Express elevator to hell... Going down...

Yesterday I started reading Tucker Max's book "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell". Not three pages into it I was already laughing so hard that I just about wet myself. Then I sat back and began to wonder how a womanizing, drunken frat-boy wanna be lawyer player brat managed to get a book published when I'm sitting here with a pile of rejections from publishers that could easily prop up the desk in my bedroom that is missing part of its leg. Then it dawns on me how it is that Tucker Max managed to get some poor unsuspecting shnook at Citadel Press to publish the hideous drivel that pours out of his $450 Montblanc pen and eventually ends up on his website, TuckerMax.com- his daddy is loaded. While yes, most of his stories are pretty damned entertaining, most of them are so hideously offensive and ridiculous, littered with bad grammar that his obviously crap editor didn't catch, and based on the same general plot line of him and his friends trying to score with random chicks in bars, that the book might better serve as a liner for Riley's litter box. All I can say is, Jen Lancaster, you need to find Tucker Max, drag him down and bitch slap him. Then let Maisy at him. He doesn't need his balls. They're probably medical miracles, steeped in STDs anyway!