The Rush Party is one of those dates every brother has circled on his calendar. The house is going to be swarming with sorority girls, free hooch and bright eyed high school seniors willing to believe every piece of bullshit you throw their way.
Any fraternity worth their shit knows how to throw a party that will convince even the geediest of GDI high schoolers that they need to completely change their lifestyle and join a fraternity. As a brother of your house, you are tasked with bringing the A-game (not that you don’t do that every night). Not only are you judging these kids, but they’re judging you too.
I remember my first rush party as if it was yesterday…
5pm: Friday night’s hangover was dead and gone and the first Natty had been cracked. Swanny walked into my room. “We’ve got a big night ahead of us. IT’S RUSH PARTY!” Drinking ensued.
6pm: The rushees started arriving at the house. God had graced Greek Town with a gorgeous 75-degree American spring day. The grill was fired up and it was time to swallow my disgust and actually talk to these fucking high school kids. The standard questions started rolling in:
“So how sweet are your parties?”
“How many beers does it take you to get drunk?”
“Will we get hazed, dude?”
“Where are all the girls at, bro?”
Goddamnit these kids are always so fucking annoying. Some of the brothers decided to break out the beer bong and see what these minors are made of. It’s pretty easy to figure out which ones can’t hack it early on. There was a kid in an American Eagle polo puking over the stairs. Black listed. Keg stand for the kid wearing the Air Jordans. He stopped after four seconds. Well, at least you have what it takes to be an RA. Shots of Beam for the kid in the graphic tee from Target. He spit out the second one. Have fun reffing my intramural football games, loser. Turn around to see a few kids shot-gunning beers with juniors. Blue chips for those guys.
7pm: Dinner was done on the fratio. Then it came time to take these kids on tours.FUCK. I guess I’ll show them around, although I’d rather focus solely on my drinking. The basement seemed like a good place to start. As soon as we got inside smiles shot across their faces like Rudy after he first stepped foot into the Notre Dame locker room. They were hanging on my every word.
“This is where it starts and ends, fellas. The basement. You’ll get to know it pretty well during pledgeship.” They had literally no idea what awaited them in that basement the next semester. That made me chuckle. “This is where we party, where we eat and hold chapter. This is where legends are born.” They couldn’t get enough. Around every corner I dazzled them with tales of glory.
“This right here is the Bave. What looks like a generic supply closet to you is hallowed ground in our house. Back in the 80s, a brother nicknamed Bave fucked a girl in this closet. We have memorialized his legend with this plaque.”
A couple of room tours here, a short visit with the chapter president, and then back down to the basement to let these kids fend for themselves.
9pm: The girls had arrived. Hundreds of sorostitutes had flooded the basement. The music was loud, the beer was flowing and the shot block was slowly melting away along with everyone’s inhibitions. Slingshot, engage.
10pm: We had started weeding out the guys who weren’t “XX material”. We had the study set up as a drunk tank/holding cell for kids who couldn’t cut it. By the time we had weeded them all out and put them in the study with the spring pledges to keep them company, our study room looked like a page from the Hollister fall catalog, except all the models were passed out or had half of a Clay Fusion on their board shorts (For those who don’t have a Gumby’s Pizza in your college town here’s a tip: Buy a franchise, get rich as fuck off drunk college kids.)
Back to the party. The beer pong tables were full. So I stepped behind the bar and started pouring shots for some of the ladies in attendance. Some kid walked up to the bar asking for “whatever I got”. I like this guy. We go shot for shot until the entire bottle of Seagram’s was gone. I pull the kid aside.
“What’s your name, guy?”
“Don’t ’sir’ me. Not yet anyways. Where you from?”
“Does it matter? Pour me another shot.”
Welcome to the brotherhood, kiddo.
Midnight: Of course the party was in full swing. Mentioning that is a formality. I had done my part. Time to show these kids what it’s all about. I grabbed the mic from the spring pledge dressed as Jazzy Jeff and started our house’s drinking song. The rushees looked on in awe, as we drunkenly belted our beloved hymn. Grabbed a rush from my high school and played some beer pong with him. The kid was a magician, sinking cup after cup, dropping a line from NBA Jam with every made cup. Might as well as given him a bid right there.
2am: Hit the back porch for a cig. As I lit up my cigarette, I noticed a kid sitting on a picnic table. He was hammered, but entertaining.
“Sign me up! This is great!” He proclaimed.
Little did I know that five months later, this functioning retard would be my pledge son.
11am: Wake up in a pile of beer cans in the brother lounge. Great night. I head out to the fratio, throw in a victory chew and recall the events of the previous night. It sounded like a success. Not a bad night at all.
The kids started streaming out of the house, one-by-one. I shook their hands, thanked them for coming and told them I would see them that summer.
I couldn’t help but smile as I saw them walking out of the house. As cocky and arrogant as we are, we’ve all been there. Stumbling out of a strange house after the best night of our life, wondering if we were good enough to make the cut. Those kids lived the dream that night. It’s cheesy, but that’s what makes the fraternity life worth it all. The proverbial passing of the torch from one pledge class to the next.
Enjoy it. Rush season is the best and most worthwhile season of them all. Yeah, most of these kids are annoying as fuck, but you were that one of the few that stood out, or maybe one of those annoying kids who changed his ways, and were chosen by the brotherhood. We were all hand picked. And you know what? That’s pretty goddamn special.
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