I was digging through my embarrassingly large collection of tees tonight and found my tye dye “Beach Party 1998” shirt. The fact I own a tye dye shirt probably is causing a stroke in someone, since my hatred of stinky hippies has been well established over the years. You’re 65, you’re not fighting the man anymore, jackass. Take a shower.
The nostalgia was washed away by the sadness of realizing that party was over 14 years ago. I drank from 11 am to 4 am (thanks, Ripped Fuels!) and did donkey kicks on the roof’s edge to mess with my buddy, not realizing this is how horrible frat stories start with the ending, “Then they shut the house down.” I was nuts before I got in, so suck it man! Shit, now I sound like a hippie.
We had other fun ones, like “It’s 3 am, do you know where your girlfriend is?” and “You may not like us, but your girlfriend does!” We were very original, obviously. Ah college. I remember the douches who wouldn’t pay dues, steal beers, and raid the kitchen for their own houses, but had every fraternity shirt! Even more memorable are the shirts, mugs, and other frat items that I would still have, but some klepto sorority tarts pilfered from my room while I shot pool. One young lady even turned me in to Student Life because I “stole” a mug off her…which she had stolen from me three years earlier. How did I know? I had written my name on the bottom. Guess what tramp got the patented Chris Coen house ban? That’s right, thief. Cry and scream it’s not fair while 120 people party just through that door…the tears…they make me stronger…ha ha ha ha! (arms extended, head tilted back, lightning and smoke)