>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer
Simonne Cullen
November 9, 2003
You’ve seen them in Van Wilder, you’ve watched them in PCU, and you’ve envied them in Animal House. They were, are, and forever will be places of glory for all men, women, and virgins ages 18-23. I bestow upon you the exquisite beauty that is a frat house and its parties.
For the most part, universities across this great nation are blessed with a stellar Greek System—those that aren’t probably won’t be around much longer (with the exception of Notre Dame of course). My school may be small, but the Greek system here is the center of social activity. Almost every weekend one of the frats gives girls an excuse to dress slutty, and guys the chance to get ripped by throwing a party. And while the themes may be crappy everyone still shows up screaming Toga! Toga! Toga! Even if it's a barn dance.
Let me explain. This popular fraternity on my campus hosts an equally fashionable party called “Cocktails” every year. And that’s exactly what the party consists of—cocks, and tails for them to stick them in. Actually, it's an invitation only event complete with a specific dress code. More bluntly, it consists of a bunch of freshman girls specifically picked out from the orientation face book, and the hottest upperclassmen women harvested from experience—all who embark on a personal mission to wear the shortest, littlest black dress possible. And all this just to compete for guys who are so inebriated that they spend most of the night dancing with each other, or spilling three hundred dollars worth of booze onto the shortest, littlest black dresses…and the floor. It was a excellent affair, don't get me wrong. But if anyone had dropped a cigarette onto the alcohol soaked carpet, the entire house would have gone up in flames so fast it would make a French man fart cheese.
But back to the dress code of the party. To fit into these stylish, but very tight cocktail dresses we purchased Thursday afternoon, my friend Nancy and I decided to safeguard our figures and starve ourselves until after the party Saturday night. Going to a party thrown by the future leaders of Alcoholics Anonymous with nothing in our stomachs but accidentally-swallowed mint gum and a couple of pieces of kettle corn? Genius I tell you, pure genius. Two shots of tequila and ten minutes into the party, my friends stumbled up to me screaming “What’s up wasted?” and accidentally spilled their drinks on me, indicating they were just as far along as I was.
Here’s an idea that will never be trendy: maybe alcoholic beverages should be contained in McDonald’s-like, to-go cups with straws—because at frat parties, one of the following two scenarios is always taking place:
1. The obnoxious freshman chick stumbles over and spills her drink all over you, the incredibly hot upperclassman. She is embarrassed for about five minutes, but you’re embarrassed for the rest of the night because you now have a rum and coke stain resembling the state of New Jersey on your little black dress.
2. The drunkest guy accidentally makes eye contact with you, and, thinking he’s in, takes the quickest route to reel you in. You’re trapped as he whips out his white-men-can’t-groove dance and his cup tips all over you, soaking into a Jack Daniels stain resembling a silhouette of Abe Lincoln.
There’s always a victim, yes. But I'm not deluded into thinking plastic sippy-cups will ever become a reality just for the sake of accidental spillage.
Freshman year this nice girl on my floor who was also invited came into my room 30 minutes before the estimated time of departure wearing black pants, a long sleeve black turtleneck, and a light pink scarf. Now I know that showing off some skin will sometimes cause image complexes, but like Madonna said, “We are living in a material world.” She also should have mentioned that less fabric would get jewelry and valuable stock options a hell of a lot quicker. Seriously though, when you walk into a party where every other female is practically naked and you're wearing the equivalent of a snowsuit in northern Saskatchewan, the odds of you getting with your crush are slim to none…unless he is somehow drawn to you by that winter scarf you refuse to take off even though it's at least 90 degrees in the house.
I'd also like to reiterate that this was an invitation-only event. Shallow and superficial as this party may have been, it was designed that way for a specific reason—no one wants the 300-pound drunk dancing on the refreshments table to fall off and plummet into the crowd below with little warning—which is exactly what happened. I wasn't there when this egregious event took place but a friend who surveyed the damage said it was like King Kong falling off the Empire State Building…especially if the Empire State Building was located next door to a glass/aluminum recycling plant. Everyone watched in horror as those directly in the line of fire made permanent indentations into the carpet by a giant chiffon dressed gorilla—I mean sophomore. It is still unknown how she got into the house but the
investigation is still underway a year later.
Perhaps the most exciting aspect of these kinds of parties is waking up the next morning and trying to figure out who you are, where you are, who’s snoring next to you, and how the side of Abe Lincoln’s face got smeared all over the front part of your dress. And then there’s always the long walk of shame home, but that’s next week’s edition. Right now I have make a run to the dry cleaners.