Throwback Thursday: 5 Lessons From Caddyshack For Pledges
Ahoy, Polloi! All aboard the Flying WASP!
week ETERNITY approaches, I’d like to share some words of wisdom with the worst pledge class ever:
”It’s easy to not grin when the brothers come in, and you know your pledge ass will be beat, but the pledge worthwhile is the pledge who won’t smile, when a brother mocks the size of his meat.”
Congrats, pledge. You’ve made it this far without scratching your anchor. Cinderella story, outta nowhere. A former jizz mop, about to become the master of campus. With tears in your eyes, and about 195-yards to go, you’re gonna need about an 8-iron’s worth of advice. As you walk down the 18th fairway of your pledgeship, here are five lessons to reflect upon, courtesy of the greatest golf story ever written, Caddyshack.
Thank you very little.
5. Wanna Be Replaced By Golf Carts?
I’m going to put it right on the line. The brothers have had a lot of complaints already. Showing up late to lineups, gagging during “Home-cooked Meal Night,” and bending your knees at anything other than a perfect NINETY FUCKING DEGREES is unacceptable. If you pledges want to get blackballed, just keep it up. Think you’re almost out of the storm? The heavy stuff won’t be coming down for quite a while. The world needs ditch-diggers, too. You didn’t have to rush a fraternity. This isn’t Russia. Is this Russia? This isn’t Russia.
Let me tell you a little story. I once knew a pledge who could have been a great brother. All he needed was a little practice with his bows-and-toes. Pledged for four months, did pretty well. Near the end of his pledge term, he was blackballed. You know what for? He was night slutting with the 17-year-old girlfriend of his pledge master.
You know who that guy was?
That guy was Mitch Comstein, my roommate. He was a good guy.
4. We’re All Gonna Get Laid
Lacey Underall was rather attractive for a beautiful girl with a great body. Some people are into that kind of thing. However, in my eyes, she couldn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Crane or Mrs. Smails. Now those are two primo sorostitutes I’d let earn fourteen dollars the hard way. Wait up girls, I got a salami I gotta hide still.
I know that going a week without telling a slam to “bark like a dog for me” sucks, but if you survive hell week, trust me, you’ll need a flyswatter to bat away all the skirts asking you to luffa their stretch marks.
3. Gunga Galunga
Here’s an authentic tale from my own pledgeship:
During pledge retreat, we jumped ship down to our alpha chapter’s campus. A few of us made our way over to the chapter house. Their treasurer opened the door. He asked who we were. I told them I was a goat, you know, a pledge, a stomped duck, a rat fart.
Anyway, I tell him I’m a pledge. Who do you think he takes me to? The Molly Hammer, himself. He got his name from crushing up psychedelics with blunt instruments so he could dissolve them into his contact solution. The flowing shag, the cold sore on his lip, the smell of several Manhattans on his breath…he was striking.
So, I’m on the porch with him. I give him a cold one. He cracks the top, guzzles it, and projectiles (not much of a beer drinker, the Hammer).
We finish the 12-pack and he wants to haze me. I say, “Hey, Mr. Hammer, sir, how about goin’ easy on me, and I tell everyone it was me who vomited like a third-world model.” He says, “Oh, uh, there won’t be any mercy, but someday, when you get initiated in the hazement, you will receive total inebriation.”
So I had that goin’ for me, which was nice.
Bushwood has a strict “no caddies in the pool area” policy, and for good reason. A swimming pool is no place for synchronized shenanigans to the “Waltz of the Flowers.” Aquatically dancing to Tchaikovsky during daylight hours is terrible etiquette. You’ll have a noise statute claim on your hands in no time. Just look at what happened to poor Spaulding. With all that chaos going on, damn kid almost swam right into a nutty pincher.
Hell week might seem equally hectic to all you pieces of shit, but just like Bushwood’s pool, the brothers are actually inexplicably coordinated. It’s on you to be the doodie that rises to the surface.
You’re not being the doodie, Danny.
1. Au Revoir, Gopher
It’s hard out there for a rodent. You’re burrowing all day, and sleeping in filth at night. Peace and quiet is at a premium. Coming home to hot, interspecies sex with a clay-sculpted bunny is literally the only thing you’ve got going for you. All the while, a deranged, genocidal hobo with access to weapons of mass destruction is relentlessly stalking your furry brown ass.
Nobody worried about him, and he ended up alright. What’s your fucking excuse?
So pledges, as you prepare for hell week, I’ll leave you with this:
Do what the brothers say. Sit up straight. Never ask an active if he’ll have another drink, because it’s nobody’s goddamned business how much he’s had already. Keep your mouth shut. DO NOT EYE FUCK ME.
And whatever you do, be sure to ignore the words of the late philosopher Sasha:
“A sloot with no holes…is not a sloot. A Dunkin’ Donut with no hole…is a Munchkin.”
He was a GDI.