Until global warming started swinging its behemoth dick around, Michigan winters were absolutely BRUTAL. It’s like Mother Nature sat down with the Grim Reaper and asked, “Cancer’s not doing the job fast enough; how can we kill more of these little shits?” Flu season in the Great Lakes State is only example #72 why living in the North sucks a bag of genital warts. The worst is sneezing in class, then looking down at the sleeve of your button-down and seeing that you just coughed up something that looks like the remnants of Lindsay Lohan’s all-semen and Newport Menthol diet.
Not only is phlegm disgusting, but it’s also fucking IMPOSSIBLE to inconspicuously remove. Do I do a walk of shame to the bathroom? Do I just let it set up shop on my sleeve and hope no one notices? Usually, I’m too lazy to go all the way to the restroom to take the more hygienic-friendly route, so instead, I pretend that I’m getting a pen out of book bag and covertly wipe it off on the inside fabric of my backpack. So far (to the best of my knowledge), I have a 100% success rate. I am the Pat Bateman of hiding unwanted evidence.
Hey unwanted smoker’s phlegm- TRY GETTING A RESERVATION AT DORSIA NOW, YOU FUCKING STUPID BASTARD!
It’s repugnant. It’s incredibly dirty. Same time, though, there is nothing that beats getting away with this heinous act of bodily fluid disposal. I have no shame, though.
Neither does the alum that shows up to your tailgate completely hell-bent on performing some hot bouncy-bounce with your partner sorority’s babies. When he took the job, your Tailgate Chair had no idea that putting Chris Hansen’s cell phone on speed dial was one of his duties. Any chance he gets, this Wooderson clone shamelessly brings up the fact that he’s in law school or writes sophisticated dick jokes for her favorite comedy site (*ahem*).
Don’t hold it against him, though. Real estate prices have a slower diminution in value than women’s looks once they leave undergrad. That’s just science. Let him do his thing, and try not to pass judgment. Because the Hell that he’s facing on a daily basis when he sits across from Shrek’s wife will be yours too in a couple of years.
7:00 AM- An unknown 27-ish year old guy stands next to the keg. Makes small talk while offering to pump the tap a few times. Conversation with group of girls ends when they realize that the amount of foam in their cups has supplanted the amount of fermented beverage.
7:30 AM- STILL standing by that fucking keg. Chuckles heartedly to himself as he pretends to text someone. No one’s buying his theatrics.
9:45 AM Realizing no one knows who this creep is, he leaves the keg to go try his luck at sitting quietly on the front porch stoop. Maybe someone will talk to him there.
10:50 AM- A crowd begins forming in front of this social gargoyle. He’s a gargoyle because all he does is sit stone-like, tries to blend in with the concrete, and creepily overlooks everyone else having a good time.
10:52 AM- Chants of “Stoop kid’s afraid to leave the stoop!” break out.
10:53 AM- Creeper scurries back into the house crying, runs to the nearest women’s bathroom and uses his tears as hand moisturizer as he faps to all the newfound attention that he finally received.
“God, I miss this place. See that room right there? That’s where I discovered a new color from staring directly at the Sweetheart’s asshole long enough. It was either that or the mushrooms. On second thought, yeah, it was probably the shrooms.”
“What’s this I hear about no more elephant walks up and down Sorority Row? What are you guys, a bunch of GAYS? You too GAY to stick your thumb up your pledge brother’s gritty bunghole?! God, this house is falling to shit.”
“See, back in MY day…”
Back in your day, no one gave a shit about your stories either, you assboner. I don’t care about your “Fratal Attraction” mixer where you let a Glenn Close lookalike jack you off while you had a plastic bag over your head. Who gives a flying fuck what David Carradine says. Kill Bill sucks balls and so do you. Autoerotic asphyxiation will never be fratty. Fuck off. You do not matter.
Seeing your pledge trainer at Homecoming accompanied by his wife and kids is the most depressing thing in the fucking world. It defines heart-breaking. Forget raped puppies dying of leukemia; Sarah McLachlan should instead be singing about the death of your fallen tormentor’s gonads.
You’re not even going to be able to recognize this poor bastard. A mere three years ago, he was relentlessly taunting your inability to do Oklahoma drills in a Sumo suit while simultaneously chugging a pint of Popov. What an asshole.
But now? NOW he’s motionlessly attached to his better half’s side. It’s not like he has an alternative. His wife is a fucking succubus and has drained every ounce of personality out of him, but none of the little 22-year old pervs that he calls “fraternity brothers” give a shit about any of that. All they see is steaming hot wifey coochie. And everyone knows that’s the best type of coochie hands down. The minute Married Guy leaves to go shake a few hands, all it would take is a single finger pistol from the Social Chair before the two are sneaking off to the senior bathroom for a quick boner-to-butthole session.
So no, I don’t blame him for looking miserable. This guy FINALLY gets a sabbatical from changing shitty diapers and watching The Voice on DVR, and he can’t even leave to get a fucking beer or do some bumps off of some floppy 21-year old titty?
The lesson, as always: never graduate. You can either die a belligerent asshole, or live long enough to see yourself become a guy who spends his weekends watching Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix.