Tucker Max's Campaign of Hate Against Chicago's Transit System

The Mad AssHatter Himself, Tucker Max, went to war with Chicago's Transit System over a series of advertisements for his film, I Hope They Serve Rosé On Fire Island, or whatever it's called. Guess who won?

The ads were poetic ditties of white text on a black background. Like: "Blind girls never see you coming" and "Strippers Will Not Tolerate Disrespect (Just Kidding)."

But: Max, who seems to necessitate creative new suffixes being appended to words like "douche" on a daily basis—mostly by his fans—had his ads thankfully removed by Chicago's Transit Boards in a transit-based struggle that would make Rosa Parks want to rise from the dead to beat the piss out of Max for messing with her legacy of transit-based struggle.

Max responded in a release maturely and appropriately, handling the situation with the decorum and class we've come to expect from him: "Blow me," he wrote. Max was quoted as saying it was "the culmination of a two-month-long effort by angry anti-male groups." Also, this:

"...Women are not stupid. They would not support me if I hated them, and the fact that they come out in the hundreds of thousands to buy my book and go to my movie is proof that I not only love women, but my art is in fact pro-woman."

At first glance, less egregious is Tucker's intentionally inflammatory statement that his "art" is pro-women as it is as it is "art." But then, it all begins to make sense: this is performance art. Max's entire shtick is performance art. It's New Museum-level shit. In fact, Max probably knows exactly what he's doing, how people are going to react to it, and the exact amount of publicity it's going to generate. Which is why it's strange that, you know, he made such a shitty movie that nobody's going to want to see, and thus, make no money. So what would tie this all together?

The forthcoming revelation that Max is just a deeply-closeted homosexual, inching his way out by purporting the extremities of the most straight, blase, boring, stupid, and utterly predictable proto-male sexuality there is: his, or his act's. The kind given the treatment a "salon" of fellow "bros" out there could appreciate in the form of a book and its poop-like adaptation. Tucker Max could be the world's most interesting gay advocate out there if this thing comes full-circle.

Then again, he's probably just a dick. City of Chicago: good on you.