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Social Mishaps: Ryan The Dyin’ Hawaiian

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It was junior year and I had just moved into a six-person house with my fraternity brothers in one of the most notorious college communities near campus. I made the decision to live with five of the most lovable degenerates I know off the notion that the year would be a mixture of Animal House-like drinking and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-like drug use. I was correct. 

As Friday night rolled around, our Social Chair told us we had a “Sex on the Beach” themed social down the road from our house. Perfect for a brisk November night in New England, but I didn’t complain. We all immediately threw on our favorite clearance rack Hawaiian shirts and leis before heading to the liquor store. Peacocking at its finest. It was colder than usual that night, so we made the decision to buy two handles of Fireball for the six of us in hopes of forming a warm, cinnamon-flavored booze blanket to help us make it through the night. 

We left the liquor store around 8 p.m. but the pregame at our house wasn’t until 9 o’clock. Instead of waiting for people to arrive, we did what any sane person in our situation would do: take pulls of the handles and wait. The classic pregame before the pregame. What started out as conservative drinking soon turned to competitive drinking until both handles were about half-way gone. After a quick round of shots, we all looked at each other, recognizing the glazed-over eyes and mental patient smirks that we had seen countless times before. Tonight was going to be a muck fest. 

Shortly thereafter, girls started showing up to our house with bikinis, hula skirts, coconuts, and tons of Malibu. As I made my way through the crowd, I went back to the kitchen to grab one of the handles when I saw my roommate Ryan double-fisting the two handles of Fireball. With both necks of the bottle pointed toward his open mouth, he started swallowing the liquor mouthful after mouthful, like an alcoholic baby bird. 

After I guzzled down the last drop of Fireball, we called a pledge to drop us off at the social. From the outside looking in, you would think the car was bringing us to the psych-ward. Constant gibberish yelling, repeating the same sentences and fighting in the back seat — the first stages of blackout were in full effect. 

The car didn’t even come close to a full stop before we jumped out. We ran to the front door of the house like a pack of stray dogs running towards a meal, salivating, barking and running on all fours as we knocked over trash bins and lawn decorations. Ryan led the pack and kicked open the front door with the heal of his boat shoe like a hammered Magnum, P.I. We immediately heard a scream followed by loud crashing noises. We had officially arrived.

Behind the door was a flight of stairs going up, and a flight of stairs going down. Ryan had kicked the door open with so much force that it knocked one of the girls down the flight of stairs and put a doorknob-sized hole in the sheetrock behind it. What an entrance. 

The girl was fine and only asked for a shot before running back to the dance floor. Meanwhile, the rest of our house made our way to the basement that was lined wall-to-wall with sand, jungle juice, and a blow-up pool filled with beer. After a longer than anticipated shotgun, I made my rounds through the party, doing my best to form complete sentences and keep my shouting to a dull roar. While I failed to do either of those things, I heard people laughing towards the far end of the basement. 

Ryan, with his bathing suit around his ankles, was taking a leak in the sand right next to the pool of beers. With our Risk Manager yelling in his ear, the crowd of people surprisingly started chanting, “GO, GO, GO!” Like he had just won Olympic gold, Ryan put two fists high in the air mid-stream and finished making his bladder gladder.

Someone laid a towel down over the piss-covered sand to, I guess, soak it up while the party continued. Without hesitation, Ryan laid down on the towel like a true beach bum and tried to catch a tan under the black light of the basement, sunglasses on. As he laid there passed out, people started taking pictures with him like it was Weekend at Bernie’s. That was the short, but eventful, beginning and end to Ryan’s night. Unfortunately for him, there was no sex on his piss covered beach.

After denying all allegations during a quick Standards Board trial the next day, despite the overwhelming amount of photo evidence and eye-witnesses, Ryan got off with a warning.

So, is it possible to get too drunk at a social? The answer is and always will be: kind of.

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