I am in a frat. “Right on, bro!” you drunkenly slur.  

Calm down, Champ. Don’t get your Chubbies all caught up in a bunch, because I may be one of the non-frattiest people I know. For those who don’t know (i.e. old people, high school students whose only knowledge of fraternal affairs is from TFM, illiterates, dyslexics, etc.), non-affiliated members of Greek society are often referred to as a three-letter acronym that can not be spoken, here. Loosely translated, this is someone who isn’t involved in Greek life, often because they have the misconception that Greek life is nothing but a superficial attempt to use daddy’s money to buy friends and secure your inevitable spot on the list for a liver transplant. 

This is, absolutely, not true! Sometimes it’s mommy’s money, and getting on the list for a liver transplant is a very long and difficult process. Regardless of the reasoning, being referred to as non-fratty is usually derogatory and, as a member of a frat, you’d rather get your Sperrys puked on, or eaten by a beluga whale on one of your boating expeditions, than have your fratiness questioned. 

But, alas, I have been cursed with the genes of a non-fratty man and, damn it, I am who I am, so here are some of the sins I have committed as a member of a fraternity, as I continue to find new ways to expose my true, inner lameness.

I make the 2-beer-queer look like a tank. You know that Isaac Newton guy and his whole theory of that gravity thing, and how things that go up must come down? Well, I like to think of my drinking capabilities as just me arguing the validity of his theory, because for me, what goes down usually comes up. Take that, science! 

My favorite bar on campus is Underground. During a typical week, I’ll probably go out twice, maybe even three times, if I’m feeling particularly badass that week. I may even go out when I have homework due the next day. However, in the rare event that I do go out, I have found that I’m not attracted to the biggest three bars when it comes to Greek life. I find the seizure and asthma inducing dance floor at Joe's unpleasant. Nor do I particularly enjoy my feet being stuck to the ground like quicksand at Kams, as their trademark smell of regret and poor decisions fills my nostrils. And I’m pretty sure STDs are airborne spread at Red Lion, so I usually try to avoid these spots, as images of seventh grade health class still haunt my mind. 

So, where do I like to go? Underground, where the drinks flow cheap, and the chance for any kind of social interaction is insignificant, as they tend to draw a small, weird crowd. You know, the kind of people who wax their mustaches as they complain about how that one band you never heard of used to be so much better before they sold out, man. Screw those people.

The music at bars makes me want to unleash my inner VanGough. Seriously, with all of the bass that these DJs are dropping, they must make for terrible fishermen. And if I hear, “Wagon Wheel,” one more freaking time, I’m going to smack Darius Rucker back into the 90s when he actually used to make some pretty good dad music with Hootie and the Blowfish.

My pants are tight enough to raise my voice an octave. I envy the frat bros who live life by the “sky’s out, thighs out” motto. You know how hard it is to adjust yourself  when your pants are trying their hardest to cut off the circulation to your legs? Trust me, gentlemen, none of the techniques work while wearing skinny jeans. Not the side lean, not the long step to stretch yourself out, not even putting your hands in your pockets to discreetly adjust. Nothing works.    

I have no shame in drinking girly drinks. Go ahead and call me names and mock me, and question my manhood. My drink will probably have a nice fancy umbrella that will catch my tears.

I own, and sometimes wear, a pair of cargos. This is the ultimate no-no -- the granddaddy of sins when it comes to being a frat bro. You could sleep with all of your fraternity brother’s moms and their sisters, and not call them back, and you would still be shamed more for wearing a pair of cargos. But, you know what? I wear my cargos with pride and I proudly display how much stuff I could fit in all of those pockets if there were ever a need! Until that day comes, I'll just be quietly sipping on a cranberry vodka in the corner of Underground.