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.