Seeing as that my formal "thinking" as a college student is basically over, I've decided to return to my roots. Roots? Might you ask thee; here's a hint: "Fuck you Sarah, you tried to rape me, so I puke on you." For those of you not blessed enough to understand this juicy quote, I'll recap the story. New Year's 02', drank a 30-pack, passed out, girlfriend attempted sex, woke up and puked on her. Spicy. Now that I have established my credit as a journalist, I'll move on to the next leg in the journey called Wheeler. The date is January 2005, the game is Power Hour, the ride is a 92' Volvo wagon. No turbo. However, there was a button that caused the engine to drop a gear, which I would press in an attempt to pass people on my 900 hour ride to New Jersey. This is irrelevant, but what is relevant is that the Volvo blows nuts, which will be discussed as is necessary, later in this classy tale. So Brandon Slavy is in town, which spells disaster any way you look at it. Since I am a member of the fine establishment of Alpha Sigma Phi (balls), that night I was appointed to the prestigious position of designated driver, until 3 am. One would think that this would mean a safe night, but I wouldn't say I was so "designated." Anyway, since I'd been avoiding everyone's' calls all night, and drinking and driving instead, I decided to pick up when I saw Geoff Wilson's name scroll across the old talk-box. When I pulled up to my last customers of the night, Slavy was clutching a keg like a grandma holding a cantaloupe at clearance sale at Sam's Club®. I thought it looked normal, but apparently the keg was stolen, from the Real McCoy, none-the-less . Eventually, we return to the social club called 400 J Houston Street. With our own keg to indulge in, we go to town, so to speak. Since Slavy has reached the level of inebriation that kills 5 camels, he is out like a retard in a spelling bee. And since everyone has retired to their chambers besides Geoff and myself, we decide to take part in an elegant event called Power Hour. The time is 5 am, perfect. During the hour, we attempt to wake up Slavy several times. Being in the Terry-Shaivo-state that he is, the Timberland boot across the face has no effect. Neither does the glass candle holder I spike on his head. As Power Hour is coming to a close, the sun starts peaking through the shades. "Glorious!" we declare, "Let's cruise town in the wagon." After realizing no one is in town at 7 am, we decide to drive to the top of Brush Mountain, because that's what you do when you're drunk driving on a Sunday morning. Because the road is completely covered in snow, I give the beast some juice, and gun it. In delightful moment of drunkenness, I crash the car into a ditch, just before the top of the mountain. As Geoff is making calls for our rescue, I take a shit in the snow. Geoff validates that this was an enormous shit, perfect in both quantity and quality. After passing out in the Volvo, with the engine on, I wake up as someone is banging on the window. As we leave the Volvo behind, and Bryant is driving us back to the social club, Geoff and I decide to play Power Hour again, for good measure. This hour is 10 am. Chu joins us in this noble effort. Within 15 minutes, all of us projectile puked, like a bunch of cancer patients being forced their morning oatmeal. Matt Wheeler went on to attend the Alpha Sigma Phi fraternity meeting, whereupon being kicked out, refused to leave, and instead did snow angels in a bunch of Styrofoam peanuts. Geoff Wilson went on to attend Red Lobster with Brandon Slavy and his roommates. The Volvo went on to become even shittier, and eventually landed in the hands of Bad-Ass-Bobby Wheeler, where it will eventually be refurbished into a motorboat. Oh, and if you were wondering, this story has nothing to do with its title; my stolen laptop crashed several times while writing this ingenious memoir, prompting me to get the psychotic urge to smash it, Office Space style.