My fourth and fifth years of college, perhaps my two favorite, were spent living in an off-campus house with three other fraternity brothers. The house was a mile or so south of the University of Missouri, and to the right of it were two other houses, which were also occupied by our fraternity brothers. We called the three house stretch “The Compound,” named after Bill Paxton’s suburban polygamist’s paradise in the HBO show Big Love. It was actually pretty similar to Paxton’s compound, only if you added liquor and Natty Light to the equation, replaced one Big Love Bill Paxton with twelve or so True Lies/Aliens Bill Paxtons, and made every significant other of The Compound residents of equal or greater craziness to Chloë Sevigny’s Big Love character. One of them once convinced me to poison a puppy. So, so crazy. I’ll never forget the look in that puppy’s eyes as he slipped into blackness. Just kidding, he lived.
“You know what’d be funny?” That’s how all of my best and worst ideas tend to begin. That line of thinking has gotten me hired for a job as well as thrown in jail.
All of that is to say that a lot of ridiculous shit happened at The Compound. Of everything big and small, some of the memories that still make me laugh the hardest today, because my sense of humor is hopelessly warped and clinically disturbing, are the memories of our perpetual torment of the Chinese food delivery driver who made routine stops at our house. I do not remember why we decided to mess with the guy. In truth, there probably wasn’t a “why” at all. That would imply that any of this was thought out. We were basically just bored dicks who liked fucking with people, each other included. I once had a military grade smoke grenade thrown into my room whilst balls deep in my girlfriend. Sure, choking for oxygen in a room filled with acrid smoke made the orgasm great, but that’s beside the point. You can’t make someone take consolation in the glass being half full when it was completely full just a few smoke grenade-less seconds before. What I do know is that messing with the delivery driver was done at my suggestion (I refer you back to the hopelessly warped and clinically disturbing sense of humor line) and that it probably began with a “You know what’d be funny?” That’s how all of my best and worst ideas tend to begin. That line of thinking has gotten me hired for a job, as well as thrown in jail.
“You know what’d be funny? If we fucked with the Chinese food delivery guy.” Again, I assume that’s basically how I made the suggestion. When my roommates asked how I didn’t really have a solidified idea, I was simply guided by my natural desire to make any boring situation as awkward as possible for my own amusement. With that drive going full force, I ran into my room to see what I could find. I returned with the following items:
1. A pair of red girl’s short shorts that had the word “Cheer” printed on the ass.
The shorts were left behind by my roommate’s ex-girlfriend. After they broke up, he found them while cleaning his room and I promptly confiscated them with the assumption they would at some point be an excellent part of a pledge’s costume for a sorority serenade or something. What would the context of that costume be? It really wasn’t important at that point — make the pledge look stupid first, figure out the reason later.
2. A pink butt plug.
I look forward to the readership’s theories as to why this was in my room. I’ll elaborate even though I’m fairly confident, “becon u had uh but plug becuz ur fukkin gey” will be the most widely accepted explanation.
The butt plug was a gift…dammit this still sounds gay. The butt plug was a gift from a girl. A little less gay yet? The butt plug was a gift from a girl in what we called a “porn exchange.” The porn exchange was like a Secret Santa between all the guys and girls who were in the Greek Week skit one year, except instead of thoughtful presents, we all just tried to horrify each other with the most perverted penetration devices and deviant pornography we could buy in mid-Missouri. The kind of stuff you’d be likely to find on the floor of a boisterous meth kingpin’s sex trailer. It was good times. One of my brothers spent like $70 on a giant, menacing rubber fist/forearm that looked like it was cast from a mold provided by Wladimir Klitschko. The only way you could have made a bigger version of this thing would have been to stick a toy Hulk fist on a parking cone. To make things even better, the brother who bought it had drawn quite possibly the most innocent girl involved in the whole exchange. The look on a sheltered girl’s face when she’s presented with a monstrous sex toy meant for a romantic encounter so intense that it probably requires a spotter is pretty priceless.
So the gift I received was a butt plug. Why did I keep it? You don’t just throw something like that out. You never know when you might get a chance to use it. Dammit, I’m back to sounding gay. Aw hell, it never didn’t sound gay. Whatever.
3. Pink child sized dolphin sweatshirt. Pictured below.
I had this for the same reason as the short shorts; it was perfect embarrassing pledge attire that someone had randomly left at our house, though I was way more confused as to who left the sweatshirt. It looked like it was designed by Lisa Frank and fit like it was designed for someone who thoroughly enjoyed Lisa Frank, i.e. a 9-year-old girl. Along with it being amusing to watch a pledge go to class in, I definitely also wore it as a part of my obnoxious PETA activist Halloween costume one year. That costume would have been so much better if my then girlfriend had worn a dolphin outfit like I suggested, instead of the “sexy sailor” getup she selfishly insisted on wearing. Missed opportunity.
4. Paintball mask.
When the delivery driver arrived, I answered the door wearing the short shorts, the shortness of which required me to maintain a certain posture so that this weird prank didn’t turn into full tilt male on male sexual harassment were my junk to spill out the sides. I also had on the magical dolphin sweatshirt and the paintball mask pulled down over my face. Meanwhile, I was holding the butt plug in one hand. The confused and fearful expression the delivery driver made when I opened the door confirmed to me that I did, in fact, look like a serial killer.
“Hey HEY HEY! Foooods here!” I shouted across the house.
The driver was still speechless. In fact, the only time he would say anything was a quick and awkward “no” every time I’d try to get him to hold the butt plug. He handed me the receipt to sign, I tried to get him to hold the butt plug while I signed it, then I acted like my cell phone was ringing, literally by shouting, “ring ring!” and tried to get him to hold the butt plug while I answered. Again, he declined as his desire to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible clearly increased with each passing, agonizing second. As he handed me the food, I feigned clumsiness and dropped the butt plug. I asked him to pick it up for me. For the last time he declined and basically sprinted back to his car.
After I watched him speed off while giving an enthusiastic wave I wondered what he was thinking. THIS is the country I immigrated to??? Or maybe just a simple, No no no no no no no no no. NO. N-O.. After all, there was all kinds of “no” going on.
We all basically spent the next hour dying laughing about this. From then on whenever we ordered Chinese food I would dutifully suit up in my sassy serial killer outfit. It’s what I imagine “The Panhandle Fairy Strangler” would have worn. The prank escalated every time. Once my roommate ran out the front door in nothing but his boxers, screaming in terror for help with his hands bound as I shouted after him, “Fine! More food for me Mister Dramatic!”
The look on a sheltered girl’s face when she’s presented with a monstrous sex toy meant for a romantic encounter so intense that it probably requires a spotter is pretty priceless.
The prank reached its maximum ridiculousness when one of the roommates ordered food while we happened to have about ten pledges over doing some cleaning. I told them all to take their shirts off. They asked why. I told them I didn’t like questions. Then, I instructed them to hide around the corner, wait ten seconds after I opened the door, and run out into the street, terrified. They were confused, but followed my instructions perfectly. As the shirtless pledges flooded around the delivery driver and into the street, screaming bloody murder while I stomped my foot with frustration, cursing the house’s faulty locks, the driver practically threw the food at me. I said, “Hold on hold on, I still owe you a tip,” and gave him some cash. He collected it as quickly as he could, but before he could leave, my roommate who had “escaped” in his boxers weeks earlier ran out of the house, once more shirtless, screaming “OH GOD NOT AGAIN! NOT AGAIN!”
The driver gave me an exasperated look, to which I responded, “What? Don’t give me that sass. He’s the one who keeps insisting on walking through the park alone at night.”
From that point on, if we wanted Chinese food we had to ask them to deliver to one of the houses next door. Our address had finally been blacklisted.
What’s the point of this story? It’s simple really. The Department of Justice and Education Department’s Office of Civil Rights are looking to redefine the meaning of sexual harassment on college campuses, starting at the University of Montana and basically circumventing any sort of legislative process to approve of their new “definition.” According to Senator John McCain, it’s an attack on free speech, and that something as simple as a Valentine’s Day card or asking someone on a date could now be considered sexual harassment under the DOJ’s new definition. The Foundation for Individual Rights in Education, or FIRE, explains it as such:
Among the forms of expression now punishable on America’s campuses by order of the federal government are:
• Any expression related to sexual topics that offends any person. This leaves a wide range of expressive activity—a campus performance of “The Vagina Monologues,” a presentation on safe sex practices, a debate about sexual morality, a discussion of gay marriage, or a classroom lecture on Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita—subject to discipline.
• Any sexually themed joke overheard by any person who finds that joke offensive for any reason.
• Any request for dates or any flirtation that is not welcomed by the recipient of such a request or flirtation.
There is likely no student on any campus anywhere who is not guilty of at least one of these “offenses.” Any attempt to enforce this rule evenhandedly and comprehensively will be impossible.
Are you telling me that if another student even saw me answer the door in short shorts, a tiny pink sweatshirt, and a paintball mask while holding a butt plug and shouting after my roommate who burst into the street almost completely naked and screaming in terror, they could have me tried for sexual harassment, at the very least in the university’s judicial system? Are you saying that a college female could claim sexual harassment if presented with gigantic rubber sex fist in a gift-giving exchange she agreed to, knowing what the premise was beforehand, simply because of her shock at the sheer size and terrifying impressiveness of said rubber sex fist? Way to crap all over our First Amendment rights, Department of Justice and Education Department’s Office of Civil Rights. Oh, and thanks, Obama.
But actually, this new “definition” is pretty terrible. Conservatives and liberals alike are opposed to it, albeit for different reasons. Be sure to oppose it at your university as well if and when possible. It’s a giant load of over-regulating, PC bullshit.