WWTMD

Tard Farmer - n. tard far-mer. An individual who serves as a warden for those who are mentally incapable or otherwise sufficiently handicapped with fundamental living tasks.

As I'm sure many of you may have already known, due to last week's postering story, I have been a longtime fan of Tucker Max and his literary works (check out the link on the right side bar). Thus I took it upon myself as a moral imperative to convince my readers, friends, and former classmates, to pick up a copy of Tucker's latest book "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" and to attend the Boston area book signing.

Sometimes, people make me sorry that I try to introduce a little culture into their otherwise mundane philistine existences.

One example of such a case would be last night's adventures which I have herein dubbed "WWTMD" (for those of the acronymically-challenged variety, "What Would Tucker Max Do?"), or "I'm sorry you had to be a Tard Farmer this morning, Kim."

My good pal Bob was in town this week, which was a special treat since he's often away on business travel for long periods of time. Naturally, Tom and I took this as an excuse to re-acquaint ourselves with Wednesday Night Dipshittery. The tradition of Wednesday Night Dipshittery came about thanks to the extremely debaucherous birthday party I had last July (see entry "Slaying Dark Elves, Part II") during which the other two [very drunk] girls attending the party and I ended up naked in a giant bathtub full of bubbles surrounded by men (photographs from the aforementioned scene have proven existent but elusive, at best). Since then, Wednesday nights have remained legendary for extreme acts of drunken debauchery, usually involving quality liquors, truck-driver vocabulary, and eventually, some form of unintentionally humorous nudity (you'll recall from earlier how much I like Benny Hill).

Bob pulls up in his gorgeous red Mustang and parks across the street from my apartment some time at around 7 pm. He has a sack of groceries with him, and informs us of his intent to cook us a French meal of steaks with bordelaise sauce. This is met by no resistance on our part - nobody argues with free T-bone steak. Furthermore, Bob is an excellent chef.
We then proceed to make introductions all around with the various vintages we have procured for the dipshittery: Tom's dates for the evening included an amazing 10 year old Madeira, a 12 pack of German beer, a bottle of Skyye, and a 4-pack of Rock Star energy drink. Upon seeing his selection of vodka and mixer, I loudly proclaim "what, you're going to make the 2 penny hooker version of Red Bull and vodka?!" The look on his face tells me he does not appreciate my heavy criticism. I always heavily criticize his choice in vodka and energy drinks, this should come as no surprise to him.
Amongst Bob's stock is a bottle of 20 year old tawny port. Not Fladgate, but it's still a 20 year old port; the merits of such a thing not being lost on one such as I, who is far too poor to afford *any* port nearly old enough to buy itself. Once again, to reiterate exactly how well his company pays him: Bob plans to cook with this 20 year old port.
Bob's steak bordelaise is amazing, needless to say. You could taste the port in the sauce. Needless to say, I feel expensive this evening.
Tom attempts to put a cap on my delusions of richesse by mixing up a glass of his 2 penny hooker juice. "Just try it baby, try a sip." I tell him it tastes like smashed assholes - a phrase he once used to describe a former housemate's cooking (we've since used it as a generic culinary insult). To those of you who might deem yourselves connoisseurs of energy drinks: you should be informed that "Rockstar" is a reference to any occupational delusions you might have when you consume said drink since it tastes like licking the last bits of crack cocaine off a prostitute's ass.
Bad drinks aside, we consume the steak meal, accompanied by a bottle of 2000 Clos du Bois (zee wahn zat is from Sonoma County... nat France). We finish the remaining port off with an amount of gusto, and proceed to the deck, where Tom builds a bum fire and we proceed to dip into the German beer and hooker drinks, and horrify my neighbors for the next several hours. As the fire dies down we retire to the living room and leave the rest of it to burn off.

This is approximately where the fun begins.

At this point in time, it is safe to say that Tom is fucked-in-twain, and Bob is not far behind. Having refused to partake in the Rough Balls and vodka mix, I am left to the role of "Tard Farmer." This is to say, I got stuck with the job of wiping the asses of two very inebriated gentlemen. More of this would come back to haunt me, as follows. But first, allow me to quickly preface this with an explanation as to how this relates to Tucker Max.

I took Tom to the Tucker Max book signing event at BU last weekend, where he promptly bought a book and had it autographed. Ever since that day, he has been reading the Tucker stories every opportunity he gets. Not only has he become more enamored of Tucker with each story, he has begun to make loud proclamations, my favorite of the assortment being "you know what? If I'd gone into law school, I'd probably be a lot like Tucker. Because, you know, I was thinking about going to law school back then."
It has been nearly a week of Tucker talk. In a way, I agree with the man in that he shares some similarities with Max - mainly he has thrown his dick into some pretty rancid holes in the throes of alcoholic rapture - but I dare say anyone worth their liver's done a bagger or two. Ask me about mine some time. In any case, as one might imagine, the Tucker emulation grows old very quickly if you plan on retreading old methods without any new material, as demonstrated by the conversation below:

Tom: "I'm Tucker Max Drunk!"
Kim: "No you aren't. At most you're kind of fucked up. You haven't insulted anyone yet."

Five minutes later,
Tom: "I'm Tucker Max Drunk! Wooo!"
Kim: "Seriously babe, you don't need to use Tucker Max as a metric for your drunk-o-meter. Morever, I can *assure* you right now that you are definitely not that drunk yet, and back it with the fact that you haven't destroyed anything in my house yet."
Tom (now stumbling around to get up): "I hafta peeeee. Kim, come help me pee, I can't pee by myself."

I can see from his display of epileptic gymnastics that I'm going to have to help him up unless I want to be witness to a follow-up display of his Cro-Magnon forehead going through my glass coffee table. This thought does not appeal to me, as the tard-proofing warranty I purchased is only good for one replacement call. I prop his ass up and lead him to the bathroom.

Tom: "Help me pee, I can't pee straight."
I understand that this is his special way of trying to live out another Tucker Max moment directly from The Pee Blame story. At this point I am sick of this bull, and I call him on it. I proceed to strip down his pants, and boxers, and aim his dick at the toilet.

Tom: "Oh my god, is for real?"
Kim: "Yes asshole. Now take a piss. Because if you don't, I know you're going to end up pissing all over the floor somewhere."
Mid-piss, Tom raises his arms and starts turning from side to side, yelling out: "I'M TUCKER MAX!!!"
He is cut off as I poke him hard in the butt and say: "Shut up and piss straight." He hates it when I do that. He probably does not remember this part. I have no desire for piss on my toilet, nor on my floor, but the bottom edge of his T-shirt was acceptable collateral damage, and in fact, acceptable repayment for my participation in his Tucker Max moment.
When he is done urinating, he runs off into the living room to aid Bob in polishing off the Madeira.

It is about 1:30 am by the time he is finished, and we all come to the horrible realization that we have to get up for work in less than 5 hours. Tom more so, given that he is the only one of us three with a job in which he can *not* roll into the office at whatever the hell time he wants. The committee arrives at the decision to put the retard to bed. As I assist him towards the bedroom, he stumbles backwards and falls flat on his ass onto my palatial bathroom floor. It is at this point that I contemplate putting him to sleep in the bathtub for the night because, as Head Tard Farmer, I reserve the right to refuse to sleep next to GI Sloppy Joe, boyfriend or not. Going against this instinct, I fear, was my biggest mistake the entire evening. In fact, the one thing I will take away from this evening is the fact that I am always right, and should never second-guess myself.

I am momentarily distracted by Bob asking permission to go out onto my deck to have a smoke. Bob, as I discovered that night, is the most apologetic drunk in the entire world. During my momentary lapse of attention, Tom manages to sneak into the bedroom and get into my bed.
I help him navigate the single comforter on top of the bed (as I understand it, a layer of cloth can be tricky) only to be interrupted by the sound of shattering glass in my kitchen.

I go to investigate, only to discover Bob standing completely silent, and completely still with his mouth hanging wide open and a cigarette hanging out of one side of his slack jaw. On my kitchen floor, I find the stem and base of a wine glass and glass McNuggets everywhere. It looks like Clos du Bois committed seppuku. Bob starts mumbling a stream of apologies while I quickly sweep every last crumb off the floor before my nosey little shit of a cat can arrange for a trip to the vet emergency room. That would increase my number of handi-tarded charges to 3.
As I clean everything up, I ask Bob to have a seat on the floor where there is no glass. I notice then that his pant legs and socks are filled with tiny glass shards, the presence of which can only be explained by envisioning Bob Riverdancing over the glass before I got into the kitchen. Bob clutches his left foot and I realize that he's got little glass bits poking out of it.
Eventually, after coaxing him out of his little apologetic ball of pain, I manage to get him to let go of his foot and apply a little Neosporin and a bacon bandaid.
Bob heads out for a smoke barefoot onto my freezing-ass deck, and returns shortly thereafter still mumbling and apologizing all the way into the living room, where he passes out facedown on the floor after declaring "no, it's not cool, man... I'm sorry, I broke a glass."
Nevermind that I bought the glass for probably less than $3.

I return to my room to find that Tom has fallen asleep in fetal position, right in the center of my bed. I crawl into bed beside him and proceed to yank and abuse the shit out of his back until he relinquishes some of the blanket to me. As with all drunkards who pass out, it was impossible to move him off to one side of the bed, despite my kicking him in the behind hard several times. In retrospect, this may have been the triggering point for my unpleasant morning surprise, but I myself was too drunk to notice anyway.
Before passing out, I test to make sure he really isn't paying attention. I pick up one of my pens from my night table and I poke him in the stinky. He normally hates this, but doesn't seem to notice this time. As a reward, before falling asleep, I carefully sign in small letters along his buttcrack "Tom - I'm awesome. Kim"

My alarm clock goes off at 5:45 am, and I shake the shit out of Tom, who is still curled in fetal position.
"Get up," I say firmly.
"Muh?" he responds as he picks his head up, "Why am I wet?"
"You were probably sweating like a motherfucker, as usual. Get up."
"No, I'm all wet."
At this moment, my Tard Farmer instincts kick in and I begin to realize what has happened. I force Tom completely out of the bed only to discover a puddle the size of Lake fucking Eyrie. This puddle is the most amazing fucking thing I have ever seen. It is at least as long as Tom's torso, spanning from his upper thighs past his face, in a perfect silhouette of a torso curled up in fetal position.
"Tom, you pissed yourself."
"No... no I didn't! It can't be piss. It doesn't smell like piss. It smells like smoked mozzarella!"
"The smoke is from when were out on the porch next to the bum fire. It's pee."
"No! Maybe I puked. Did I puke? My mouth tastes terrible."
"There's no chunks! Admit it, you pissed yourself. IT'S PEE!"
"Maybe I puked behind your bed and Blackberry's snacking on it, just like -"
"No way asshole. You're nowhere as slick. Furthermore, if you puked behind the bed, all you'd end up getting is your own clothes since you throw them everywhere because you're a fucking slob."
"Oh... yeah I guess that's true."
"You peed yourself you jackass. Get into the shower and wash off the filth."
"I peed myself! I'm Tucker Max!"
"Fucking christ. You're not and you're a failure because you failed to pass the blame on to me. I'M the one who found the pee. You're caught red fucking handed. Now go wash."
I sent Tom packing, butt-ass nekkid to the bathroom. I'm pretty sure he was still drunk at the time, since he was still giggling like a schoolgirl over his urine puddle, and furthermore probably giving Bob an unnecessary show of junk. In the meantime, I strip down the bed and start to pour water on it in order to dilute the piss. From this I discover another incredible fact: my futon is Scotch-Garded. The water is literally bouncing off every single place it hits, *except* for the pee stain, which makes me seriously wonder just how long Tom had been marinating in his own urine. I begin to sop and scrub when I am interrupted by Bob's howling.
"Augghh! What happened to my foot?! It's SWOLLEN! Owwwww!"
It appears that Bob does not remember his little tap dancing incident with the glass from last night. He hobbles into my bedroom and takes off his sock.
"I have a piece of bacon on my foot."
"Yes Bob, I put it there. And your foot is right fucked up. Are you SURE you got all the glass out of it?"
"I broke a glass?"
"Yeah. I cleaned it up and put a band aid on your foot when you stepped in it."
"Oh man, I don't remember breaking a glass. I'm sorry... that's not cool, man. I broke a glass..."
Tom returns to the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel and takes a look at the bed.
"Aww, baby you stripped it all down..."
"Clever observation dipshit. Did you see the size of this puddle?! YOU WERE SLEEPING IN IT! That's how you got so wet! Do you see how far up it goes? YOU PROBABLY PISSED IN YOUR OWN FACE!"
"I did not... that's not pee. I swear, it doesn't smell like pee! I think it's puke."
"No, puke has a very distinct odor," interrupts Bob. "I think you wet the bed. Oh god... you wet the bed."
"I'm still not convinced..."
"Yes, Tom" I add, "denial is the first step to admitting you FUCKED SOMETHING UP."

Sometimes, people really should know when they've lost, and stop making up hairy-cocked theories about how mysterious liquid ended up in the bed. Tom asked me if he'd brought a glass of wine to bed. THE STAIN WAS FUCKING YELLOW.

To his credit, the piss puddle did not smell of piss at all. In fact, much to my dismay and amazement, the piss puddle smelled exactly like 20 year old port. With a hearty dose of Madeira. I shit you not, Tom drank so much fortified wine that night that he was literally pissing a tawny. It is times like these where I thank god that we are wine snobs, otherwise my bed might have ended up smelling like Carlo Rossi, or worse. The fact that Tom pissed an exact mirror of his earlier libations, only yellow, impresses me so much that I have considered renting him out to parties in the future.

You can see for yourself how impressively large this lake of urine is. For size reference, I have included my cat, Blackberry, in the picture. She explored the puddle with an unhealthy fascination, probably due to the unique odor it lent to my futon. "It's port... only urine!" For those of you are familiar with her, this puddle measured two Blackberrys long and one Blackberry wide.

After soaking up some more of the Texas-sized piss lake, I drop Tom off at the T stop a little over a half hour late for work. I think he was still drunk when I dropped him off, and I hope to god he didn't fall off a ladder and die while working in the ceiling today.
Before leaving the house, Tom leans over to Bob and says proudly, "hey Bob, I pissed the bed and she didn't yell at me, and she didn't throw me out. She's a keeper!"

I doubt he's going to feel the same way once he realizes this is the way I've paid him back for his gallon payload of nitrogenous waste on my futon. So much for being first on the draw. Who's Tucker Max now?

In conclusion, I don't know what Tucker Max would do, but as for me, I'm clearly going to document this incident in all its unnecessary excruciating detail and post it in the public eye for all to enjoy.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

P.S. Before Bob left the house this morning, he looked me straight in the eye and in the most apologetic voice imaginable, said "Kim, I'm sorry you had to be a Tard Farmer this morning."