Waking up the morning after a killer party is a challenge. Lying in bed and questioning that eighth shot of Montezuma while your tongue feels like sandpaper can break even the best of us. By the time you get up, your only tangible objective is to grab some leftover McNugs and a Gatorade that you hopefully won’t spew back up. Still, as the rest of the rabble emerges from their holes to spark a bowl or crack a bounce-back brew, there’s electricity in the air. The shared misery, or in some cases still present inebriation, slowly coalesces to the point where someone speaks. It’s usually a simple statement like “last night was crazy” or “what the fuck happened?” but it’s enough to kick things off. As details come forth, with people piecing together their nights and determining where their bruises came from, the tone quickly shifts. When things pick up steam, it’s time for an impromptu roast.
For some reason (probably the fact that we’re well-adjusted human beings) fraternity guys love mocking one another. A night where something weird definitely happened provides you all with enough ammo to overthrow a dictatorship. As it happens, everyone’s wearing a target on their back. In spite of terrible smoker’s coughs and blatant dehydration, brothers find the strength to throw out some serious zingers. With every account of failure and stupidity being met by peals of laughter, the morning after fog is lifted. What just moments ago resembled a sick bay sponsored by Old Crow and Natty Light slowly takes on the atmosphere of a fraternity house once again. The levity that comes from an old fashioned bull sesh is essential to recovery. Talk some shit, take some shit, and go seize the day. Like grandpa always said, laughter and reefer are the best medicines.
That morning after shit talk is also the breeding ground for future stories. Legends may be born at night but their tales are told the following day, usually with rampant exaggeration. How many great stories do you have that start with “There was this soft 6 at the bar who bought me a drink” and end with “then we did it doggy for about five minutes and she kissed me on the cheek as she left”? None, because she’s always a hard 8 that likes weird shit in the bedroom. Your living room skull sessions are no different. In this case, however, instead of being a try-hard, you’re miserable enough to completely embrace what people are saying. When somebody brings up any idiotic instance, roll with it. You’ll go from the moron that put a hole in the wall to the wild man that went full Swayze on the bathroom. That’s what we in the biz call coming out on top, and it’s essential to your legacy.
Between your new accounts of hedonism, and the sudden feeling that you could definitely eat something (thanks pot), a new day is born. When you and a gaggle of your bros leave the couch to bitch about Chick-fil-A being closed on Sundays, you’re already starting the next episode. Maybe it’s just lunch, or maybe it’s a short trip to the bar that turns into roof beers. Regardless, it’s something you’re doing as brothers. That means, in addition to any touchy feely existential bullshit that might be latently present, it’s just the first step to getting roasted all over again next week..