The Fraternity rush process

Realistically, I should have never been admitted into any fraternity. I rushed about four or five places but only got past the first round of cuts at one. Among my failures was a bunch of preppies who had no intention of admitting me, but curtly ended the formality after I drunkenly joked that they were running tenth on my list of possibilities. At the Southern Haven of Kappa Alpha, I went into the room of a senior with a giant Texas flag and claimed that the alamo was a myth. My clear first choice into which I was barely accepted, I puked my guts out into the senior off campus house sink. All the while, I was being watched by a patriarch of said household. When thus confronted, not only did I deny having been the obvious source of the deposit, I further chided something along the lines of “Fuck you. Maybe you best find your buddy Mister Clean and get the fuck to work over there. Im here to party.” Then I headed straight back to the keg.
You would either be removed from pledge consideration by three blackballs or six holds, and I recieved two balls and five holds. To get the numbers that low, signifigant back room dealings were done by my benefactors, and many people prolly just let me through so they would get to haze me the fuck out. Legend has it that they specifically waited to call me until the end of the meeting because by then a couple Moultonian detractors would have to scurry off to study sessions. All of these truths were made clear to me after I dominated the pledging process by proving I had no concearn for my own well being and no discernable sense of shame. No matter what those fucks threw at me, I still looked them in the eye and talked more shit than I had before my punishment. That said, they did make me dig a six foot hole for no reason and stay soaking wet for 24 hours straight. But I won the war by handing shit down threefold for the years to come.
When I found myself on the other side of the rush process, I had a fucking chip on my shoulder. I championed the underdogs and spoke poorly of the house favorite. I would get behind any charity case even if I knew they were a terrible human being, just for the fun of arguing against. I almost got enough of a following to get a known compulsive liar through after he claimed to have been shooting hoops with Al Harrington prior to captaining his football team to the new york state championship from his 5 foot 6 frame. Without fail, my horses would get shot coming down the stretch and the pretty boys would waltz right the fuck in. Eventually, I would come around and realize my hatred was misplaced, but I always initially treated these socialites with scorn. There was only one case where my hatred lingered and does still to this day. A manchild whose used car salesman charm and slatfaced grin echoed with insincerity.
For anonimities sake, we’ll call him Itch Firepuss because he thought he was hot shit but he was as usefull as a female crotch disease. Plus, his name should rhyme with bitch, little bitch that he is. Firepuss got in my senior year and had a crew that ran about seven deep, most of whom were strong players, but were clearly poor judges of character. For that reason it was difficult to isolate against him and I had to pick my moment. The time came when we were all engaged in a friendly game of Beruit(Beer pong for you lay men), in the fraternity commons room. I found me a ringer, thus challenging Itch to an unwinnable match with one of his flunkies. After embarrassing him on the court and being about ten beers deep each, I openly challenged his manhood for all to see. Shot contest, bitch. I had been screaming a taunting version of his last name all night and it creshendoed after this challenge was issued.
He was backed into a corner, and even a bitch will slap back when thats the case. He accepted under duress and tried to act confident going into a fight he could not win. I let him pick his poison and he went for vodka. A couple shots later my memory fades. Accounts have me winning the bout 7-3 in a contest where the only possible score is a one run victory. Apparently, they couldnt convince me that the contest wasnt over and I went a little overboard. I then spoke extemperaneously for about 2 hours and created a longwinded story about Firepuss’s uncle being a communist. When I came to, I was being hosed down with a garden hose in the bathroom and realized I had likely puked all over myself, if not worse. I missed all my classes for the next two days, avoided hospitalization only through sloth and fear, and threw up more times than a bulemic on a cruise ship. What Im tryin to say is this, “I own you firepooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusaaaaay”.

The Fraternity rush process

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