My Birthday And Semi-Formal Were On The Same Weekend, Shit Got Weird

Jared Borislow10 years ago

The phrase “Let’s get weird!” is thrown around a lot these days. I’m a fan — it gets the people going while also letting them know that they will not be judged for their actions. Want a chick to hock a loogie into your mouth? Just go up and ask her. No judgment. Want to get a rimmy from the frat iguana? Stick a cricket in your pooper and have at it. “Let’s get weird!” is just a great, all-encompassing, inhibition-destroying phrase. And, while my weekend wasn’t as weird as it could have been if I had completed the two aforementioned actions (believe me, I tried) it still got pretty fucking weird. This isn’t one of those stories that builds up to a climax (it’s like all of my sexual partners, in that regard). It’s actually rather anti-climactic. But never in my life have so many weird things happened to me in one weekend, so I thought I’d share.

My twenty-second birthday was February 27. Those of you who read my piece about how excited I was for my twenty-first birthday last year know that twenty-two isn’t a very special birthday by comparison. There aren’t any sick perks from ages twenty-one, when you can legally have sex, to twenty-six, when you can legally watch fart porn (Author’s note: If you are twenty-six, fart porn is definitely worth a Google search. As my roommate Walter says, “It’s not good fart porn unless you can have your computer on mute and still be able to tell that she’s farting.” You’ll see what he means.) The ability to be the center of attention for the day and get super hammered with your friends with complete immunity, however, is still incredibly enticing, and this makes any one of the four (or five) birthdays you have in college easily one of the best nights of that year — especially when your brother is coming into town for it.

A twenty-three-year-old GDI currently getting his master’s in film, you might think my brother Louis wouldn’t know how to frat. You’re fucking wrong.

“But DeVry, how can he frat if he wasn’t in a frat?” you’ll ask me.

Because Louis is a fucking wild card. He sang “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette at karaoke on our spring break cruise last year in front of, like, 20,000 people (I don’t remember the exact number because I was so fucked up on the methanol we snuck onto the ship in Vagisil bottles), he once went 2-for-4 on 3-pointers in a game of IM basketball, and he has a fucking degree in anthropology. TFTC. I knew we were all in for a treat when he came. (Read that sentence in the least incestuous way possible, please.)

In addition to celebrating my birthday on Friday, my fraternity’s semi-formal date party was the following night. Real action-packed weekend here. After the first four girls I asked all denied me (not even exaggerating) I was scrounging at the bottom of the barrel. Should I look on Tinder? Should I ask my boy Bootystank Joe’s seventeen-year-old sister? Then it hit me:

Louis.

It made perfect sense: he is fun, I don’t have to worry about being a good date, and I know he puts out (two incest jokes already…I’m not sure if that’s too much or not enough).

So I asked him, and things went better than I could have ever hoped.

Now to my weekend. Let’s start on Thursday, which is, of course, the weekend when you’re in college.

Thursday
It’s Thursday and I’m holed up in the library studying for the Spanish midterm that I had on my birthday. Not ideal.

That tweet was a complete lie. I was actually drinking Amp Energy Drink and eating Cheddar Cheese Pretzel Combos (crackers are for pussies) while crysturbating in a study room, but I obviously wasn’t going to tweet that. I went home around midnight, ordered some food, and went to sleep. Ragin’ night.

Friday
My birthday! YAYYYYYYY EVERYONE HAS TO PAY ATTENTION TO ME! It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I went to class, did completely subpar on that midterm (it was my birthday, but I still gave a present to the class by strengthening the curve), and then went and picked up Louis.

Louis got off the bus wearing a classic Louis-style African tribal print coat that he got from a thrift store. When we got back to my apartment, he started telling us about how be bought the coat for $20, which was a great deal, but there were some weird little imperfections in it. For instance, the buttons were on the wrong side. This sent up a red flag for my friend Colby, who had gone with me to pick up my brother.

“I’m pretty sure that means it’s a woman’s coat,” Colby said.

Instantly coming to my brother’s defense, and not being fully-versed on the topic, I denied any such notion.

“Nah, I think it’s just, like, a weird style.”

Then Louis said, “Yeah, and it’s got these, like, shoulder pads, too,” completely unaware of the implication of what he’d just said until Colby and I burst out laughing. This was all I could think of.

So my brother is a cross-dresser. On the plus side, this newly discovered feminine side of him somewhat legitimized me taking him as my date.

After sharing a good laugh, Colby, Louis, and I set out for my birthday dinner while Walter set up our apartment for my birthday pregame. After half-joking about going to Sarku Japan, a shitty yet delicious restaurant in the mall food court (we made plans to go there for dinner the following night instead) I decided to go to the champion of chain steakhouses: Longhorn Steakhouse. Never been? You sad, pathetic dingus. Freshly baked bread, steak drenched in an amount of butter so generous it would take an Amish boy working double overtime to produce, and the delicious Texas Tonion. What’s not to love? Apparently everybody else had the same idea, because the wait was forty-five minutes. So I called up my all-time backup plan restaurant, where the wait was only ten minutes, and we booked it on over for a feast so white trash fancy that I felt like the owner of a triple-wide trailer.

We got El Presidente margs, the 2-for-$20 with chips and queso, chicken crispers, and a sirloin (add shrimp) along with the molten lava cake for dessert. Happy fucking birthday to me. (Side note: If you want to salivate so much that your drool ruins your keyboard, check out Grandex’s top-secret venture, ChickenCrispers.com.) So yeah, I had a great birthday dinner.

We drove back to my apartment for the pregame, where the keg containing “the champagne of beers” was waiting for us. Not long after, some of my friends (read: some random people who wanted free beer because I put flyers up around the neighborhood advertising my birthday party because otherwise nobody would come) started to arrive. Also not long after, Louis started not feeling well. I maintain it was because he can’t drink, but apparently it was something much more hilarious: Louis got food poisoning from Chili’s.

Considering we shared everything else, it must have been the chicken crispers. At first I was in disbelief. Who has ever, in the history of recorded time, had a bad experience at Chili’s? Louis must have been exaggerating. He just needed to get drunk and he’d forget he even felt sick! So I poured us some Jäger shots, and we went bottoms up. Right away, I looked at Lou-dog and knew the shot was not staying down. I handed him the trash can, and quickly thought of methods to stop him from puking. I looked around the room and saw my pledge brother Alex. I turned to Louis and said “Alex can stop anyone from puking. It’s his special talent.” That was complete bullshit. Alex has never prevented someone from puking in his life. On the contrary, he has caused me to puke on multiple occasions. But I thought Louis, with no prior knowledge of Alex’s lack of ability, might think Alex was some magic man who could prevent the flow of the river bile and the placebo effect would work out.

Here’s the experience in Louis’ words:

I was feeling really sick from the Chili’s and I had probably only drunk three drinks. I took roughly five antacids and still felt terrible. I did a shot of Jäger with you and Alex. I told you almost immediately after that I thought I might puke. You looked at me and said Alex can convince anyone not to puke. I looked at Alex. He stared at me very intently, akin to a shootout, waiting for me to make a movement. And then he pointed at me. Literally that’s all he did. I then puked, like, four seconds after that into a paper grocery bag.

So my brother yakked at the pregame into a paper grocery bag, arguably the leakiest container known to man short of a colander. Solid start. While he spent the rest of the pregame feeling like shit, I spent it being a terrible host to him and taking more shots than Dick Cheney’s hunting partners.

We left for the bar, where Louis proceeded to wait in line at the bathroom for, like, ten minutes to puke again and I proceeded to not remember anything.

We then got back from the bar and apparently this happened, according to Louis:

Colby was trying to keep you awake and drink some water while you were semi-passed out leaning over the toilet. Colby also had a slap bracelet that he got somewhere when he was out that night. Colby kept trying to slap it around your bicep while telling you a story about some guy with a huge ear hole that people would call “big hole” or something super weird like that. You seemed very skeptical that there was, in fact, some guy with a huge ear hole that was called “big hole” by his friends. You seemed more skeptical about the fact that someone with an abnormally large earhole would let people call him “big hole” rather than the fact that someone with an extra large ear hole existed. On about the fifth or sixth slap bracelet attempt, You spun around and connected on a left hook directly with Colby’s chin. It was a very hard punch. Colby was stunned for about two seconds and continued with his story. About ten minutes later Colby said, “Why does my face hurt?” and was moving his chin around.

I punched one of my best friends square in the jaw and he was too drunk to remember it even happened. I’m chalking that up as a successful birthday.

Saturday
I woke up on Saturday way less hungover than I should’ve been. After learning about punching Colby in the face, he vowed to randomly punch me in the face at some point from now until the rest of our lives à la How I Met Your Mother. After getting a delicious, much anticipated meal at Longhorn Steakhouse for lunch, Louis and I went and played some fracquetball (frat racquetball). Instead of going to Sarku Japan for dinner like we’d planned, we hit up the local Culver’s (for reasons that don’t need to be explained). This ended up being an amazing decision, because, and I shit you not, shots were fired outside the mall food court right around the time we were going to go there. The SWAT team stormed the food court, guns drawn and everything. The mall ended up closing for the rest of the night. I can honestly say, not as if I couldn’t already, that Culver’s saved my life.

We got back to my apartment for the pregame and needed to get ready to take my brother to semi-formal. Louis was already going as an Oscar, but my outfit was yet to be chosen. I wanted to go with something that complemented but didn’t overshadow Louis’s get-up. So I consulted Bootystank Joe and we put together the ensemble you see below. I think it worked out well.

You philistines probably don’t understand it, but it is actually a commentary on the plight of Florida’s tollbooth operators. The rockin’ Hawaiian I’m sporting is the official uniform of the change jockeys helping Florida’s highways stay well-maintained. As none of you I’m sure know, Florida is moving to all-electronic tollbooths sometime in the next couple years. The absurdity of the rest of my clothing reflects the absurdity of this move that will send some of my favorite people to avoid eye contact with me into a life of abject squalor. (Side note: I don’t think our social chair knows what an Oscar looks like because the cardboard cutout he bought was of a Young Artist Award…)

Louis and I stole the show at semi-formal. The highlight would probably be when we synchronized Louis’s signature dance, where you alternate jumping and touching a knee to its respective elbow while sideways clapping your hands, in the middle of the dance floor. So many flashes were going off on adoring fans’ phones that I think I was temporarily blinded (which is also a side effect of drinking methanol, so that may have played a part once again).

Semi-formal ended, and on the way back to my apartment, Colby noticed that an apartment in a building near mine had left its front door open. We got to my apartment and Colby said, “I’m going to take a shit in their bathroom.” Great plan. The only problem was that Colby didn’t have to shit. He really wanted to, though, so he literally stood in my kitchen, hands on the counter and squatting, and tried to force his bowels to speed up and shoot a dump out so that he could go shit in their bathroom. This wasn’t a joke, either. I saw the look in his eyes — dude was pushing hard. He could’ve shot a watermelon out of there. Sadly, his bowels were emptier than my trash can at the end of the night after Louis didn’t put out, and he couldn’t do it.

So there you have it. Like I said, it wasn’t one outrageous incident that made the weekend weird, but rather a combination of absurdities that occurred in what was otherwise a normal weekend. So before you comment “this was boring AF, bro,” just know that I literally fucked your dad and you can go to your room because I’m your mommy now, bitch. And also that before you start working nine to five, you need to appreciate the little ridiculous things that happen in your college life that make each day that much better than the last..