All you sweet girls with all your sweet lies

Ah, Friday.

Let’s not think about how ridiculously swamped with work I am. Let’s ostrich it hardcore and try and enjoy ourselves, shall we?

Not a whole lot going on tonight, though….

A couple of us were hoping to go to a high school football game and get asked to prom or homecoming or winter ball, which would be awesome, but the team was away. Tragic. Maybe next week.

Instead, we mobbed over to H-Bomb’s house who, apparently, was going to have a party. We were unaware of this, we just went to chill, which all in all was probably better, since we had no expectations from which to be completely let down.

This house is, in every sense of the word, a college house. Ping pong table, foosball table, huge stereo, holes in the wall, ratty couches, beer posters, stains, solo cups, and most importantly, a kegerator. Bow down, fools. So there we are, illin out and drinking moderately flat (but cold) bud light out of the kegerator, when it comes time to play a game. People are drifting in and out, a stream of indistinguishable dudes and roommates all named Mike or Paul or some shit, I wasn’t really paying attention. The house is just in a constant state of buddy flux.

In order to fully grasp the nature of our wonderful game, you have to know its history. The last time we played this game was about a year ago, at H’s birthday. I don’t think he participated, since he had scrambled half-naked out into the backyard and passed out under a boat, but that’s not important. The important thing is, this shitty, shitty board game called Catchphrase was left out on the table, and we picked it up. It’s got this little wheel thing that you click and displays a word, which (I assume) you then have to get others to guess. Like non-artistic Pictionary for feebs. Anyway, many a beer and many an hour later, we spontaneously develop a much more entertaining and competitive form of the game: Yo mama catchphrase. The object of the game is, of course, to be as ridiculously vulgar and insulting as possible while still getting someone to guess the word. No score, no tallies, just beer and degradation.

I remember the game being mildly entertaining, and doing my best to offend some fools, but then Don Mclean’s American Pie came on at full blast at about 3 am and Nate threw a football at some bitch as hard as he could (missing by mere centimeters, unfortunately. Still, it was god damn hilarious) and there was some yelling and we left or something. I don’t really remember. It was a strange night.


Tonight, in a much soberer and more relaxed state, we start up again. Me, Soss, Nate, H, and whatever random Mike/Paul/John happens to be sitting in the recliner at the time. This time, all bets are off.

It took us a few rounds and a few beers to get going, but after about a half an hour we were really getting into some nitty gritty shit, the good stuff. Henry was talking about bestiality (The word was dentist), Nate told the story of how his entire baseball team slept with Quint’s sister (The word was encore), and someone even discussed punching my great grandmother (The word was sparrow). Now this is what I’m talking about. As the night progresses, the hints become anecdotes, the anecdotes become stories, and the stories become epics. We are dudes at the absolute peak of our mental acuity and potential for vulgarity, so it was not only competitive and hilarious, but unspeakably dirty.

When the warmups involve gang-bangs and pedophilia, you know you’re in for a fun Friday night.

I wish I could relate to you all the things that were said, especially about the last hour worth of the game, but even discussing them is illegal in most of the western hemisphere. They were that foul. Each person’s turn took like fifteen minutes, but somehow a psychotic nut-biting leprechaun and African bush-porn starring Nate’s aunt always helped someone guess “lamp”. Who won? Well, nobody. Least of all our female relatives. Who ended the game, though? Yours truly, of course. I can take shit to levels people don’t even know about. I cross lines and break taboos like Roseanne eat Pringles. You know I always sorta thought Darlene on that show was kinda hot… Sorry, I digress.

It’s hard to get offended looks from a house full of 20 college age dudes, almost all of whom would sleep with a second cousin if she was drunk enough, but I may have managed. My final entry, which took about a half an hour, was for the word “lamb”. It involved awful, awful things: date rape, kidnapping, nuns, nostrils, baseball bats, machinery, Nate and Henry, drugs, and most importantly, Quint’s mom, but it was god damn horrible.

H made a very astute observation afterward, when we were sitting around quietly listening to some of the other 40 dudes (where the hell did all these sausages come from? Is this supposed to be a party? This was when we were informed…) play Beer Pong and Beirut in the next room. He said it was like we were returning from war, soldiers who had experienced dark and grave things that we could never take back, and it separated us from the fun loving dudes headbutting and talking about business calc in the front room. Indeed, it did. The gap between us and them was as wide as your mama’s…sorry, habit.

You can only push the envelope so far, but know this: I’m willing to push it just that much ( |——| ) farther, even if it means peeing on your cat or setting your firstborn daughter on fire.

So then it was a party, but a party without any girls is just dudes standing. Whatever. I had a good time, sheit. I got to exercise my vocabulary, my creativity, and my liver.

The ridiculous sausagefest is becoming sort of a theme, in 2004, for whatever god awful reason. I read once that the human race is made up of 51% women and 49% men. The Cal Poly party human race is made up of 97% dudes named Mark and 1.5% plain chicks from Campus Crusade with boyfriends. Why the disparity?

We may never know.

All the chicks are probably at home watching Sex in the City on DVD eating Kettle Korn and doing whatever other dumb horseshit chicks do. Come on ladies, why not make something of yourselves? Why not go to parties, or invent something?

Ah, my heart’s not in the hate tonight. I certainly wouldn’t want to go to a party with 40 dudes, jesus. Do what you want, I don’t give a shit.

God dammit I wish I was graduated and could move to Brazil, or maybe Boston. Somewhere where everyone really did love Magical Trevor, where programming is forbidden by law and no one yells at you for playing in shopping carts. Does such a glorious place exist?

Wait what were we talking about?

Forget it. Holla back,

woo woo.



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