His name is Tucker Max. And, he has one winning characteristic: he's funny. You read his stuff and you can't help laughing, even though you know you shouldn't.
Fast forward to 2009, and we find that he's inspired an entire generation of insipid, soulless clones with the ethics of pond scum, the writing skills of a kindergartener, and the classiness of Bourbon Street at 2 a.m.
Slopmaster has been writing about his ridiculously awesome life for years and years. I'm somewhat ridiculous and usually try to get as close to the line of appropriateness as possible. I'm now an expat in Africa and recently lost my virginity while here, which seems ridiculous but not that ridiculous. Anyway, I'm having lots of sex now to make up for lost time. I don't tell the girls I have sex with about my blog so I write all the bloody details.
Take one nerdy virgin with zero moral scruples or good judgement, locate him on a third world continent where he is making roughly 10,000 times the average per capita income and has no qualms about sexually harassing the hired help, and you get Slopmaster.
I am in the terrible position of reviewing a person I wish would die horribly in a fire. In fact, I would only want to read this blog if it reported on the author's death, and even then, it would only interest me for about 4.6 seconds.
Don't you wish you were me?
I bet you do, because then, you'd have the chance to tell this person, in front of an audience of hundreds, that he can fuck off and die. Hopefully, an ignominous, heinous, painful death.
At the minimum, Sloppy, you alcohol-besotted pendejo, my wish for you is that you experience enough soul-scorching pain that you're forced to grow the fuck up and and learn to act like a man. If this requires you losing your dick and balls in a bus accident, so much the better.
Here's your prize:
Thanks for playing.