HAMILTON, NY — Picture, if you will, an absolute fucking rager; people are pouring out of the windows of frat houses, dirty-rushing freshmen are blowing mad chunks at the Campo-mobiles chasing some ass-naked dudes running down Broad Street, there’s at least 27 people crammed into the Slices bathroom bumping nose-beers just like their stockbroker dads taught them, and you’re pretty sure that La Casa is somehow on fire, but you really couldn’t be bothered because you are so fucking plastered that you might as well just take a nap right there in a snowbank. And when you wake up that morning, completely brain-dead on the sign in front of Taylor Lake, you realize the party’s still going, and, holy shit, DU is on fire too.
And then realize that this will never happen, mostly because the general populace of Colgate couldn’t even pronounce “Mardi Gras,” much less know what it is.
In a surprising turn of events, the students at the #8 school on Princeton Review’s “Top 20 Party Schools of 2018” fail to celebrate the ridiculously explosive holiday for some god-awful reason, instead preferring to shotgun a case of Natty and play BP with vodka instead of the real man’s drink of rubbing alcohol because, to quote a local and absolutely fucking boring student, “Dude, 80 proof is pretty strong.” Well, fucker, that’s why you’re #8 and Tulane is #1.
“I mean, I feel like we would celebrate it if it wasn’t on a Tuesday,” claimed another loser who pussied out after only three joints to the face. “Plus, it sounds completely dangerous. What if someone got hurt?” This student was later found in the back of Frank, completely non-verbal, with three other people helping him cut his french toast into manageable sizes that he could swallow without chewing, as he could not even fathom how to close his mouth. Nice “tolerance,” ass-wagon.
Even the more #druglife #drugs #mystic #mystical #trip #trippy #tripping students of Colgate opposed the idea of eating the whole sheet of acid instead of three tabs at a time. “I don’t want to fucking die, bro,” explained a local psychonaut. “I mean, I want to, like, die? You know? But not die, right? Like, death is a manmade construct, right? So that means, like–”
At this point, I had to cut this hippie yuppie off, because how boring is the party scene if you’re not literally dying and being resuscitated every weekend? How boring is it if not a single frat has been set ablaze by a living-room bonfire? How absolutely, mind-numbingly boring is it that a source of fun around here is from paying people money to drink their alcohol instead of making your own pruno in someone’s apartment toilet?
Answer: very boring. Rich-white- people boring. Eighth-place boring.
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