At The Black Sheep we appreciate tips from anyone around campus, especially our regular contributors who help us get the stories you want to read. This letter, written in a familiar handwriting was found outside Hillman while one of our writers was desperately trying to see the moon late Sunday night.
I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me, but this weekend was too nuts for me not to stick my bushy tail in it. You’ve seen what I’ve had to say about Bid Day, but oh my Gallagher are you in for a treat.
Thursday night, I was minding my own business, chilling in a tree outside Hillman, when I spotted a group of girls making their way to the 10A stop. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, when I realized—they were all dressed very… scantily. I followed them across the road, dodging a bike (#AllPedestriansMatter), and perched myself where I could easily hear their conversation while they waited.
“OOOOOOOOHHHH MY GOD,” was a really common phrase, usually followed by “I can’t buh-leeeve we pre-gamed THAT hard.” There were a few quips of, “I can’t buh-leeeve you’re already THIS drunk,” and the usual “Ohmigod can’t you just be quiet for two seconds?? Get your sober face on.”
The large pack of girls kept throwing around Delta this, Zeta that, and were dressed to kill…themselves by falling over in their ridiculous heels. Honey, you’re going to a gross basement. You’re probably going to get puked on. Don’t make it worse by wobbling like a baby giraffe on ice skates the entire time. Wedges are your friend.
Because of these girls I realized that this wasn’t any ordinary #ThirstyThursday, this was 501. The mythical time in every Greek’s life when they are finally allowed to be drunk in public after recruitment. So named after the “time” that frats are supposedly allowed to continue their casual debauchery, 5:01 p.m., it is synonymous with how trashy South O can really get.
The second night, 502, did not disappoint. I followed a group into the depths of South O, and as if frats couldn’t get frattier, the theme was literally Frat. The girls dressed in button up shirts and Sperry’s. Their mothers will weep when they see puke stains all over a $90 pair of shoes.
These girls were quieter, so ya home-squirrel decided to branch off and explore more of South O. I ended up slipping into another 502 party (these landlords need to seal windows properly), and witnessed some of the worst drunk dancing that has ever existed.
This party theme was ABC; anything but confidence, as everyone felt incredibly awkward in costumes thrown together with random junk. I was incredibly impressed by the guy in the desk outfit, and I did see some pretty complex bed sheet togas.
The aftermath of 502 was much more impressive than its predecessors’. Atwood was lined with vomit and discarded pizza boxes, as it was meant to be. All the pent up alcoholism that had been curbed by the recruitment process was wreaking havoc akin to Market stir fry.
Everyone seemed to rally hard for 503, including me. It’s hard work running all over Oakland, but I do love me some leftover pizza crusts, so a squirrel’s gotta do what a squirrel’s gotta do. Saturday night brought the first official unofficial FUCK PENN STATE chant, which I promptly joined in with. I heard a few cries of, “IS THAT A RAT?? ew,” which frankly, were pretty offensive. Can’t you see my tail?
Anyway, 503 was much quieter, because most of the booze was gone and energy levels had fallen dramatically. I did see a mass exodus from across the Boulevard, which was frankly terrifying. Everyone knows you don’t go past the Boulevard for anything.
Well, my favorite campus inhabitants, until next time, you can catch me chilling in my favorite tree outside of the Union.
Remember, if it’s embarrassing, I’ll be there… Watching.