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The President’s Club

“Welcome to the President’s Club. This is our third meeting, so by now you should be pretty familiar with the process. Remember to honor Robert’s Rules of Order…the IFC President has the floor,” the Greek Life coordinator announces to the to the impatient, distracted presidents gathered before him.

This is your bi-weekly meeting of the President’s Club. As the IFC President approaches the podium, you look around this 100-seat amphitheater. There are pairs and small groups of presidents speckled throughout the first fix rows, and you start to notice some changes.

First of all, the IFC President is wearing a suit this week, a significant upgrade from his standard pastel shorts and 90s tank top. He probably thinks this grey-green three-piece aesthetically reminiscent of the Vietnam era will command some of that respect he never gets. It doesn’t, he’s still a jackass. He says things like, “if you rush less than 30 guys, you’re not just hurting yourselves, you’re hurting all Greeks. It’s an affront to all of us when CERTAIN houses”—a cursory glance toward the leper colony—“mail it in on recruitment.”

It doesn’t matter what he wears. Once we saw him for what he was—a profoundly stupid, try hard ball of entitlement—everyone began to tune him out.

You glance around the auditorium again. Also new this week—we have our first boy-girl pairing! The leader of the perpetually shirtless frat stars and the highest GPA house queen are sitting a bit too close, whispering and giggling, never pausing to scan the room with the rest of us. Word on the street is he fingered her butt with his penis last week and she REALLY liked it. No word on whether or not he peed. Also no one knows if this rumor is actually true, but no one gives a shit either. It’s funny and dehumanizing (read: FAF).

Aside from the puppy love we also see a leper alliance forming. Everyone knows someone in the Greek community, obviously, except for a couple of absolute bottom feeders. Those creep presidents sit alone, together, and over time they establish a leper-like bond of solitude. You can try reaching out to them, but you’ll find they hate you just as much as you wonder about them, if not more.

The President’s club, frankly, operates like a high school classroom. You join the club with a pre-decided rank, one severely affected by your perceived tier, and you want to move up you can only go so far in a year. The group will be gracious enough to give you a chance for demotion or promotion at the President’s Retreat and subsequent social gatherings, where you’ll be labeled and dealt with as one of the following:

•Tool
•Exactly what we’d expect from [insert bottom-tier letters here]
•Pretty cool guy
•Pretty smart girl (there are no “smart guys” or “cool girls.)
•Gives zero fucks
•Retarded

…or my favorite, “interesting.”

These labels? Rarely accurate. But we’ve got way too much shit on our plates to worry about that. It’s like all the presidents are lawyers in the same firm, but on separate floors. Cordial and friendly is the modus operandi but you over-simplify the majority of your fellow chapter presidents because, well, fuck it. You got your group—two to five of fellow Presidents usually—and everyone else has theirs.

Sound like thinly veiled gossipy bullshit? Like a pretty childish way to govern a small group of non-profit, completely philanthropic organizations all stationed within a mile of one another that are competing for money, trophies, bodies, and power? That’s exactly what it is. Battle lines are drawn, and big decisions are made. But the most important choice you make isn’t voting to recognize the Nu Guys colony as a chapter or establishing a more advantageous alcohol policy.

Your primary job here is besting that piece of shit president of your rival house in every way possible. Really your number one priority as a territorial man and all around fucking Presidential champion: Winning the Fraternal Pissing Contest.

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