated by neighbours as a rape in progress. Cops are called and, hearing the screams, break in and manhandle Tucker to the ground to "rescue" deaf girl. Tucker says "Don't tase me, bro!". I'm not kidding. Deaf girl gives abuse to the cops and tells them she was about to cum.
At this early stage it's pretty obvious that it's not exactly Citizen Kane.
The next day Tucker meets up with his friends. He tells them about deaf girl and they mention he's already had a mute girl earlier in the year. Now all he needs is a blind girl as "he's 2/3 the way to a Helen Keller". We then get dialogue and scenes which explain what each of them is about. Aaron has just broken up with a long-term girlfriend after walking in on her sucking off local white rapper, "Grillionaire". He is now bitter and disillusioned with all females. Jeff is due to marry his long-term sweet heart in a few days time.
Tucker decides that the 3 of them should go to the infamous Baby Dolls strip club. It's infamous because there's a midget stripper there, although Tucker doesn't let on to the other 2 that this is why they're going.
They lie to Jeff's fiancé and off they go. They get drunk and eat McGriddles, and get drunk some more. Tucker makes fun of people who seem to exist purely to suffer an insult and then fade into the background. They go to the strip club, Aaron pisses off every stripper that comes up to them. Jeff gets drunk some more. Tucker pays a sassy stripper $200 to take Aaron home with her. Jeff gets too drunk and hits a stripper in the face by accident, he gets thrown out of the club and ends up in jail after abusing a cop. Tucker hooks up with a married woman who can't resist his charm. Tucker experiences diarrhoea in a hotel lobby. Tucker *beep* a midget called Rainbow Brite. Aaron's heart of bitterness is cracked by playing GI Joe with the son of the sassy stripper. He then has sex with sassy stripper.
The fallout from Jeff's drunk tank jailtime is that Tucker is uninvited from the wedding. Inevitably he decides to show up at the reception anyways, he grabs the mic from the best man and makes a rambling speech talking about how he had sex with a midget and had diarrhoea. Amazingly everyone loves it, *slow clap*, he earns the respect of the newlyweds and the bride's Baptist family. He then unveils a bouncy castle for the kids to play on.
Everyone begins to enjoy themselves and Tucker leans back with his friends as they notice a blind woman being led by a guide dog across the room. Tucker goes after her, his friends roll their eyes like "Oh Tucker!". The End.
^ Yep-yep. It's going to be shittacular.
His staff spends hours each day editing his wiki page. How lame.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Tucker_Max/Archive_3
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Tucker_Max/Archive_3
He pretends that his appearence on Opie and Anthony doesn't exist. When the first legit reporter does a few simple google searches on Tucker they will find his website and a few planted articles and interviews. Then I'm sure they will see a pattern emerge as they discover that 99.9% of the population think Tucker is a jerk. Not sure how Tucker and his two friends will do damage control over the entire internet. Good luck guys.
Tucker Max Book of the Month Club for December:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081228/ap_on_en_ot/books_holocaust_memoir
is anyone else unable to access the 'newest' comment on doucebag?
i doesn't afraid of anything, but this is kinda freaky.
Everybody is having problems. blogger can't handle that much douche.
Here is what the average Tucker fan writes on his forums hoping that they get a response:
'Tucker, I am so glad you are doing this movie blog. I can't wait to see the film. I am really proud of you and Nils for being so upfront with all of us. My question to you is this, and I hope I don't piss you off because that is not my intention because I think you guys rock, but is the movie you see now different from the movie you saw in your head last year? Don't answer this if you already answered because I might be a jerk for not doing research. Othwerwise I can't wait for the film!' Off to rape my sister!'
'Tucker I love your book! Me and my friends almost got Tucker Max drunk last week before we went out to beat up some gays. I bet your movie will make a billion dollars. I hope I don't upset you with my next question but I really want to know if you think that this movie experience is better than you thought it would be. Will you market the film? Will there be multiple copies of the film or just one shipped theater to theater? Hope I didn't cross the line, I'm just curious to see what you think. Off to help my friend rape his sister!
Tucker I have a few questions about the movie, if you don't mind. If you do mind I am sorry. My bad. Will the movie be in color or black and white? I think color would rock. I read your book like each week and I piss my pants each time. Next time I read it I will wear a diaper or at least line my chair with newspaper. I can't wait to see this movie. I hate fags and blacks. I have to go now because my friend is helping his friend rape his sister and I need to film it!
Bong hits for douchebags.
Light, you have to do a post about how Tucker kept saying his beerinhell blog would not be about self-glorification, but rather to show how a movie is made. I feel that the last 4-5 posts have been nothing about how he feels his movie will be the best ever made. Then he includes select stories and rantings from his best friends to back him up. I can't wait to see who he 'chooses' to distribute this film and if it even comes out in the theaters at all.
I smell Straight2DVD.
Crap - didn't proofread:
I feel that the last 4-5 posts have been *completely* about how he feels his movie will be the best ever made. Then he includes select stories and rantings from his best friends to back him up. I can't wait to see who he 'chooses' to distribute this film and if it even comes out in the theaters at all.
http://deadon.wordpress.com/2007/05/16/the-fake-tucker-max-writes-too/
EXCLUSIVE: Tucker Max writes for DeadOn
So dude, I was wasted, right? I had like 18 beers, 7 gallons of top-shelf gin administered intraveinously, some Mexican jumping beans, a smear of peyote, six-and-a-half flagons of table wine, and three roofies I mistook for percocet. Oh well, it’s still cool, right? I went out with my two insane buddies from the military, both of whom are jacked and think I’m hilarious. We all looked good — despite the sizable arsenal of alcohol and narcotics coursing through my bloodstream, my hair looked great and I had no puke on my pinstripe shirt. Rad!
So we go to this party, and it’s lame. Everyone there is infinitely lamer than we are. I called some chick fat using eleven-letter words, and everyone around me laughed and told me how funny I was. I wish I’d recorded the words coming out of my mouth, because by now I’d have a Pulitzer or at the very least, a Peabody. [I know they don't give Peabodys to writers, but I bet they'd make an exception for me. Maybe even the Nobel Prize dudes would give me a call too. I'm that awesomely excellent. AND I have good hair. I swear this is all true.]
Yeah, and there was a guy there trying to score girls. I called him a jerk because he was drinking a lite beer, and again, the entire room collapsed into laugher and adulation directed towards me and my excellence. My buddies from the military laughed so hard, one of them ejected his central nervous system through his mouth. It was gnarly. He then picked it up, put it back in the appropriate place and continued to shotgun imported beers in the bottle. That’s how badass we were: we’d pioneered a way to shotgun a beer in a glass bottle. Fucking awesome!
So by this point, we’ve been drinking at this party for three straight days, as the sunrises and sunsets have blurred into one ambiguous continuum. I was wasted based on another absurd amount of intoxicants I’d shoveled into my Hollywood-bound visage, and yet, I was still cool enough to look good doing it. Every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to mate with myself but, ignoring the obvious narcisstic danger of such notions, I abandoned those desires and instead turned my sharp attention to the quality of girls in the room. There were some really ugly ones, and I told them so, inciting laughter and praise wherever I stumbled. True story.
Then, I happened upon his impossibly-attractive woman. She was the mother of my best friend’s mailman’s uncle, and when I was a kid, I thought she was a MILF. Did I also mention I originally coined the phrase “MILF”? I am fucking awesome.
She was upset about something I considered meaningless, like her husband dying or something, and I figured she might need to be consoled in some fashion. I decided the best option was to get her a well-crafted cocktail like a Whisky Sour or a Tom Collins, and then escort her to a well-furnished, dimly-lit bedroom in the upper reaches of the house where we could talk and I could learn of her troubles, all the while administering heartfelt, appropriate words of encouragement and perspective that could ease her woes.
After a while, my speech and soothing vocal patterns made her feel better, and she instantly found me to be extremely sexy. I gave her a look, and we retired to the cool tile of the bathroom where I sexually pleasured her for close to a year. Seriously. I gave her gratification in every possible way, to the point where our souls intertwined and ascended to the heavens in orgasmic bliss, like that scene from some movie I loved as a teenager.
Of course, I wasn’t in love with her because of the impossibility of me being emotionally close to anyone but myself and my awesomeness, so after a while, I faked my sixth orgasm [the previous five were of epic proportions, of course], maneuvered out of the bathroom and put my clothes back on. My military buddies came in, and took turns railing her while Emerson, Lake and Palmer played on the stereo and the sun came up over the horizon.
I went to a strip club, where I delivered more psyche-crushing barbs to a whole host of strippers, waitresses and patrons. Several lipstick-heavy whores offered to give me a free lap dance because one time last summer I’d helped them fix the air conditioning that keeps their nipples hard. I had to laugh at the absurdity of this situation. I shit you not. It was crazy. I eventually had a daisychain going with two girls named Maxine and Cherry. It was awesome.
By this point, I was wasted. Several more days had passed in the cool, slightly damp air of the strip club, and I was sobering up fast. According to the position of the sun in the sky, I guessed it was now mid-afternoon, and so I headed for the exit. On the way home, I ingested a cheeseburger, stole a police car which I then used to demolish a pizzeria [which is a crazy story for another time, totally], drank a few more beers and lost consciousness. I woke up in my own bed, with all of my personal possessions intact, no consequences and no lasting physical or emotional repercussions.
I later found out my military buddies went to Mexico and started a civil war before breakfast, which they told me about when they came home and made us all pancakes.
Awesome!
http://progressiveboink.com/archive/connor.htm
“Just an average Connor X Tuesday night,” I thought as I double-dogged two broads from behind. Whoa. Hold on. Back up a minute. Rewind. Let’s start at the beginning.
I was chilling with my boys, watching “the game” and doing tequila shooters. No big whoop. Like I said, average Tuesday night. I was maybe thirty shots deep when my boy Shawn suggested we go down to the trendy new nightspot where all the vapid cunts and collar-popping asshats got together to try to bump uglies. So we all piled into the patented Connor-mobile (heh, of course I’m not drunk driving, officer…) and went to the spot.
Now bear in mind, I’ve got like seventy shots in my gut at this point, so I’m a little sloppy. But hey, I’m Connor X. The night’s just getting started.
We roll into the club and I just see this vast expanse of vapid cunts. One vapid cunt steps up to me and barks, “you’re kinda cute.” I look at my boys and just know. Countdown to destruction in five…four…three…two…I smirk and reply, “Yeah, I know. Now who ordered a doggie bag? ‘Cause we’ve got a genuine d-o-g on our hands!” Her lip quivered and then she pulled out a gun and shot her face off. Roasted. Toasted. And burnt to a crisp. I high-fived my boy Steve-o and walked to the bar.
I started pounding beer shots. I had probably eighty mugs of beer before the barkeep said, “Whoa, fella, I think you’ve had enough.” With a wide grin spreading across my beer-encrusted face, I told him, “Enough’s enough, ‘fella’.” He toppled backwards into the shelves of beer and booze and his head fell off. Score one for the Con-man.
I slammed about twenty more beerskis and…whoa. Let’s just say I was starting to feel it. “Let the games begin,” I told my boy Jakester.
I scoped out the room. “Jokers to the left of me; jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with me, myself, and I,” I thought. I scoped out one broad and the veins in her rack were busting out of their seams. I sidled up to her. “Hey, I think there’s something wrong with my receipt.”
“Hm?” she asked inquisitively.
“Yeah,” I yeahed. “It doesn’t have your number on it.”
She laughed like a hyena and then laughed some more. I took this opportunity to pound a booze shot. I had her eating out of my hands, literally!
Just then a popped-collar assbasket walked up from literally out of nowhere. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asked the broad douchely.
“Not as much as your breath is bothering me, twathandle,” I deftly proclaimed. “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, say hello to the dog-faced boy. I don’t know whether to shake your hand or give you a pat on the muzzle.”
I knew I had another burn in me before I closed the casket on this one. I tore off his popped collar and threw it across the mighty Potomac , deftly proclaiming, “Fetch, Lassie.” He aged two hundred years right before my eyes before promptly decomposing, like that dude in the end of Last Crusade. I flashed my infamous “pwned” grin and with a twinkle in my eyes, turned on “the game.”
I told the broad my infamous “dirty knees” story and before long, she was literally eating out of my hands. “I think you should meet my friend,” she flirted in my direction.
“Game on,” I volleyed back.
Flash forward to two hours later and I’m sack-deep in some premium poon tang. The two broads are doing orgasms left and right. We’re getting it on so hard. Racks are bouncing everywhere. Clits stand at attention and then nut girl stuff all over the place. You name it, these broads and I did it. 69. Doggie style. Karma sutra. Just low-down, nasty sex stuff. If I told you, you wouldn’t even believe me. Let’s just say, do the words donkey punch ring a bell? We made sex for like three days (Viagra? Yeah, right! Meet Connor-agra!) and I was just nailing these broads. Racks, boobs…you name it, I nailed it. It reminded me of the time I got a blowjob while skydiving off the Eiffel Tower . But that’s a story for another day…
Then it hit me. These weren’t just broads; they were vapid cunts. I hastily busted my nut and shuffled them out the door. “Call me?” they said in unison. “In your dreams,” I shouted back, slamming the door in their vapid faces.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It was my boy Chas. “We’re hitting the new hotspot nightplace; you wanna come with?” Without hesitation, I duded in the affirmative. We rolled out. Oh yeah, I was also totally drunk, having done lots of beer while slamming the sleazes. But not too drunk, because I have a very high tolerance (what can I say? When you “get your drink on” as much as Connor X, you’re bound to build up a tolerance). We rolled up to the hotplace nightspot. It looked new and shiny in the crisp autumn air.
I took my pants off and we went inside. The bouncer stopped me. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” he meekly asked. “It’s the no-pants zone and I am the zonester,” I hurled back as I strolled in with nary a care in the world. He fell backwards in his bouncer chair and cracked his skull on the baseboard. Brain matter and spinal fluid leaked out in a gross way. I didn’t give a crap.
I scoped out the broad situation. Affirmatory. Broad at 10 o’clock . I sauntered up. “I’m Connor X. Spank you very much.” She melted like butter in my hands and was also literally eating out of them. After I shot the shit with her for a while, I said, “my place or yours?” She vapidly suggested mine and we got a cab and headed back to Connor X H.Q. for a night of romance. Or so I thought. On the cab ride over, the broad began:
“I know who you are. You’re that website guy who writes purportedly true, most assuredly emotionally stunted stories about your alleged sexual misadventures. You grossly exaggerate or entirely make up stories about yourself because you so desperately seek the fraternal approval that has been missing from your life ever since you graduated college and all your friends grew up, and you know that the internet is a vast wasteland of insecure, socially inept young men who have let years of timidness and rejection fester into a palpable misogyny that your tall tales can validate, and they will worship you accordingly.
“I have no doubt that you are the ‘asshole’ you claim to be, but not in the way you claim; your stories are a study in embellishment and l’esprit d’escalier. You go out with your friends and maybe call a woman fat behind her back, but then you go home and write down everything you wish you’d been clever enough to say. Even if I’m supposed to believe you consistently have the presence of mind to cut all your adversaries to the quick with your witty barbs, if you truly drink as much as you claim, there’s no way you’d remember all your little quips.
“And anyway, even if every one of your stories is true to the word, they just show a startling hatred towards women and an utter disregard for others. You write these stories about your borderline sociopathic tendencies, demonstrating an utter inability to relate to others on a basic human level, and you’re lauded for it by thousands of internet users with a similar lack of empathy. It’s as though you’re autistic, except your inability to understand others as human beings with wants and needs just like yourself extends to a kind of malice that would never occur to someone with autism.
“You’re a sick joke. A little boy. But what’s scary is that your hostility and outright lack of any sense of connection with your fellow human beings, whether truly actualized in your supposedly factual stories or not, is something that a large sector of internet males who are similarly alienated from the rest of humanity admire and seek to emulate. You are a cancer and the world would be better off without you.”
“…”
Then we bootiefucked.
The fact that Tucker is praising himself just proves how terrible this is going to be.
Look back at all of his projects.
The more he talks about how much he rocks, the worse it is.
Hey, someone's gotta stroke his ego.
he broke up with his girlfriend, he posted it on the message board.
"he broke up with his girlfriend, he posted it on the message board."
No he didn't. Just wants visits.
He needs the visits.
Though Alexa isn't accurate, it does give you an idea of how a website is performing. Tucker recently dropped out of the top 100,000 websites ranking. He hasn't had this few website hits since late in his first year online.
Tucker is like a third-rate professional wrestler, struggling because his gimmick has worn thin on the audience. I wonder if the geniuses at Darko have noticed. Perhaps they need an email of the recent rankings.
I refuse to abandon the sinking ship which is Otto! He will succeed!
What do they mean when they say AT&T Mobility shackles? Are you saying an iphone that has been unlocked can make phone calls fo free? Been watching too much TV I guess are they untraceable?
[url=http://unlockiphone22.com]unlock iphone[/url]
[url=http://www.hadigel.net/oyun/oyun.oyna.asp?id=452]süper mario indir[/url]
click wBVvqZII [URL=http://www.louis--vuitton--online--shop.org/]louis vuitton online shopping usa[/URL] for gift qlexeBLC [URL=http://www.louis--vuitton--online--shop.org/ ] http://www.louis--vuitton--online--shop.org/ [/URL]
check this link, SGUqJyVX [URL=http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/]uggs outlet online[/URL] for gift NIoFCLoS [URL=http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/ ] http://www.uggs-outlet2013.com/ [/URL]
Post a Comment