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Hermann Kermit Warm is going to die, and hired guns Eli and Charlie Sisters will make sure of it. Though Eli doesn't share his brother's appetite for whiskey and killing, he's never known anything else. But their prey isn't an easy mark, and on the road from Oregon City to Warm's goldmining claim outside Sacramento, Eli begins to question what he does for a living—and whom he does it for.

Stuffed full of ridiculous stories of bad decisions, debauchery, and sexual recklessness, Assholes Finish First starts where I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell left off, then proceeds to "some next-level shit."

You already know how women react to confidence, game, and vodka, but what happens when you add money and fame to the mix? You get answers to the hard questions you've never thought of asking:

• What's it like to have sex with a midget? What about two midgets?

• What does it do to a man to watch a 19-year-old do wind sprints to sober up, so that she can have sex with you before her twin sister does?

• At what number of virgins does deflowering them stop being fun and start feeling like a job?

• When a girl you met three hours ago decides to tattoo your name on her body, what is the appropriate reaction?

The answers are inside, they are absurd and hilarious, and they are the product of one man's experiences:

His name is Tucker Max, and he is still an asshole.

"Human beings fear the unknown. So, whatever's freaking you out, grab it by the balls and say hello. Then it ain't the unknown anymore and it ain't scary. Or I guess it could be a shitload scarier."

Fans of the #1 bestseller Sh*t My Dad Says will recognize the always-patient voice of Justin Halpern's dad as it crackles through the pages of this hysterical new book. The story begins when Justin takes his dad out to lunch to announce that he's decided to propose to his girlfriend.

"You've been dating her for four years," his dad replies. "It ain't like you found a parallel fucking universe."

But eventually he gives Justin some advice: that he should take a day off and think back over everything he's learned in life about women, relationships, and himself before making his decision. And that's just what Justin does—revisiting everything from his disastrous childhood crushes to the night he finally lost his virginity while working as a dishwasher at Hooters.

I Suck at Girls is full of his dad's patented brand of wisdom. But it's also full of new characters just as funny as his dad—from his brother, who provides insights into wedding night rituals ("You stand in one corner of the room, and she stands in the other. You each take off one piece of clothing at a time") to his first boss, who warns Justin to man up: "That's what a man does. He takes his shots and then he scrubs the shit out of some dishes." The result is a pilgrim's progress through the landscape of sex and love—by one of the funniest writers at work today.

If You Don't Buy This Book, You're a Racist.

Have you ever been called "too black" or "not black enough"?

Have you ever befriended or worked with a black person?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, this book is for you.

Raised by a pro-black, Pan-Afrikan single mother during the crack years of 1980s Washington, DC, and educated at Sidwell Friends School and Harvard University, Baratunde Thurston has over thirty years' experience being black. Now, through stories of his politically inspired Nigerian name, the heroics of his hippie mother, the murder of his drug-abusing father, and other revelatory black details, he shares with readers of all colors his wisdom and expertise in how to be black.

Beyond memoir, this guidebook offers practical advice on everything from "How to Be The Black Friend" to "How to Be The (Next) Black President" to "How to Celebrate Black History Month."

To provide additional perspective, Baratunde assembled an award-winning Black Panel—three black women, three black men, and one white man (Christian Lander of Stuff White People Like)—and asked them such revealing questions as:

"When Did You First Realize You Were Black?"

"How Black Are You?"

"Can You Swim?"

The result is a humorous, intelligent, and audacious guide that challenges and satirizes the so-called experts, purists, and racists who purport to speak for all black people. With honest storytelling and biting wit, Baratunde plots a path not just to blackness, but one open to anyone interested in simply "how to be."

     Chapters cover everything from husbands (“If he could be carried around in a Baby Bjorn all day, he would.”) to other people’s kids (“Other people’s kids are just useless, bad influences who play no necessary role in our lives.”) to PTA fundraisers (“It brings out the worst in people…and who wants an overpriced roll of wrapping paper, anyway? How about something we actually want to buy? Alcohol, for instance.”) Each chapter begins with the best anonymous confessions from Smokler’s popular online Confessional.

     Whether you’re a mom, a dad, a grandmother, a grandfather, an aunt, an uncle, a teacher, a godparent, or a teenager in need of birth control, Confessions of a Scary Mommy will be sure to leave you nodding your head in agreement and laughing out loud.

The Scary Mommy Manifesto:

I shall maintain a sense of humor about all things motherhood, for without it, I recognize that I may end up institutionalized. Or, at the very least, completely miserable.

I shall not judge the mother in the grocery store who, upon entering, hits the candy aisle and doles out M&Ms to her screaming toddler. It is simply a survival mechanism.

I shall not compete with the mother who effortlessly bakes from scratch, purees her own baby food, or fashions breathtaking costumes from tissue paper. Motherhood is not a competition. The only ones who lose are the ones who race the fastest.

I shall shoot the parents of the screaming newborn on the airplane looks of compassion rather than resentment. I am fortunate to be able to ditch the kid upon landing. They, however, are not.

I shall never ask any woman whether she is, in fact, expecting. Ever.

I shall not question the mother who is wearing the same yoga pants, flip-flops and t-shirt she wore to school pickup the day before. She has good reason.

I shall never claim to know everything about any child but my own. (Who still remains a mystery to me.)

I shall hold the new babies belonging to friends and family, so they may shower and nap, which is all any new mother really wants.

I shall attempt to not pass down my own messed up body issues to my daughter. She deserves a mother who loves and respects herself; stretch marks, cellulite and all.

I shall not preach the benefits of breastfeeding or circumcision or home schooling or organic food or co-sleeping or crying it out to a fellow mother who has not asked my opinion. It’s none of my damn business.

I shall try my hardest to never say never, for I just may end up with a loud-mouthed, bikini clad, water gun shooting toddler of my very own.

I shall remember that no mother is perfect and my children will thrive because, and sometimes even in spite, of me.