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You wake up with a splitting headache. Several empty bottles of Whistle Belly are scattered across your hay cot. You notice a rather bawdy wench stirring awake beside you.
“Good morrow,” she says, smiling to reveal a set of wooden dentures.
Bejabbers! you think to yourself. You can practically smell the siphylis on this one. Thank God you remembered to wear your linen penis sheath. She looks over at you longingly and runs her fingers across your chest.
“Shall I slide your gaying instrument into my crinkum crankum?” she asks.
You shove her off.
“Consarn! I’ve got a meeting with my literary society in a fortminute. Off with you, dandy prat! Off with you, I say!”
She collects her regent dress and hurries off. You slide on your tights, button your coat, buckle your shoes, and hop on your gallant steed.
As your steed trots along the cobblestone street to your literary society meeting, you notice a fair maiden fanning herself outside the butcher shop. You puff out the frilly lace on your chest and tip your four corner hat in her direction. She swoons. Bitches love the frilly lace.
You tie off your horse outside the Phi Beta Kappa assembly hall and make your way inside, where your brothers sit in a massive library full of books collected over the years by previous members. The group is hard at work preparing for the upcoming debate against the rival literary society, The American Whigs. You saunter down the row, chatting up your postcolonial homies.
“How do you fare, Chadwick?”
“I prithee you’ll accompany me to the tavern later, Hancock.”
“Chill breeches, Abner.”
Suddenly, the door of the assembly hall flings open. A man shouts, “Shove this up your fart catchers, you Niffy Naffies!” and tosses a stink bomb into the middle of the room. You cover your nose with a handkerchief as a putrid smell fills the room.
“Damn you, American Whiiigs!” you shout into the heavens.
You wake up stone sober. You’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be drunk by now. Prohibition has been in full effect since before college started, meaning it’s harder than ever to catch a buzz. A girl stirs awake beside you.
“Good mornin’,” she says.
She’s got a trashy bob hairdo. A flapper. Good thing you made her wear one of those newfangled latex vaginal barriers. You look at the clock and realize the speakeasy your fraternity rented out opens in thirty minutes.
“Skedaddle, toots,” you say. “I gotta date at the speakeasy with the fellas, see?”
You throw on your tall pants and pinstripe topcoat and start walking to the secret bar. You duck into a grocery store, knock on a door in the back, recite the password, and walk on in.
Inside, everybody is swinging to jazz music. The dolls are showing so much ankle that it’s got you all hot and bothered. You walk past the bar and chat up your brothers.
“Stiff glass uh hooch ain’t it, Tim?”
“Marino, ya ole ginzo. How’s it shakin’?”
“Why I oughtta give you a knuckle sammich, Bobby.”
Suddenly, the door of the speakeasy flings open. It’s the coppers!
“Put ’em up, see?” the copper says. “The boys over at Beta house tipped us off to your little wingding.”
“Damn you Beeetaa!” you shout into the heavens.
You wake up in the morning next to your woman, who you’ve been going steady with for a while now. A good, sturdy broad. She’ll be a fine housewife someday. Damn fine.
“Mornin Daddy-O,'” she says.
“Get outta here, Tammy,” you say. “If the house mom catches me with a girl in here I’ll be toast. I’ll pick you up later tonight.”
When evening comes, you throw on your salmon-colored cardigan sweater, hop in your ’51 Cadillac, and pick up Tammy. You drive her to the diner your fraternity rented out for the evening and help your lady out of the car.
Inside, women in pleated dresses dance the jitterbug to Elvis, which is blaring from a jukebox. You walk to a table where your brothers are sitting and chat them up.
“That’s a mean set of wheels you rolled up in, Shmitty.”
“I’ve got my eye on you, Chekov, ya Soviet.”
“I better not see you lockin’ lips with that floozie on the first date, Carter.”
Suddenly, a siren pierces the sky. This is it. What everyone had been fearing more than anything: a nuclear attack from the U.S.S.R. The party ducks under the tables and assumes the position.
Suddenly, the siren stops. You hear laughing. You come up from under the table to see a group of Betas standing in the doorway with a megaphone. A Beta brother presses a button on the side of the megaphone and the siren sound resumes.
“Damn you Beeetaa!” you shout into the heavens.
You wake up next to a hippy chick with dirty hair and an even dirtier bush. Good thing you remembered to wear a… oh, well. Free love, you guess.
“Morning, spirit bear,” she says.
Dear God, you think to yourself. Why did I agree to take LSD last night?
Then you realize your fraternity’s house party starts in thirty minutes. You throw on two polo shirts and pop the collars on both. As you head to the party, you walk indifferently past a group of students protesting the Vietnam war. Getting drafted isn’t a problem for you, Old Money.
You enter the party, which is like a scene straight out of Animal House. A dozen kegs. Holes in the walls. Everybody’s dancing to “Shout” by the Isley Brothers.
Suddenly, the front door flings open, and a herd of pigs storm through the front door, squealing and farting and biting at people’s ankles. Women flock out the door. The letters, “BETA” are spray-painted on the side of the pigs.
“Damn you Beeetaaa!” you shout to the heavens.
You wake up with a splitting headache. The girl you matched with on Tinder last night is already getting dressed.
“You’re on the pill, right?” you ask.
“Duh,” she says before walking out the door.
Your iPhone alarm goes off, reminding you to go to chapter in thirty minutes. You slide into your Chubbies, throw on a Vineyard Vines polo, and head to the fraternity house.
As you walk, the wubs and booms of dubstep blast from a passing car. You stroll into the house, where your brothers are discussing who would be the best at what position in the upcoming IM football game against your rival fraternity, Beta. You dap up your boys as you make your way to a seat in the back.
“I saw you grindin’ on that sloot last night, Balls. Did you slam?”
“You tryna smoke and chell after this, Spencer?”
“Hey Shnazz, lemme get some Addy for finals next week.”
The chapter president bangs his gavel abruptly. He says he’s got some bad news. Unfortunately, someone took a Snapchat of last weekend’s hazing session and now we’re facing an interview with nationals.
“Damn you interneeet!” you shout to the heavens..