Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

The night is finally upon us. It feels as if it only comes around once in a century; almost like Halley’s Comet. It is a joyous occasion where friends congregate in honor of the hard work that they all put in since the last time this wondrous event had come around. There is ceremonial music and dancing. People dress up in their most proper attire to ready themselves for the night ahead. The night in question, the phenomenon that I speak of, happens to be known as Thursty Thursday.

Although it seems as if there have been many a Thursty Thursday, most of them go by the same schedule. There is a strict routine that I have observed in my two year tenure here at college that begins with the ending of another event…classes. As I have seen, Friday classes are almost nonexistent at college. Unless you are one of the poor saps whose schedule simply forced you to take a class on that holy day of rest, a Friday class may not have ever crossed your path. I know I have never come across a Friday class, but I shudder at the thought of even thinking about waking up before noon-thirty on a Friday. I had no idea that there was even a nine A.M. at college; I have only had one class that started prior to 11 o’clock. As the sun sets on the last class on a Thursday, anticipation of the night ahead builds. Excitement flourishes, for we will be getting shit-faced.

As everyone begins to retreat back to the dorms from their last class, one can take notice of the music that starts to blare through the halls. Many of these songs are either the same song or sound exactly alike. They all have a bumping bass and a catchy chorus; many feature a hook by Akon and a short rap by Lil Wayne somewhere in the middle of the song. Girls prep themselves for what seems to be days. For some reason, it takes them hours to get their hair and clothes to look as whore-like as possible. When they finally decide on the typical see-through shirt and black leggings, they are ready. Guys, on the other hand, can shower and be dressed in two and a half minutes (and that’s a slow guy). Except for my roommate. He somehow manages to take just as long, if not longer, than a girl getting ready for prom. He must check himself out in the mirror the entire time he does this too. Once he toils with his hair for an hour, until it is just right (even though it looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago), he must fix his shirt to make a failed attempt at hiding his massive beer belly. He thinks he’ll get laid…what a poor misconception. He would have to find the drunkest and fugliest girl to even get a handy. Nonetheless, back to the tale at hand.

After people are finally ready, it is time to pregame. This means you get retarded prior to actually getting retarded. There is always that one girl in the group who is morally obligated to have too much of her bitch-drink during the pregame. She does this so you can either have the pleasure of taking care of her the entire night so she doesn’t die, or you can ditch her back at the dorms and you and all of your friends will talk shit on her for being a lightweight as soon as you leave. Both are suitable solutions; however, the latter is definitely more satisfying.

When the time comes to go out to the party, depending upon where you live, you may have to take public transportation. The bus system happens to be the pinnacle of organization and courtesy. People are packed into these tin cans of death like their on the Amistad.  If you are the last stop on the campus, give up all hope here, for you will not make it on that bus. However, there are many other people on this bus to look at. You may get lucky, and by lucky I mean just about as lucky as Abraham Lincoln seeing the play Our American Cousin. When you are this lucky you will be serenaded by the sweet voices of angels, or drunken college students. I found that every time this happened, I was forced to hear shitty Journey songs and butchered Queen anthems. Sometimes, I would be goosed enough for this sing-along to be fun, but I had to be pretty intoxicated for that. Finally, when you get to the first stop a few brave souls will exit the bus, leaving just enough room so you can at least exhale the breath you took just before getting on the bus.

Upon exiting the bus do not move out of the way, stand just outside the door so you can look for your nonexistent friends and make sure that no other people can get off the hell hole that is the bus. As soon as you finally find these friends that have been lost for all of ten seconds, you both must join in a running embrace like you haven’t seen each other in years. Then it is off to the soiree.

Many people have different strategies to getting to a party. Though it is not suggested, some people, usually freshmen, employ the following tactic. This is where they spot a group of people that are on their way to a party. At this point they begin to stalk their prey until they are led to a party. Not only is this very weird, but it is quite useless in many situations. Sometimes a stalker will even go as far to ask the person they are following “where da party at?”; however, this usually only happens when the stalker is feeling quite saucy.

When a party is found, one must find a way to get in. Sometimes getting in is not so simple. There are some retards that will put a keg directly next to the door, not only making it extremely accessible to steal said keg (if the party empties out), but also making it virtually impossible to get in or out. Sometimes, there will be a “door-man”. If he’s feeling nice, he’ll ask you for fives. If he’s feeling drunk and nice, he’ll let you right in. But if he’ not feeling either of these emotions, then there is a litany of responses that you may get. He may say “party’s full” or he’ll say “20 bucks to get in” or my favorite “there’s an 83-1 ratio”. All of these quotes are very hard to overcome at the moment, but they are also very predictable. When equipped with the knowledge that this surly man will be encountered, one can ready themselves with a retort. Simply tell him “oh but I know Matt”, even though you may not even know a Matt. Any common name will work here. Be on your toes, though, he may say “Matt doesn’t live here”. This is when you say “oh that’s right, (turn to your friend) who did Matt tell us to say we know?” Your friend must be quick on his/her (preferably her) feet for this because a solid name must be presented in a believable, and possibly flirtatious, manner. This plan is more than good..it’s great. If executed properly, this plan will work every time. You will be branded like cattle on your way in. This is to keep track of who was dumb enough to pay to get in and who was smart enough to sneak in.

Once inside la fiesta, it may seem a bit like déjà vu. This is because it is just as crowded, if not more so, than that bus that you just got off. Not only is this basement more jam-packed, but the temperature is hotter than the depths of hell. The temperature is not the only similarity to hell, but the people that are in this basement are not too different from the souls a person might encounter in Dante’s Inferno. One may take notice of the Ed Hardy-wearing, juice head. Someone needs to tell this guy that he looks like the Situation’s retarded cousin. But then he might proceed to explode, or commit a murder. This is why I would dissuade anyone from letting this roided-out douche know just what he looks like. So if you encounter this manly man, grovel at his feet for he is god.

Another person that is lingering about at this box social is the Walking STD. A person must be very careful around this character, not only is this girl usually very hot (how else could she collect all those infections), but she is also extremely contagious. You can become infected even if she breathes on you. She thinks these diseases are like Pokemon…gotta catch ‘em all. You can usually tell who this girl is by how many cups she is holding. A Walking STD will carry two cups; one for her and the other for her parasites. You will also be able to tell this is her when you see her herpes following her around the party, she may even play pong with it (a herpes virus can sink 4-5 cups easily in one game).

The next archetype at a Rutgers party…the Bro. Although every typical guy is a bro at heart, there is a reasonable limit to where someone is such a Bro that he makes a spectacle of himself. Urban Dictionary, which is just as if not more reliable than Webster’s,  defines a bro as “an 18 to 24 year-old male who wears Birkenstock sandals, watches Family Guy, plays Ultimate Frisbee, and wears an upside-down visor or a baseball cap with a pre-frayed brim, you know, a bro” (urbandictionary.com). In short this guy is the epitome of a douche-bag. He will refer to his friends as “Bromosexual”, “Broseph”, or “Chad”. He will use words like “chill” and “gnarly”. One may even catch this guy checking himself out in the mirror; he’ll be doing things like flexing his muscles or practicing the perfect way to flip someone the middle finger. One might find this monster either at the pong table or the keg; this is their natural habitat, outside of those two places a bro is lost and scared but they would never tell you that because their too filled with testosterone and fear to articulate it. The only way to counteract the Bro is through beating him at pong. Once he loses, the Bro will call you a pussy and proceed to melt, leaving behind his thong sandals and high school lax t-shirt. And that will be the end of this social retard, or should I say bro-cial retard.

While at this party it is customary to wait an hour for a flat Keystone. A guy can manage to wait for an hour for this awful beverage and watch girl after girl get several cups of juice in that same amount of time. Sometimes I wish I could grow boobs just to bypass the waiting period for a beer. But then I would have to be careful I don’t get roofied; I’m sure some scumbag would try to do it. After you finally get a drink, it is time to find a safe place to set up base camp. This is necessary because of how crowded this shindig is. You will spill half of your beer trying to find a safe place to stand, and when you finally do find a spot you should be ready for another drink. Try to sign up for pong, you might be up by the time Chinese New Year rolls around. Maybe go dance with a girl? No, there is one female at this place and every guy is circling her like vultures above a dying wildebeest in the desert. Wait…What’s this? One girl standing all by her lonesome and no guys are talking to her? Tell your roomie to talk to her, she’s kinda hot. Believe me, you don’t want it. So be a good wingman; guide his cock, don’t block it. You do this so tomorrow he can see just how bad his drunk goggles can be, especially in the dark. He will somehow manage to fail at brining this uggo back to the room anyway so no harm done.

There is a mysterious hush over the crowd, and by that I mean one guy is yelling “shut the hell up!” Who knows what this messenger could have to say, it must be imperative to my ability to drink copious amounts of liquor. This guy will then say “cops are here, get out”. The pigs, the 5-0, the po-po. There are many names for these vile fiends, but they all evoke the same response…oh shit. The keepers of the peace will stand menacingly outside the house waiting for all of the people to disperse. I enjoy talking making snide remarks while in passing with these everyday heroes; they deserve to know just how much I appreciate their protection.

Now an insatiable hunger will overcome you like you have not eaten in days. It feels as if you have eaten less than Gandhi would have for the past week. Time to scrounge for food. Most people would say Fat Sandwiches immediately. I would disagree. For some reason packing all of the greasiest foods known to man onto one heart-healthy sandwich doesn’t appeal to me. Especially because they put more fries on this thing than Subway would put lettuce on their sandwich. It is all French-fries and barely anything else. I am a fan of pizza. Ta-Ta’s Pizza is the shit. Best drunk meal you will ever eat, and it’s like half the price of a Fat Sandwich.

After this glorious meal it is time to make the long trek home. For some, this journey is long and arduous. For others, such as myself, it is a brisk walk back to the dorm. The buses will somehow manage to be even more packed than when you arrived. This is because people are drunk and care less about their personal space. Someone will be hanging from the railings on the ceiling of the bus. Sometimes if you are lucky like I was last year, you will see a fight. It is awesome to see a fight when you’re inebriated. Plus on this bus it’s so crowded these guys, or if you’re truly lucky girls, will have nowhere to run to. The fight will be forced to go on until its their stop or some ass hole breaks it up. Upon exiting the bus, again, do not move away from the door. Make sure that people miss their stop.

When people finally arrive back to their dorm after the night of celebration it is an unwritten rule to inform everyone in the building that they have returned. No matter how late it is, the responsible and studious people must know that you made it back ok and you’re drunk. So, you must yell throughout the building professing how intoxicated you are. If you do not wake up your entire floor in this step, then you have failed miserably. When it is finally time to go to sleep, depending upon your state of mind, do not forget to put the vomit catcher next to your bed. If you do not own a vomit catcher, then a trashcan will suffice. Tomorrow, you will not remember putting the can there but you will be glad that you did, for it will be filled to the brim with beer, fat sandwiches, and a license plate.

Reminiscing about the night before, you will hear stories about yourself that you cannot recall. These anecdotes will be hilariously embarrassing. Then you will notice your shoes. What the shit!? How do parties somehow manage to make your shoes muddier than the everglades every time you go out? The U.S. could be going through a decade-long draught, yet you can go to a party and return with the dirtiest shoes you have ever seen. It is because of these little elves that roam about at every party. I call them the Mud Midgets. They go around and rub mud on every single shoe that they can find. They are at every house, yet somehow stay undetected by anybody else except for me. I am the only person to ever spot a Mud Midget. I think they are related to the Keebler elves or Snap, Crackle, and Pop. If you ever spot one of these little turds, club him like a seal and bring it to me for further testing.

Thursty Thursday, what a night; full of memories, or lack thereof. It is a phenomenon that baffles scientists to this day. No man can ever fully comprehend what goes down on this night; I still do not know after all my research, I simply try to hypothesize what it is. It is a wondrous celebration, an enigma wrapped up in a riddle. It is a night of debauchery and sin. It is Thursty Thursday.