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Frat Mystery Theatre: Who Banged Becky The Blimp?

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fat girl makeout

‘Twas a dark and stormy Saturday morning, and the inside of the fraternity house looked like a crime scene after the previous night’s festivities. Shattered glass and balled-up Solo cups were strewn everywhere. Mysterious liquids dripped from the walls and oozed from between the floorboards. A ferocious rain pelted the side of the house, and the power flickered on and off.

I sat at the table with several brothers chatting and eating a pledge-made breakfast of undercooked eggs and bacon. None of us remembered much of the night before. A gust of wind tore through a plastic bag covering a broken window and sent a chill down my spine. The air was heavy and filled with foreboding. Filled with tension. Filled with… mystery.

Then we heard heavy footsteps at the top of the staircase. The conversation at the table halted.

“What was that?” Balls whispered to me.

“I don’t know.”

The staircase creaked and the lights flickered.

“Who – who’s there?” I called.

The groans of the wooden staircase grew louder as the stranger made its way closer.

“Hello? HELLO?” I called again.


A crackle of thunder erupted, and the room went black. Balls gasped. We sat stone still in our chairs.


The stranger had reached the bottom of the stairs. Peering through the darkness, I made out a massive silhouetted figure standing in the hallway. Whatever it was, it was staring right at us.

“WHO’S THERE!?” I demanded.

Suddenly, the lights cut back on. Balls screamed.

Standing before us was Becky Blumenhauser, AKA Becky The Blimp, a violently rotund girl with a large, distended mole in the center of her forehead.

“Hey guys, cool party last night! See ya ‘round!”

Becky waddled out the front door and closed it behind her. We sat in silence. Then, Balls stood up and pounded a fist on the table.

“Alright. Which one of you did it?”


“Lucas? Was it you?”

Lucas shook his head.

“Shnazz? Dirty Dill? Struggles?”

Everyone stared at their plates. Now I stood up.

“Somebody went hogging last night. Nobody leaves ’til we get to the bottom of this,” I said. “Hodor, guard the exit.”

A stocky, 6-foot-four kid with a baby face and a blazer made his way to the front door, leaned against it, and crossed his arms.

“Keef, put on another pot of coffee,” I said. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

A crackle of thunder and a flash of lightning ripped through the air.

“Everyone in this house is a suspect.”


After a few hours of expert sleuthing, we narrowed the investigation down to three suspects.

– Struggles, who was in a vulnerable position after a recent break-up
– Moe, a known chubby chaser
– And Dirty Dill, who consumed a dangerous amount of molly before the party

“First to the stand, Mr. Struggles,” Balls announced.

Struggles took a seat next to a podium where President Fry stood. Balls paced back and forth in front of them. The rest of us sat as audience members.

“Mr. Struggles,” Balls said. “It is our understanding that you recently went through a break-up with a Miss Katy Winchett. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, man… fuck that bitch, man.”

Balls turned to the audience.

“Can we confirm that Miss Winchett is indeed a bitch?”

The crowd erupted.


Fry slammed the gavel.


He nodded at Balls.

“Now, Strugs,” Balls continued, “Would you say that in the wake of the break-up, you were in a state of mind that was… fragile? That would lead you to do things you wouldn’t normally do?”

“Naw man.”

Balls snapped his fingers. A pledge brought forward a smashed composite and held it up for the crowd.

“Mr. Struggles, would you please hold up your right hand?”

Struggles raised a bloody, bandaged hand into the air. The crowd gasped.

“Now, Struggles. We all know you’re not the punching inanimate objects type. Is it possible that during your drunken stupor instigated by the decided bitchiness of Katy, you destroyed the fraternity composite, then found solace in the powerful, squishy embrace of a Mrs. Becky The Blimp Blumenhauser?”

“Fuck no, man!”

“No further questions.”

Struggles returned to the audience. President Fry furiously scribbled on a notepad.

“We now call Moe to the stand,” Balls said.

Moe, a Jersey boy who hadn’t worn sleeves since he started binging creatine his sophomore year, leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. He was clearly flexing.

“Moe,” Balls said, “It is no secret to this fraternity that you are a bit of a… herdsman. Please enlighten us about the tradition you and a few brothers participate in every Friday.”

“Yeah, Fat Chick Friday… so what?”

“Please elaborate, Mr. Moe.”

“Okay, so me and Lucas and Shnazz put a few 20s in a hat and whoever bangs the fattest chick gets the pot. Whatevah. So what?”

A few laughs broke out in the crowd.

“You do realize that last night was Friday,” Balls said.


“So surely you saw Becky The Blimp as an easy way to win the challenge.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, I didn’t bang anyone. I got the clap.”

Moe stood up, turned his back to us, pulled his pants down, and pointed to a small circular band-aid on his right ass cheek.

“Still waitin’ for the shot to kick in, see?”

“Thank you, Moe,” Balls said. “You can return to the audience.”

It was now time for the final suspect, Dirty Dill, to take the stand. Dill was sweating profusely and gnashing his jaws like a cow chewing grass.

“Dill,” Balls said, “Everybody here is well aware of your love of MDMA.”

Dill stared forward blankly, his pupils the size of quarters.

“Everybody here is also well aware of the fact that when you consume enough MDMA, you tend to get a little… frisky.”

Dirty Dill nodded, but it was impossible to tell if it was in agreement, or if he was just moving to the beat of the EDM music blaring in his mind.

Balls snapped his fingers. A pledge wearing latex gloves carried a large standing lamp to the front. A few snickers escaped from the audience.

“Does this lamp look familiar to you, Dill?” Balls asked.

Dill continued to bob his head.

“Do you recall during last month’s party when you were, quote, so turnt on rolls, end quote, that you dry-humped this lamp in the corner of the room ’til you splooged in your pants?”

“Yeeeeahhh doooodd,” Dill said. “I was rollin’ sooo hard.”

“Given the fact that you had very public sex with an inanimate object in front of the entire chapter,” Balls said, “Would it be too outrageous for us to assume you would have sex with Becky The Blimp?”

Dill just stared ahead, blankly. Frustrated, Balls raised his voice.


Before Dill could respond, the frat hound, Levi, ran into the room with a handbag in his mouth. Balls pried it from the dog’s jaws and examined it. The bag was stitched with the monogram “BJB” and was coated in an orange powder. The initials clearly stood for Becky Blumenhauser. The orange powder?

Balls took a whiff of the unknown substance.

“Cheetos,” he said. “It’s Cheeto dust.”

Clearly, Becky wasn’t just horny that night. She was hungry, too.

“But we didn’t have any Cheetos at the party,” Moe said.

“You’re right, we didn’t,” Balls said. “That can mean only one thing – she brought these Cheetos herself.”

A crash of thunder rattled the house. Suddenly, we heard a scream from upstairs. The crowd rushed to the source of the cries to find Schnazz peering into his fish tank.

“Goldy,” he said. “She’s gone.”

This was all too much. Every clue brought more questions than answers.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text message from an unknown number, reading:

“I had a great time last night, we should do it again sometime ;)”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“What’s that text say, Boosh?” Balls asked.


“Let me see it.”


“Come on.”


“Let me –” he grabbed the top of the phone and wrestled it from my grip. “Ooooh, who’s this?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I said.

It was true. I had no recollection whatsoever of the party.

“You must have gotten lucky last night,” he said.

Balls stared at me for a moment.

“By the way, man, you got something on your face.”

I wiped my mouth.

“No the other side”

“Did I get it?”


Before I could wipe away the mess, President Fry grabbed my hand.


Fry leaned in close to my face and scratched his chin.


“What is it?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

He dragged a finger across my cheek and stuck it in his mouth.


His eyes grew wider.

“It’s Cheeto dust.”

The group stood there for a moment, completely stunned. They then took off for my bedroom. I hurried behind them.

“Come on, man. Unlock your door,” Balls demanded.

I begrudgingly pressed my key into the lock and opened the door. I stood in the doorway of the pitch-black room while my brothers peered over my shoulders. Lightning crashed, illuminating the room to reveal a massive pair of panties in the middle of my bed. No. This was impossible. I couldn’t. I didn’t.

“HAHAHA Boosh banged Becky The Blimp!” Balls laughed.

“No … no … I don’t remember … I … I …”


“But wait,” Shnazz blurted. “What happened to my fish?”

“Oh, I ate it,” Moe said. “Balls dared me to.”

“You fucking dicks,” Shnazz said.

The mystery had been solved. Most people headed out to go home, shower, and recover from the stressful series of events. I pulled out my phone and responded to the text from Becky:

“Got any plans tn?”

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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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