It’s 4:30 in the morning. In the unlit alleyway behind Richard’s American Café, my pledge brother and I are laying down in the bed of a white pickup truck, watching red and blue siren lights dance across the spray-painted penises gracing the bar’s back-entrance. Up ahead, five black police cars race down the street, their tires barely keeping traction over the Pokey Stick-induced projectile vomit flooding the road.
We breathe a sigh of relief as the cars pass and don’t return. Nervous laughter ensues. And then come the footsteps approaching us. We are not alone. It’s gotta be police. This is it. We’re busted.
I turn around and look out from the bed of the truck. It’s not the boys in blue. Instead, what I see are two pint-carrying hobos, dressed in “Eat ‘Em Up Tigers” shirts, who are about to come to blows over some really heated philosophical banter.
Bum 1: Man, enough about the thumb. I’ve had it up to HERE with hearing about the thumb. The entire night, all you’ve done is ramble on and on about how great the rogue thumb up the poop shoot is.
Bum 2: You just don’t get it, do ya, Willy? You just don’t get how the double-jointed digit sliding up your lovecrack gives your Ball Park Frank a little extra plumpness. How frolicking around in your own ass cheese adds a little character to Johnsonville’s famous flavoring when you’re making jerk. You don’t even know.
As I ponder this insight, the bums walk past the truck and into the night. I hope they’ve resolved their differences before a screwdriver stabbing ensues.
Back in the alley, my partner in crime and I look at one another, shaking our heads, as if to say ‘close call.’
Our discussion gets back to the task at hand. For the last ninety minutes, we’ve been trying to go for the record books. 18 thefts down, just one sorority house to go before we hit the Yzerman-mark of 19 stolen composites. So far, we’ve gotten in and out cleaner than someone penetrating a stripper at a Duke Lacrosse party. Which isn’t saying much. And just like those guys, we just barely escaped prosecution.
I can tell by the look on his face that my partner is nervous about being caught. He says he’s worried that we’re “tempting fate.” I tell him not to worry, that I’ll drag my grey-haired ballsack across fate’s disfigured, whorish face. I imagine fate looks a lot like Hillary Clinton.
Naturally, this leads to a ten-minute argument in the back of the truck about how grey pubes make my scrote look distinguished. We are not the most focused of criminals.
After finally convincing him that the salt and pepper in my mane has the same sophisticating effect as Robin Williams’ beard in Good Will Hunting, we get in the truck. My buddy hops behind the wheel and turns on the ignition.
On the drive over to our final destination of the night, we break down our final opponent one last time. The only person who should be at this sorority right now is the house mom living on the first floor.
Now, this lady isn’t your run-of-the-mill Betty White-type. Oh no, she’s a total fucking beast. The girls call her Andrea the Giant. When sorority girls became such avid fans of WrestleMania, I have no idea.
That’s why my coconspirator and I decide to go with the Sensei Kreese approach: Strike first, strike hard, no mercy. We agree that only as a last resort will we sweep the leg. I tell my potential future county jail inmate that if we find the 60-year old, morbidly obese, yellow-toothed ogre guarding the front door upon our escape like she’s Jake Long, that he better drop his shoulder into the old bird and unload on her.
He looks at me flabbergasted, bringing the car to a screeching stop 500-feet away from the sorority house. He tells me that he cannot believe that I really intend for us to gang bukkake all over some poor, innocent house mom.
My friend is an overly-literal idiot.
We get out of the truck, and I take a gander at my partner-in-crime’s shitty park job. It’s gotta be at least three feet away from the curb, and I’m pretty sure that Quasimodo’s spine is more parallel. Nothing we can do about it though. I tell him that restarting the engine of the F-160 at this stage of the morning would be louder than a Bid-Week baby playing her first round of Just The Tip.
He corrects me, claiming his truck is actually called an F-150. I tell him I don’t care, and that I hope he puts that detail into his spank bank for the next time he violently masturbates to the UAW poster that is surely hanging over his bed.
We put on our Indiana Jones hat and unnecessarily flamboyant bandana respectively. We purchased them from the Salvation Army earlier that day. If there were security cameras anywhere during our crime spree, they might have captured the images of two men dressed like Lieutenant Dangle and Harrison Ford, but they definitely didn’t capture our faces.
We walk up to the targeted sorority house. By the time we’re a hundred feet away my heart is admittedly racing like I’m an American tourist trapped in a Rwandan hotel. This stone-covered mansion is pretty intimidating when all of the lights are off. Walt Disney himself built this house when he found out that his daughter was going Greek. No joke. I’m pretty sure that this place is the locale of Mickey Mouse’s first rapetorium.
We get up to the porch. I give my co-felon’s Chubbies a once-over. Now THAT’s a bulge that I’m sure is exactly what that company’s founders envisioned when they started developing prototypes. A real made-for-TV face of the company.
I glance down at my own star-spangled situation. Punxsutawney Phil is less scared of his own shadow. All I can hope for is that the splooge-covered racing sock straddled around my shriveled scrotum won’t make me less aerodynamic if he and I have to book it out of there.
I try to enter the door code that I got from a sheet pissing member of that chapter, one I had the fortune/misfortune of bedding a short time earlier. No go. But it’s a non-issue. This isn’t our first rodeo. We both instinctively take out our phones and get on the ole’ Wikipedia app to find out what this sorority’s founding date was. National? No go. Damn. Local? Boom. Unsurprisingly, this four digit number works perfectly. The brothel door becomes unlocked.
Women. They’re just like that new Will Ferrell movie: So hilariously predictable.
We go inside. Only 20 feet away, up on the wall, hangs the new composite. It’s just hanging there, waiting to be stolen like it was tween’s virginity at a One Direction concert. We grab the composite and sprint to the propped-open door.
Halfway out the door, I hear it. Orgasmic panting radiating out of the room on the right-side of the hallway. Damn. Sluts. He and I put down the pillaged loot. We decide to tell fate to go teabag itself one more time, and to go to crack open the door and take a looksee.
My pledge brother and I slowly pry open the first-floor bedroom door, and take a peak in. The diabetic, AARP card-carrying house-mom is bent over the dresser and getting ravenously taken from behind by the middle-aged busboy, a cheeky fellow named Raul, he is both confused and aroused. I wonder if Andrea didn’t lie and say this was part of the job description.
As I watched the American dream slowly die in Raul’s eyes, I glance over at my coconspirator, knowing that an alarm will ring any minute, and nudge him towards the door, as if to tell him to go back to the house with composite 19, that I’ll be fine here. He nods approvingly and leaves.
Walking over to the bed, I take off my shirt.
“Hi. JParks. Got an extra thumb?”
Follow me on Twitter @JParksTFM