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Frat Heaven Is For Real

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Last year, a strict diet of campus-grade Chik-Fil-A and cheap vodka clogged my colon so severely that I didn’t take a shit for two whole weeks. When the king-sized log finally came to fruition, the force required to pass the burden caused me to blackout mid-dump. As I sat limp and unconscious on the toilet, my head in my lap and a ten-pound turd dangling from my gaping asshole, I experienced a prophetic vision.

First, I felt a warm, tingling sensation spread from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Then, I felt myself being lifted into the air. I looked down and saw my earthly body slumped forward on its porcelain throne. I slowly ascended higher and higher. Above the fraternity house. Above the campus. Above the city. Above the clouds. As I entered the stratosphere, a blinding tunnel of white light consumed me, and my senses failed.

When I was spat out the other end of the tunnel, no golden gates awaited me. Instead, there was a huge mansion with a row of towering, white, doric columns rising from the clouds. Beneath the letters “Gamma Omega Delta,” stood a white double door. I approached the threshold and knocked. The doors swung open. I stepped forward.

Inside, I found the wildest party I’d ever seen. The house was packed from wall to wall with fat-tittied angels in tube tops. In the middle of the mansion, Farrah Fawcett and Marilyn Monroe, both in their early 20s, frolicked in a fountain of beer, splashing each other and giggling. John F. Kennedy stood on the ledge.

“Ehrr um … step asoiide gals. I’m doiivin’ in.”

Kennedy belly-flopped into the fountain. When he surfaced, he plugged his nose and blew a spurt of beer through the bullet hole in his head.

“Look at me, gals. I’m a dawlphin.”

George Washington and Babe Ruth swung polo mallets as they rode by on gallant steeds. Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee clashed over a heated game of pong. Mozart stood at a DJ table, dropping fire beats while Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando finger-blasted angels on the dance floor. Off to the side, General Patton screamed at a group of guys in blazers doing push-ups.

On a sofa in the corner sat Ronald Reagan, who was taking massive hits from a golden, five-foot bong. Reagan put the bong down, coughed, and walked up to me.

“Who do you know here?”

“I uhhh … umm …”


“No one, sir. I kinda just ended up here.”

“Ah, so you’re a pledge.”

“Well I –“


I grabbed a golden Solo cup and scooped a frothy helping from the fountain. As I walked back towards Reagan, a stray polo ball cranked me in the back of the head. I stumbled forward, spilling the beer all over the 40th president.

“JESUS CHRIST!” he exclaimed.

A guy with long hair and a scraggly beard covered in white powder popped his head out of the bathroom.


“Nothing, Jesus,” Reagan said.

“Oh, okay,” Jesus said, ducking his head back in the bathroom.

Reagan turned to me.

“He’s a legacy. As for you – you done fucked up, pledge pussy. Get in the basement. Now.”

He grabbed me by the collar and led me down a winding staircase. When we reached the basement, he took a massive paddle off the wall.

“Take everything out of your back pockets and put your hands on the wall, ” he said. “If you flinch, you get two.”

I walked to the far wall, assumed the position, closed my eyes, and braced for impact. I took a deep breath.

Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Whatever you do, don’t flinch.

I heard Reagan’s heavy footsteps as he sprinted towards me, then – SMACK.

I lurched forward in pain as the paddle cracked across my ass.

“Nice one, Ray!” Jesus called from upstairs.

“Way to take it like a man,” Reagan told me. “Now, are you ready to rage?”

I nodded. Reagan reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of ecstasy pills, and handed one to me.

“Mr. Buscemi, let’s tear down these walls.”

The rest of the night blurred into a hazy shmorgishborg of random events. In one instant, I’m grinding on Joan of Arc to DJ Mozart’s weird dubstep remix of Symphony No. 40. In the next, I’m railing lines of coke off a stripper’s ass with Freud while he asks her about her relationship with her father. Then, I’m riding shotgun in a golf cart with Reagan. He takes a heavy pull from a bottle of Jack and swerves towards the side of the mansion.

“Look out!” I shouted.

“Reeeelax, pussy! We’re already dead!”

He floored the cart. I covered my eyes. I felt my body launch over the front of the cart as it hit the wall.


I jolted awake on the toilet. A foul smell wafted from between my legs. I wiped my crack, flushed the toilet, and walked over to the mirror. I rinsed my hands and stared at my reflection in the mirror, stunned that it was all just a crazy dream. Then, I noticed a stinging pain across my ass cheeks. I pulled down my pants and looked over my shoulder in the mirror. A large, red, paddle-sized welt stretched across both buns. No way. Could it be? A gust of wind blew in through an open window. It seemed to whisper in my ear: Puuussssayyyyy.

Image via Shutterstock

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Alex Buscemi

AKA Boosh. Former high school back-up wide receiver. Author of two pretty successful Reddit comments. Recent grad from the University of South Carolina.

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