Raging full throttle for as many days as there are in a week, every week, takes a toll. Mentally, physically, maybe even spiritually. In the words of the misleadingly diminutive rap artist Big Sean, “When you’re getting’ fast money, slow down, don’t crash. With all the drive in the world swear you still need gas.” I think him and I are saying the same thing.
You can go hard Thursday to Sunday, but at some point you’re going to hit a wall. I’ve dropped a Bio class or two, so I feel qualified to tell you that the body can only do so much. Even the most undefined Dad Bod will succumb to the slaughter of Adderall, Lady Bligh, and Red Bull that you keep forcing into your rapidly crusting liver. We’re not perfect. Don’t blame me; I’m just dropping the facts.
When it’s time to recharge the batteries, throw down at the castle, and get weird with your boys, you’re about to experience one of life’s great pleasures. A shame night. Just like LBJ, you’re going to take yourself out for a game or two citing “back pain,” but really you’re just trying to make sure you don’t wake up on a sterilized paper bedsheet with a new plastic band around your wrist. I’m here to guide you through the process and make sure you come back prepared for the playoffs, ready to flash your tiny frock to whoever cares to see.
First of all, you’re going to have to come to grips with the fact that you won’t be getting any tail tonight. This shouldn’t be a huge shock, because look at your life and look at your choices, but it still takes some adjustment. As testosterone-riddled cavemen, our hormones are actively pressing us to explore the odds of getting it in with the foxy brunette from Psych 101. But this night is not the night. You’re going to be pretty gross, engaging in wholly unappealing activities that not even the most primitive heathen women would find attractive. Put down the phone, and save your chances for when you actually have a shot.
Secondly, you’re going to want to queue up some entertainment. Whether this be flipping on PCU to get some inspiration for destroying the campus liberals, blasting a playlist through your hand-me-down speaker set, or lining up for the Caps to destroy in NHL ’15, you’re going to need something to get occupied with while you and your boys focus on the spiral to come.
The final and most shame-inducing step is to get yourself a shit load of the greasiest, most morally reprehensible food your degenerate college town has to offer. My personal go-to was an entire extra large pizza from the corner shop down the road that was open until 3 a.m. They catered to the drunk community almost exclusively, serving the type of pizza that you don’t want near an open flame for fear of causing an open-boxed grease fire. My buddy had a weird fetish for combining Taco Bell and McDonald’s into a self-debasing Big Mac-Quesarito abomination. To each his own. You’re going to want to house as much food as necessary to feel like a complete sack of shit, then wash it down with as many Keystone Lights as it takes to not give a fuck.
My most successful shame night came midway through my third year, after a string of back-to-back-to-back ragers that had my buddies and me on the verge of a breakdown. Fortunately for us, one of our group had just gotten his own deep fryer, so we decided it was high time to see what that piece of culinary craftsmanship could do. We ended up throwing so much batter-coated shit into that poor cooking machine that night as to compromise the odds of it ever returning to a functional form. Somewhere between the deep-fried pecan pie and the homemade buffalo wings, we found ourselves sprawled out on the floor drooling like shell-shocked paraplegics. I ended up dry-heaving over the toilet and crashing into the shower before stumbling into my bed.
Eventually, you’ll pass out from the combination of fat, oil, and cheap beer. But I can promise you here and now, you will never sleep better than you will after a solid shame night. Like Rip Van Winkle himself. You’ll evacuate your bowels in an explosive chocolate waterfall the next morning, but afterward you will feel rejuvenated, empty, and scrubbed free from all the toxins of the week. It’s about as close to a juice cleanse as you college animals will ever want to get.
So the next time you feel like you’re about to hit the wall after that final mixer-turned-blackout of the week, maybe try to sink into a nice shame night and fill up the tank..