I Had The World’s Worst Frat Nickname, And Resisted Suicide To Tell About It

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I am writing this today because I would like to help others by sharing my story (and by “story,” I really mean “living nightmare.”) This is about the age-old fraternity problem of being given a horrendous nickname and how to handle it. I think this is a problem that a lot of others can relate to because degrading nicknames are such a common misfortune within fraternity culture.

I am here to give you my honest advice on how to handle a socially crippling nickname, for I had the worst nickname in American history. But first, you need to hear the story of how it all happened.

It all started freshman year when I was a pledge. My pledge class was tasked with building a beach setting in the backyard of the fraternity house for a “You’re My Beach” themed bikini party with the #3 hottest but #1 sluttiest sorority on campus. My pledge class did an incredible job on the build (we were even able to build a small replica of a beach shore using truckloads of sand to build a bank and then filling it with hose water. ‘Twas frat.)

The actives were so pleased with our work, that they decided we could enjoy the party too (we were actually allowed to drink and talk to the semi-hot/slutty sorority.) The night was looking epic, until this dickhead older active member told me I had to complete “Edward 40 Hands” in children’s arm floaties before I could actually be a normal party guest and socialize with the halfway hot slores.

I swear he used two entire rolls of duct tape to tape these lukewarm 40-ouncers to each of my hands. There was no way out but to chug the hot malt liquor as fast as possible.

So I was standing there shirtless in swimtrunks and these gay ass floaties on each arm in frigid cold water up to my mid-shin. It was actually way too cold to have a beach party and I was trying to chug as fast as I could because I was shivering my balls off and everyone from the moderately hot skank srat was staring and laughing. I thought life couldn’t get any worse than this moment. But God was I wrong. MY FUCKING GOD WAS I WRONG!

AND THEN IT HAPPENED…

This soulless active sneaks up behind me and fully pantses me. I’m talking swim trunks around the ankles. I freeze up for a second in sheer panic as I realize there are 40 ounce bottles with a roll of duct tape on each hand with zero chance of being able to pull up my swim trunks.

There were a few gasps from the onlooking sorority and then dead silence as I could do nothing but look right back at them. The whole 400 person party had now turned to look. All I could see was their eyes going back and forth in unison between my face and then my private region.

I attempted to turn around, preferring them to see my hairy butt rather than a full frontal. As I turn to the rear party porch, I see the other half of the party stare at me, then all look down. At this point I have to know…

I am not hung by any means, but I have had some days where I’ve got a decent wang-hang going and other days that are borderline diagnosable micropenis (you know what I’m saying, we all have a varying range of length depending on multiple variables).

At this point my frozen fear is so bad that I have to look down and see where I’m currently at on the spectrum. I’ve been shivering in frigid water but it doesn’t always totally affect you, right? Surely life throws me a break here.

So, I look down at what my loving God gave me between my legs, and wouldn’t you fucking know it, I’m rocking a mini-shroom and two wrinkles sitting on top of a set of toddler testes. I literally had no shaft of any kind. Literally NO SHAFT (unless you consider 2 wrinkle rings a shaft, which after later researching online medical journals, does not constitute).

I am trying to rip the 80 feet of duct tape wrapped around my hands with my teeth in a desperate attempt for escape. I expected laughter at this point, but still all of the onlooker eyes are focused on me and there’s total silence.

That’s when this drunk motherfucking JI sophomore screams from the balcony at the top of his lungs, “LOOK AT THE LITTLE FROCK ON THAT KID!!!” Right then and there my life would change forever…

I don’t remember how because of the panic blackout, but I somehow escaped back to my dorm. I slowly gathered myself and contemplated how to proceed. I was in a petrified mental battle with myself:

“Dude, you’re fine. Everyone was drunk and won’t even remember it tomorrow.”

“Transfer schools fucking right now, you child wenis. Start fresh, preferably an undiscovered tribe where the penises of the locals somehow disappeared during an altered evolutionary process.”

“That water was cold as fuck. Everyone understands thats just how the male body reacts.”

“Tell them you donated your shaft to a young boy with penile cancer because you were the only tissue match in the world, and besides you’d already had sex with 200 women.”

God dammit, I had nothing! Nothing could even resemble an excuse. But surely people are kind hearted enough to not say anything and just move on with their lives and gradually forget the vision totally, right?

YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. Turns out after I escaped the party, some alpha queen bee bitch loudly asked, “Okay, WTF did we just see!? Was that shit for real? Who the hell was that kid anyway?”

In a rare act of fraternal kindness, someone from the active chapter attempted to have a heart and said, “Oh that’s our new pledge Stephen from Little Rock, Arkansas, he’s a great guy!”

Immediately, a fifth-year senior with apparently no heart yelled from the side fence while urinating, “You mean Little FROCK Arkansas!”

The next year of my life I would be referred to campus-wide as “Little Frock Arkansas.” To say it was a minor social handicap would be like saying Hellen Keller just needed 20 extra minutes on the SAT.

After months of deep inner contemplation and beyond-awkward discussions with my parents, I decided to be a man and gut it out. I was NOT going to allow a stupid nickname to ruin MY college experience.

So I owned that nickname. I FUCKING OWNED THAT NICKNAME! I went with the only mentality I could, I was Little Frock Arkansas, and who the fuck are you?!?!

If you called me Little Frock Arkansas, I responded to it without hesitation.

Them: “Little Frock Arkansas, what’s going on?!”

Me: “Not much, dude, you?”

Some people began referring to me as “LFA” and I even led the most badass sorority mixer of the semester as DJ Lil Frockie, seamlessly spinning hit after hit after hit. The people LOVED it.

As soon as I fully committed to the nickname, the entire universe shifted in my favor. Dudes wanted to hang with Little Frock Arkansas, and bitches wanted to go on a sex vacation to Little Frock Arkansas.

What I lacked in length, I made up for in confidence. And by confidence, I mean PPMs. And by PPMs, I mean Pumps Per Minute. At my best I could deliver 70 Lil’ Frockie vaj insertions per minute (that equates to more than a pump per second).

Over the next year, I became known sorority-wide for my ferocious hump speed. Every hot sratty wanted to visit the hot sex capital city of our great nation’s 29th largest state. I was Little Frock Arkansas and I was legend.

I am currently a living legend. (and if you are reading this from my campus, you know exactly who I am. What up.)

Anyone out there struggling with a horrendous frat nickname, I say to you, just own it. Amazing things will come your way, I promise you. For yours cannot possibly be more debilitating than mine.

I am Little Frock Arkansas from Little Rock, Arkansas, and I am the man.

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