March 2003 (v5 i5)
A sock on the doorknob since 1997
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I'm not actually that much fun
by A Frat Party, Contributing Writer

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you've heard, I know what your buddies have told you, I know what you've seen in movies. I'm sorry to have to burst your bubble, but someone is going to have to do it, and you might as well get it from the source—I'm not actually that fun.

Chances are, you've never actually been to a frat party—that's because you're ugly. Don't get me wrong—not all my component attendees are beautiful, but if you're not, you'd better have a really good excuse for being at me. Being in the frat is the best one. See the biggest misconception about frat parties is that if you show up to one of us, you're going to get laid—that's not true. If you're a girl, all you can really hope for is having your best denim Abercrombie skirt hiked up to your waist and getting clumsily penetrated by the semi-erect member of a "brother" who's so drunk, his buddy has to hold his Keystone Ice Light tall-boy for him while he works it for a couple seconds before either ejaculating prematurely or passing out—usually the latter. If you're a guy who doesn't deal drugs and didn't go to elementary school with at least half the fraternity, then you probably didn't get in to me, and if you did, then you'd better stay in the dark corner of the yard and listen to the Corey Morrow CD and keep your ass away from all the deer-in-the-headlights-looking girls the brothers worked so hard to get there after the football game.

Sometimes my organizers employ a theme—usually predicated on an arrogant or imperfect understanding of a tragic, senseless event that involved the deaths of many people-like the explosion of Pompeii or the US' involvement in Vietnam. It never works, though. Weekend after weekend, it's the same thing-white people standing around a dingy backyard or boring basketball court, listening to Jerry Jeff and drinking beer out of a trough. One other thing I have to get off my chest: West Campus appears to have a near-infinite supply of air-headed girls who wear those stupid narrow cowboy hats with the sides rolled up and have names like 'Masia.' You know who I'm talking about. You should keep away from them—unless you're a desperate greek with a melting stiffy.
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