For all the bad Tucker Max has done -- he wrote the bestselling book on it, really -- the man knows how to keep a tidy yard.
Yesterday, I visited the author, producer and co-screenwriter of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell." His book and forthcoming movie -- the latter shoots in The Shreve through early September -- recount his exploits in drinking, womanizing and sex, plus the surprisingly crass intersections of the three.
After lunch at the movie's base camp, we headed over to his rental house so he could let out his dog named Murph and play fetch. (Oh, the tales that mutt could tell.)
Murph fertilizes like a pro -- pure filth, I tell you -- but Tucker, being the good neighbor, diligently scooped every monstrous dropping from that verdant summer lawn.
"Wait a minute," I doubted. "Tucker scoops the poop?"
Since I had just finished reading his recklessly funny instruction guide to hedonism, I was confused. Tucker's a scooper? The man who begins his book by bringing a breathalyzer to a bar? (That's the only detail I can print.)
Yes, fair readers. Tucker Max, America's most notorious partier, scoops the poop.
You heard it here first.
Tucker's got cleaner pet care habits than half the folks in my neighborhood. Which means this man has been partying in the wrong ZIP code all these years.
Very shortly, The Times will publish my feature on Tucker and the movie shoot. Depending on your sexual politics and sense of humor, you will either find his sensibility gut-bustingly hilarious or endlessly offensive.
I'm excited to publish the piece, if only to see if his inscription to my copy of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" comes true.
In an unrelated story, I'm moving to an Antarctic cave.