NEW TFM Videos Section

Watch thousands of hilarious videos from college campuses across the country.

Watch Now

Drugged In Gulf Shores, Alabama

======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====

In honor of spring break, here is an appropriate excerpt from chapter 10 of the The New York Times Bestselling book, Total Frat Move.

Spring Break Excerpt From 'Total Frat Move'

Naked Nate Is Drugged

Our senior year we headed to Gulf Shores, Alabama, for Spring Break, where we had rented a beach house that slept sixteen, eight Alphas and eight girls. Nate was the only one of us who wasn’t twenty-one, but he had a flawless fake ID that he had been using since we were pledges. It scanned, had all the right shit show up under a black light, and had never been turned down. Alabama police were notoriously hardcore about busting fake IDs during Spring Break, but Nate wasn’t worried.

“This thing is unstoppable,” he said. “I could use it to board a fucking airplane as Mr. Paul Allen.”

Most of the girls staying in our house were smokeshows, and a few were even dating material, but one was a latch‑on that we just couldn’t shake. All around she was the creepiest and most annoying girl I had ever met. She weighed at least 180, and that’s probably the nicest thing I can say about her. One time I woke up in the frat castle and she was sitting at my desk slurping an iced coffee and watching me sleep. It was terrifying, and to this day I sleep with my bedroom door locked. Regrettably, sometimes girls come in package deals where you have to accept an extremely sore thumb in order to hang with her hot friends. Our sore thumb’s name was Morgan, and unfortunately for Nate she had recently become obsessed with him. All Nate’s friends, myself included, had assured Morgan that Nate was interested in order to further complicate the situation for him.

The first night of the trip Morgan was gunning hard for Nate. The drunker she got the more painfully and awkwardly obvious it became. During a game of flip cup on the beach house balcony she walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her face to his back, and just stood there for a few minutes while he went on playing. It temporarily weakened the collective morale of our group. Regardless, Nate managed to fend her off. Around 3:30 a.m. when we were all drinking on the patio he oddly announced that he was going to take a piss, locked himself in the room he was supposed to be sharing with me, and passed out. That led to Morgan repeatedly asking me, “Are you sure he’s okay in there? Maybe we should kick the door in.” For a while I considered it, but decided to pass out on the couch like a good friend.

On the second night we all went out to the bar a few blocks away and Nate took 40 milligrams of Adderall to make sure he could stay out drinking longer than Morgan. After the bar closed we headed to another beach house that some younger Alphas had rented and combined forces for a giant beach party. Morgan valiantly tried to keep up with Nate until 4 a.m. before she conceded and headed back to our house to crash. Nate didn’t come home until 5:30 a.m., just to be safe and make sure she was asleep. But on the third day of the trip, after two nights of gentle rejection, Morgan was fed up and decided to take matters into her own disturbingly large hands.

We all went out to dinner, and that’s when things started to get weird. Morgan practically stiff-armed her way through the other girls to get a seat next to Nate, which was pretty standard behavior for her. But later, when we were waiting on dessert, Rogers spilled his drink on himself and all of us started laughing. It was funny for a few seconds . . . but Nate didn’t stop. He cackled uncontrollably and obnoxiously slapped his hands on the table, knocking silverware everywhere. After a few minutes a waiter came over and asked if he could please wait outside until we had paid our bill. I walked him out and told him to smoke a cigarette to calm down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked. “Did you hit the goddamn vaporizer with Turbo?”

He couldn’t even talk, just shook his head and kept snickering like a fucking idiot while he pulled on his cigarette. I figured he must have eaten a weed brownie or something, so I just kept drinking and expected that time would cure his delusional behavior. It didn’t.

An hour later we were at Flora-Bama in Perdido Key (on the Alabama/Florida border, about fifteen miles from our beach house) when I looked down the bar and saw Nate with his shirt off, waving it over his head while he wiggled out of his pants and Morgan cheered him on. A bouncer was trying to pull his shirt back down over his head when I ran over to help keep him from stripping down.

“Woah, woah, Nate, keep your fucking pants on!”

“This is no‑man’s‑land!” he yelled toward the ceiling with his arms stretched overhead as the bouncer re‑dressed him.

Nate had officially transformed into Naked Nate, also known as The Nude. I had seen him do this plenty of times, but considering the circumstances it was less funny and more annoying than usual. I had to slide the bouncer a $20 bill and insist that he’d behave before he let Naked Nate stay inside the bar. I got him to put his fucking shirt back on and then pulled him back toward our table. I didn’t let go of his arm until I was ready to take a seat, because I knew he would undress again the first chance he got, but when I reached for my drink the slippery fuck made a break for the door.

“That’s it,” I said. “Your turn, Turbo. You gave him the drugs, you babysit him.”

“I didn’t give him shit,” he said. “Nothing I take makes you into a fucking nudist, but fine. I’ll grab him.”

“Maybe I should come,” Morgan offered with a creepily exaggerated smile on her face.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Turbo. “I’m just going to get him in a cab back to the house.”

He took off through the crowd and I went back to drinking and hitting on some Zetas from Florida. Fifteen minutes later Morgan stumbled up to me on the dance floor with tears in her eyes.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“I might’ve done something bad,” she said, swaying and biting her nails.

“What’d you do?”

“I just wanted him to like me! I just wanted him to relax!”

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. “What the fuck
did you do?”

“Just two Ambien! That’s all! I put them in his beer.”

“Oh fuck.”

Turbo ran up to us and said he couldn’t find Nate anywhere. We ran back outside together, but he was nowhere to be found. We drove around the surrounding streets for a half hour before heading back to our house to see if maybe he got a cab home, but he wasn’t there either.

After calling the jails and every hotel, I sacked up and called the hospitals on both sides of the border. To our relief, it turned out Nate was indeed checked in with a broken ankle, but at the hospital across the state line in Florida. I asked when we could pick him up, but the nurse said he would be booked in at the county jail in the morning because he had been arrested for public intoxication and evading arrest before being brought to the emergency room.

Nate didn’t remember a single fucking thing when the police woke him up in the hospital bed at 5 a.m. the next morning, but when the officer called him “Paul” and he checked his hospital wristband and saw “Paul Allen,” he realized something had gone terribly wrong. He had Band-Aids on his arm from where they drew blood, and a cast on his left foot where he fractured his ankle. Once his lawyers got their hands on the police report he emailed it out to our entire chapter.

Officer Jim Young’s Narrative

(Mr. Nathan Johnson is referred to as “Mr. Allen” due to false government documentation)

March 16 1322

Officer Jacobs and I were dispatched to the Waffle House at 17352 Perdido Key to investigate a disturbing the peace complaint that was called in by a Ms. [Redacted].

Upon approach we saw Mr. Paul Allen climbing a palm tree shirtless, at which time I shined my vehicle’s spotlight on his back and told him to come down immediately. Mr. Allen did not comply and continued to climb, so I stepped out of my vehicle and approached the tree. When I shined my flashlight at the base of the tree and again told Mr. Allen to descend using my light as a guide, he removed his pants along with his underwear and threw them down at me before shouting an expletive, leaping from the tree and running down the 600 block.

Ofc Jacobs took out his taser and fired at Mr. Allen, missing short as he ran. Ofc Jacobs then pursued the suspect on foot and I reentered my vehicle and followed Ofc Jacobs in pursuit of Mr. Allen across the street. The suspect was nearly hit by traffic on his way into a bank parking lot.

Ofc Jacobs caught up to Mr. Allen and brought him down by the waist, pinning his legs beneath Ofc Jacobs’s torso during the fall.

Mr. Allen continued to resist Ofc Jacobs by yelling “rape” repeatedly and trying to wiggle free. At this point I exited my vehicle and applied my handcuffs to the suspect. His ankle was badly twisted when he was tackled so I radioed for an ambo. After wrapping his nude body in a towel and talking with Mr. Allen I noted a strong odor of an alcoholic beverage coming from his breath and/or person. He was badly slurring his words and having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Mr. Allen was then notified he was being charged with Public Intoxication and Evading Arrest, but would first be taken to the emergency room to be treated for his injury . . .

In the end Nate decided not to press charges against Morgan after his charges were dropped when his lawyer convinced the judge that he was randomly drugged at a bar, citing his blood work as evidence.

When I asked him if he’d rather take a PI and resisting arrest charge or let Morgan ride him like a horse he said, “I would rather fuck a pine cone every night for the rest of my life.”


When living a lifestyle that pretty much depends upon breaking the rules, legal issues are bound to come up. This leads to hilarious encounters with the police, a misplaced sense of pride in being arrested, and the overall feeling that the fraternity is above the law . . .

On Breaking the Law

Doing something you shouldn’t just because everyone is chanting your name. TFM.

Calling shotgun when being escorted to a cop car. TFM.

Waking up in the hospital with your fake ID’s name on your wristband. TFM.

Asking your arresting officer if you can hang your blazer in the front seat. TFM.

Being known as “the drunk guy” in the drunk tank. TFM.

Getting pulled over and letting the cop off with a warning. TFM.

Leaving out the words “court mandated” when telling your mom about your community service hours. TFM.

Asking campus police when the real cops are going to show up. TFM.

Carpooling to your court date with the judge. TFM.

Being mistaken for one of the lawyers in court. TFM.

Adding the final exam for court ordered DUI school to the fraternity test bank. TFM.

When you’re with people that matter, the illegal things you do don’t. TFM.

The great lawyers of tomorrow breaking and absurd number of laws today. TFM.




Barnes & Noble

Email this to a friend

Ross Bolen

Ross Bolen is a New York Times Bestselling author, host of the Oysters, Clams & Cockles podcast, host of the Back Door Cover podcast, Rockets, Astros and Texans internet mascot, cheese enchilada aficionado, nap god, 2017 Masters attendee, and Editor-in-Chief of Grandex Media.

25 Comments You must log in to comment, or create an account
Show Comments

Download Our App

Take TFM with you. Get

The Feed