Today is Friday. The average guy wakes up with a pounding head, some puke on his shirt, and next to a girl he has in his phone as ""Tig ass Bitties."" He then blasts Rebecca Black, half to piss off his roommates and half because Rebecca is cuter than ""Tig ass Bitties."" Then it's breakfast. Tylenol, some eggs, grab some sausage and maybe even grab some sausage.
Then the best part: he gets excited, because he knows it's going to be another great night of shots, whisky dick, and girls with low self-esteem! The average guy loves Friday.
Not me. At around 2 p.m. I get filled to the brim with Keystone Light. I am then tossed into a van with other beer kegs and rolled into some stranger's house, where I am put in an ice bath and and a bunch of sweaty, eager dudes stare at me.
Then the worst part: ""Time to tap the keg!"" I wince. Remember getting your cherry popped? You call that 11th grade; I call that 6 p.m., except instead of crying all night and wondering if I'm pregnant, I have people literally pumping my guts into red Solo cups. At this point, reader, you know it's a bad situation, but you're like Bush when he heard about 9/11 and just kept right on reading.
Inevitibly, it's time for the keg stands. Oddly enough, it's usually the nerdy, pathetic kid who goes first. He tries to make up for a lot of acne and a small penis by getting hammered and hitting on people's girlfriends. He is also one of those jackasses who wears a wristwatch (but it's waterproof!), yet doesn't seem to notice that it is 7 p.m. So he has people turn him upside down and lasts nine seconds before choking.
He will probably end his night surrounded in jell-o shot containers, crying about how his dad never loved him. Well, that's probably because your dad knows you can only keg stand 9 seconds. I wouldn't love my son if he cried as much as you either. Why don't you go join the ""Recall Walker"" crybabies where you'll fit in for once? You can use your watch to tell them when their ineffective recall election happens.
What really gets on my nerves is the one douchebag who's too cool for kegs, beer pong, and drunk girls. He says: ""Let's go to the bars!"" First off, no one wants to follow you and your douchebaggery anywhere because there is literally GALLONS OF BEER IN MY STOMACH. Remember when you pressure-pumped 16 gallons of liquid into me? Besides, you probably just want to go to meet that desperate girl from last night so you don't have to work as hard to get it in. Come over here, and I'll give you more head than you asked for.
Ever have delusions of being a giant receptical for alcohol? Start a support group and email Ben at stoffelrosal@wisc.edu.
