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Game Time: 6:30pm
The pledges wake up, exhausted from the night before, and begin thoroughly cleaning the house. Pledges are of course cleaning the house because the actives, in the their infinite and infallible wisdom, decided to throw a rager the night before.
Said rager was quite the shindig, complete with trashcans full of grain alcohol diluted with a brand of knock off Kool Aid called “Kewl Drink.” The brand’s customer base is varied but suffice it to say that, depending on the customer, the two most common forms of payment for Kewl Drink are food stamps or American Express.
The party also featured a shot luge, an impromptu “who hates this drywall the most” competition, a general disregard for health or safety, and a respect for designated trash receptacles that began to steeply decline roughly nineteen minutes after the party started.
The pledges clean furiously, battling the smell of stale beer and sloppy, half completed sex with all their might. After deploying enough Febreze to fill an Olympic swimming pool, the smell of the house is still at best moderately revolting. It was an uphill battle the pledges knew they could not win. The only entity capable of truly obliterating the smell is fire, which was not, unfortunately, a viable option.
The pledge trainer inspects the work. He is displeased. He expresses his displeasure with a series of statements that question the pledge class’ ability to perform simple tasks such as mopping, scrubbing, dusting, picking things up, finding their own penises, and using said penises. The exact quote was something along the lines of “I should’ve known you useless fuckboners* would fuck up cleaning since you sack ticklers can’t even find your own dicks, let alone use ‘em.”
*The pledge trainer was in throes of morning drunkenness and thus too mentally incapacitated to be capable of stringing together more coherent profanity.
The pledge trainer tells the pledges to get back to work and finds a couch to fall asleep on. Being what he considers precautious, the pledge trainer orders a pledge to Febreze the couch before he lays down on it.
The pledges are forced to stop cleaning as their time has run out. The fraternity house still smells like a bloated corpse that washed ashore from a sea of Keystone Light and queefed out the internal gasses brought on by its own decomposition. There was also a hint of Febreze.
The pledge trainer is awoken to inspect the work. He is predictably unhappy with their job, and through a series of fuck yous and ornery grunts the pledge trainer chastises the pledges for being “more useless than a collection of pencil thin dildos.”
The pledge trainer informs the pledges that they’ve let everyone down, including God, and that the alumni are going to be furious with the state of the house. A pledge wonders to himself why the alumni would be so upset with the current state of the house when they only plan to spend a few minutes in it prior to the game before returning afterwards to drunkenly pin number their way into the women’s bathroom (because it’s cleaner) and violently expel from their bowels the beer, a variety of dips, and undercooked hamburgers they consumed at tailgate before falling asleep on a couch, only to be woken up by their furious wives, who will then complain about the state of the fraternity house, specifically about the clogged toilet in the women’s room. The complaint will in turn force the alum, who has no sober recollection of clogging the toilet, to send an angry email to the president, who will inform the pledge trainer, who will then punish the pledges.
The pledge trainer orders the pledges to head towards the stadium and begin setting up the tailgate.
On their way out of the house the pledges encounter a few of the actives who have awakened. One of the actives complains about the state of the house. The active has apparently forgotten that the night before he had been seen in the trophy room honing his Louisville Chugger skills in preparation for the upcoming tailgate. When a pledge sober monitor asked the active why he was practicing in the trophy room the active simply replied “Fuck you pledge,” and “because greatness FUCKING INSPIRES ME,” then adding another “fuck you pledge,” for good measure.
Most of the pledges pack into cars and head out to the tailgate spot. A few of the stragglers are delayed by a stocky, 30-ish alum who has stopped by the house early with his family. The pledges apologize for the state of the house. The alum, however, informs them that he “doesn’t give a shit.” The alum introduces the pledges to his wife and four-year-old daughter. His wife and daughter excuse themselves and go inside while the alum casually chats with the pledges on subjects ranging from the success of his business to all of his daughter’s ultimately short lived siblings that he conceived within the walls of the fraternity house.
The pledge trainer comes outside, sees the pledges, and tells them to get to the tailgate before he “fucks them like the shaved pussies that they are.” The pledges scatter while the pledge trainer greets the alum, whom he addresses as “The Fertile Turtle,” presumably an allusion to the alum’s appearance and superhuman virility.