More stupid college/ frat shit (mostly)
A. It’s winter. Everything is covered in snow. Not the big fluffy, flaky stuff. The cold, hard, crystallized snow, that crunches like little ice cubes under your feet. What to do on a snowy night? Kegger! Drive Tom and the other, other Tom to a bash they know about in the crappy off campus apartments where all the end of summer riots start. You don’t know anybody at the party except the Toms, which frees you to do your beer bong mating ritual. Several weeks as a fraternity pledge has made you something of an expert, for the reason that you are simply not dead from alcohol poisoning. Watch the girls line up right by you.
Karma: Waiting for you to get the f*** away from the keg.
Anyway, limbo contest comes next. Falling on your ass and rolling under a 4’ high pole does not get you laid – it gets you kicked out as a stupid freshman who wasn’t actually invited.
Tom and Tom will figure out that you are really too drunk to drive. Them. Anywhere. So, they will drive you in your car to their dorm to live out some homoerotic ass rape fantasy they have and then wish you good luck getting home without getting dead.
Mom will be awake when you pour yourself through the door, several sideways miles later. She will be more impressed with the level of abject stupidity on display than your remarkable ability not to die.
B. It’s STILL winter. (It’s Michigan, after all.) You, 8 Barrel, Bagman and Phid need to go skiing. Well you don’t ski, but a drink in the ski lodge would be nice and shagging some snowbunnies would be even better.Never mind that Michigan is as flat as Kansas (not actually true), and that ski *hill* not so coincidentally rhymes with landfill (actually true). Anyway, your quest is ½ successful. Mad props to Absolut vodka, which never says *Get the fuck out of here, lewser.*
In the parking lot is a frost covered Ford Escort.Everything is probably frozen over on it.
Karma: Hmmm. You should help this poor soul.
Bill Nye the Science Guy: Hmmm. Antifreeze is water and alcohol. Windshield washer fluid is blue water and alcohol. Lock deicer is pretty much alcohol.
Despite your vodka stupor, you deduce that you possess the, ahem, *generic equivalent.* Exercise your inner Samaritan. Not necessarily the good one.
C. It’s not an orgy, it’s a toga party. Try it with the Phi Mus at your frat house. Watch the girls recoil when you whine that they wore something – underwear/clothes/Chastity belts/ anything – under their togas. Explain toga commandoto them. Explain the Roman orgy scenario you have worked out in your head. Watch them recoil in horror and disgust. Cover your junk back up. Goddamn lesbians, obviously.
D. Try the toga party again with the Alpha Phis (the Harvard of WMU sororities to your San Dimas Community College frat) at the Fiji house. Those dickheads are all homos, so you’re totally gonna score tonight. Put *Pinto DTC* on your nametag to signal that you are a sexual machine. Or that you hope to be the subject of a pity fuck.
Dammit. Once again you have connected with a man-hating dyke sorority, and not the house of horny sluts that you read about in Penthouse Forum. God, it sucks that those true stories never say what college they happened at, because maybe you just picked the wrong school.
Due to certain other beer and car-related incidents in your recent past, you should play it straight, drinking all of 2 beers over the course of the night. Five minutes after you leave, total some dude’s Fiesta pulling out from behind a giant snow pile directly in front of you. Lose the toga before the cops arrive. Congratulate yourself on not being a toga commando tonight.
E. Because your car – OK, you’re *between cars* so Mom’s car – is similarly fucked up, insurance will rent her a Capri. Not a cool one, a bulbous shitpile that at least smells new. Unfortunately, the rental comes with a per mile charge from mile one. Damn you, Harold Ziegler. This means when you drive down to the party store for some Stroh’s, you *MUST* drive back in reverse to back off the mileage. Unlike the Ferris Bueller Ferrari, this actually works for the 0.4 mile beer run. Yay! It’s not real practical for erasing those miles to Mendoon to initiate some frat pledges, tho’.
F. Commandeer the frat house for a summer kegger. This will be the first (and only) keg you ever buy. All your frat buddies can come, plus Reza and all the BK hotties, plus your high school buds who are home for the summer. Get a ½ barrel so you don’t run out. With all the drunken hotties that will be running around, you will get soooo laid, dude. Well, if anybody shows up, maybe.
Important storage note: Emptying the keg into pitchers to last into next week doesn’t really work.
G. Party with the girl with the French hygiene and her short, blond roommate Mary. Plus a couple of your frat brothers. One or more of you is bound to get lucky, since these girls drink like fish. Therefore sex, right? Crash on the floor of their dorm room because, hey, maybe they’ll jump your bones in the middle of the night. Oh, plus you are certain to get a
nother DUI if you don’t. No, the *best* part of the experience is that your fucking car got towed by the goddamned nazi parking police.
Karma: That dorm orgy fiction you’re making up for Penthouse Forum should probably omit this detail in favor of an imaginary threeway in the snow or something.
H. Speaking of your frat brothers and dorms, many of them will go to some idiot’s kegger right in the dorm. Strangely, throwing or attending this beer bash is a violation of dorm policy and University rules. Stupid BYU. The RA is kicking ass and taking names. Of everyone there. So, beginning with Mike the three-named assassin, each and every brother will give your name (*Wink Dinkerson*).
Another time, when Mike or some other goof gets thrown out of an IM soccer game for cornholing that dumbass blind ref intentional fouls, the same scenario will unfold:*My name? Uh, Wink Dinkerson.Yeah, that’s the ticket.No, I don’t have my student ID.You’ll just have to trust me.*
This explains why you are banned from three dorms you’ve never been in and from sports you never played.
This is karmic equivalence for that elementary school thing with throwing shit at cars and Eric Spencer’s dad.
My name? Uh, Bill Fahl.
Bullshit.That little asshole is my kid’s best friend. Tell me your real name or else…
And then, running.
J. Road Pops. Perfect for measuring time, distance and speed. Just like in Texas.
K. Years later, road pops will evolve into *travelers.*You will be introduced to this phrase by Jonathan J. Shithead, Esq. Your boss.He drives a ratted out Celica convertible.When he opens the door, empties fall out. Sorta like manager Larry at the BK Lounge, with the shitty silver on grey Riviera and the vodka bottles under the seat. Jonathan suggests that you take a traveler for the drive home after a long day of screwing homeowners for using the wrong color paint. The firm fridge is stocked with Natty Light, Busch Light and Lite Light. A poor white trash fantasy come true. *I would sooner piss on your fucking car than drink that swill,* you say under your breath. That little bastard is lucky he doesn’t drive an Escort.
L. It’s late at night. You’re buzzing in your new (old) Marquis after another night of not getting laid.But, you’ve dropped your smoke.Probably a Player Menthol at that, which is lit, and you don’t want to waste it. Plus, your gas tank leaks a little, and the inside of the car sometimes smells like gas. So stop the car and dig for it. Right there in the middle of the highway. Surprisingly, the passing cop will notice that you have stopped in the stupidest and most illegal place possible (that is still a road). But, *dude, I dropped my smoke and I have to get it at all costs before my car catches fire and explodes* only prompts a *get moving,* and not a DUI.You are a Jedi master, apparently.Although your powers have no effect on alien beings. Like women.