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The Most Humiliating Moment Of My Undergrad Years

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My frat nemesis was this beady-eyed kid we called Dim Tim, since his legal name was Timothy and his Mongoloid intellect had most of the student body wondering who his mother blew on the Board of Admissions. Tim was the Red Sox to my Yankees, the North Carolina to my Duke, the Buckeyes to my Wolverines. We clashed in intramurals, had the same major, were Eskimo brothers more times over than either of us would care to admit, shit, we even drove the same car. He was like the “Bizarro Jerry” Seinfeld episode, except he didn’t end after 22 minutes of confusion, but rather persisted for four hair-pulling years of Greek life rivalry.

Until senior year, that is, when his reign of terror ended in a blaze of unmitigated humiliation. Tim was fulfilling his Frank Reynolds “move in for scraps” garbage man role, slamming a recently dropped ski weekend conquest of mine barely after my schlong had even exited her canal. As is tradition with me, and I like to think most rival Greek men, this really fucking pissed me off. Though, in fairness to all parties involved, my conduct during ski weekend (while HEAVILY utilizing the steepest of slopes) was unforgivable. But again, story for another time. Naturally I set out to ruin him, inventing this completely unfounded rumor that Tim’s dick looked like a fur-covered baby carrot, and that “multiple” women have claimed to have “no recollection” of whether they fucked, not because they were too drunk, but because they didn’t actually know if his cocktail weenie ever made it inside. It was immature, it was petty, it was disgusting — it was right up my alley.

Two Inch Tim obviously wasn’t too crazy about this, but with his Michael Cera physique and general cuntiness, my much deserved ass kicking was not a palatable option for him. Instead, he tried to one-up me in shit talking glory by teaming up with a much disgruntled sophomore former formal date of mine that didn’t have the greatest experience with me. She was spewing venom that’d have Trump asking about her menstrual cycle, and supposedly had less than flattering snaps of me (which was quite possibly true, given my perpetually inebriated state). I was already taking major hits from her house, with my attempted three-way with her and her big (and by “attempted” I mean horribly shot down) a punchline even amongst some of my friends. This was, as I should have assumed with my infamously checkered past, an immense backfire that Tim was basking in.

But, as has been the completely undeserved trend of my life, fate intervened in the most incredible manner imaginable: I was right about Two Inch. I’m at our favorite watering hole drowning the sorrows of my waning Bovada balance and the continued plucking of formerly willing vaginas by my frat nemesis when my pledge brother Jake approached me with my nuclear weapon:

“Siblings, do you have a minute?”

“Yeah, what’s up, Jake? I’m sort of busy, though.”

Jake proceeds to admit to me he’s been holding the key to Tiny Tim’s ruin, but with good reason: his longtime girlfriend used to fuck Tim. This has put Jake in an incredibly difficult situation: attempting to forget Tim’s sperm being in and around the mouth of the woman he loves all while knowing my misery and Tim’s reign could be halted with one single admission: Jake’s girlfriend has dick picks. From Two motherfucking Inch Tim.

The question now was how to succeed. I saw the pictures, and Jesus. Christ. His dick was smaller than my golden retriever’s dick. It was thinner than Lara Flynn Boyle, shorter than Peter Dinklage, curved like a scoliosis-ridden spine and veinier than an old woman’s inner thigh. It was disgusting, the sort of grotesque miniature mass of flesh that could turn even the soberest of AA sponsors to the bottle.

Jake, in an absolutely heroic move, sent me the photo of the man who entered his girlfriend directly before him, still to this day the only cock ever on my camera roll that wasn’t my own. I approached Two Inch at the bar, who made a scene out of my approach as I knew he would. I pulled him aside and showed him the picture, thinking this would end our battle and restore relative friendliness between us. To my shock, he broke out laughing hysterically.

“So is that you, Siblings?”

I’m completely befuddled.

“No, you remedial son of a bitch; it’s you. Don’t send dick pics.”

He’s still laughing.

“That’s not fucking me, bro. Glad you keep a cock collection on hand, though. Nice. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

I turn to look at Jake and his girlfriend and realize they have broken out in uncontrollable hysterics. Reality hits me, leaving me concussed and blabbering as to what the fuck had just transpired.

“I gotta go, man.” Tim says. “Have fun with that collection tonight, though.”

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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