Sunday, September 12

Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

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