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The Time I Got Catfished By A Sorority

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I have always wanted to start a trend. After that Invisible Children dude got caught masturbating in public I took #KONY2012 into my own hands. Realizing the tainted name that his taint had given the movement I love, I decided that we should just scrap the rest of 2012 and come back swingin’ in 2013. Thus, the #KONY2013 movement was born. I tried so hard to get the word out. I ended all of my TFM submissions with #KONY2013 to let you guys know that I frat super hard, but that I’m also a great guy and care about the world. But it just wasn’t enough. In the end, it was probably my fault. I should’ve learned from the last guy: if you want people to take your KONY movement seriously, you shouldn’t masturbate in public. My apologies to the First Episcopal Church women’s choir.

After that failure I thought about giving up. Maybe Dad was right, I thought. Maybe he should’ve worn a condom. Then it happened. I thought I’d done it. I thought I’d discovered the newest craze that would soon dominate all of Greek life. But I could not have foreseen the events that would follow. The events that would turn my revolutionary idea into a mockery and myself into the poster child for gullibility. The events of my catfishing.

It all started with an American flag jacket and a dream.

It was the night of our America-themed President’s Day party. From the picture below you can see I pretty much blew every other outfit out of the water. I had invited two girls from a certain sorority (which will not be named because I don’t want them to have that satisfaction) to the event. After a few hours of good ole Ronald Ragin’ I was invited into their house for some food.

I’ll pause right here to address the fact that guys at my school are actually allowed into sorority houses. I can’t tell if that’s really cool or if PanHel just thinks we are so ugly that it’s not a problem.

Anyway, I was having a grand old time. I had a bagel and an English muffin made for me, a nice cool glass of water, and, for some reason I do not know, a fashion shoot.

Picture 1Me, taking frat to ridiculous new heights

Then it came time to leave, and I already knew exactly what I was going to do.

I’m somewhat of a kleptomaniac, but only with regards to sorority items (and by that I mean decorative shit from sorority houses, not like tampons, or whatever). Before college I had never stolen anything in my life. That is probably thanks to my mother, who during my childhood I witnessed scold my brother for stealing a peanut from a produce store before forcing him to apologize to the store’s owner. In my brother’s defense, though, it was a triple peanut. You don’t see those every day. But I knew right then that I never wanted to feel that wrath.

Sorority stuff is in its own little category though. It’s not really illegal to take, because they know it’s still somewhere in the Greek system and will (eventually, if they’re lucky) be returned, but it’s definitely not legal, because sometimes girls are on their periods and threaten to file a police report against you. I don’t even know why they care so much about getting their composite back. They don’t even like 95 percent of the girls on that fucking thing.

So I’m on the way out of their dining room, looking for anything to snag. I tried to take some of the random pointless awards that were on the wall, but they were bolted down. They were prepared for my kind. Whatever. I didn’t want to take the “Greek Week 2009: Third Best Smile” plaque anyway.

Realizing my time was almost at an end, and not wanting to leave empty-handed, I stuffed a shirt down the back of my jorts. Anything is better than nothing. Then, as I was walking to the door, a girl pointed out that something had fallen out of my jorts. I was hoping I had just accidentally shit myself. Completely burning the bridge to a sorority by dropping a plopper in their foyer would still be better than leaving there empty-handed. Alas, it was the shirt. I was beginning to think there was no way I could get out of there without having to physically beat down one of the girls.

I walked towards the front door with my tail between my very-visible legs, fully ready to accept the level of pussification that I deserved.

Then I saw it. Like a beacon of light it drew me in. It’s like it was talking to me. Or, more aptly, tocking to me.

The clock.

Right away my mind started racing. Who steals clocks? Nobody.

That will be my thing. The thing I’ll tell my children about, the thing I’ll tell their children about, and the thing I’ll creepily tell random children in the park about after my family disowns me and I’m left homeless and alone.

But I won’t be alone. I’ll always have the clock. I’ll carry it with me at all times like Jimmy carried around Plank in Ed, Edd, and Eddy. I’ll talk to it, clothe it, and feed it clock dinner, which I will call ding-er (man I’m really forcing these clock puns). When you think about stealing clocks, you’ll think about The DeVry Guy.

I knew I had to act fast. My friend Joe with whom I had entered the house was keeping one of the girls busy by creepily running rampant through the house, no doubt on another one of his signature panty-sniffing raids. Dude loves booty-stank.

That meant there was only one girl to watch me, and thus only one girl to stop me. I yanked the clock off the wall and made a run for it, but the lock on the front door was confusing as fuck. I jiggled the handle, pushed and pulled to no avail. My sorority chaperone caught up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. My quest for glory was not about to be ruined by a fucking door. I closed my eyes for a second to seek some guidance. As soon as I did a clock dressed in tattered shrouds descended from the light-hole riddled clouds. It was like something out of that weird Japanese tentacle porn I sometimes watch.

“The grey latch,” it said to me.

And the grey latch I pulled.

I ran. My sorority chaperone, whose arm I brushed off my fratshoulder like it was GDI dirt and I was the frat Jay-Z, attempted to chase me. This proved to be a ridiculous idea. I don’t know if any of you have ever stolen anything from a sorority (if you haven’t you’re a fucking NF GDI pussycreep fuck), but when you are making your escape it’s like you’re filled with some sort of ethereal super-human quickness. I liken it to the quickness that you gain when you tripped your grandma at your last family reunion because she was being a bitch and you needed to sprint back to the Frathoe before your Uncle Keith caught up to you.

I’d done it. I’d stolen the clock.

My first order of business the next morning was to put it up on the wall alongside my other collectibles. I don’t want any girls to find out that I stole something from their house, so for security reasons I’ve blurred out the other sorority items on my wall. You can never be too safe.

Picture 2I probably should’ve thought that through more.

You should take two things away from that picture. One, the knowledge that a certain sorority is about to send me a very scathing email, and two, how fucking awesome that clock was. I thought it was awesome too, and I wanted everybody to know about it and spread the trend of clock stealing. I brought up at chapter how stealing clocks was the new stealing composites and was treated to ground-shaking applause. I told all my friends in other fraternities, because they should all know that I frat exponentially harder than they do. I told my Dad, who told me that this single event made him more proud of me than everything I’d done up to that point, and that maybe he didn’t regret not wearing that condom. But none of these methods of communication garnered my act more fame than the email.

Picture 4RFM

Right when I saw this email, I knew it was my ticket to trend town. Any self-respecting fraternity man knows that likes on Facebook are important as fuck, and this screenshot shattered my record for most likes ever on a post. This picture garnering me a multitude of likes was crucial if I was gonna try to start this trend, because now everybody that saw it thinks that if the same thing happens to them, they too can amass a plethora of likes.

But there was still the problem of the police report. I knew after receiving this email that the hours with my beloved clock were numbered. I also didn’t want the House Mom to hate me and ban me from the house, because that English muffin was fucking dank. So I wrote back the sappiest, most apologetic, most flattering email of all time. This House Mom was either gonna love my gentlemanly ways or fucking hate me.

The trip down fraternity row to the sorority house was what I imagine a “walk of fame” feels like (I don’t know what they feel like because no girls ever hook up with me). I got to the door and rang the House Mother’s doorbell. When I got inside a delightful little lady greeted me with a glowing smile. “This is going way better than expected,” I thought. She told me that she didn’t even notice it was gone, and that the next time anything was stolen she knew who to blame. We had a few more moments of small talk and then I parted ways with this wonderful lady.

I was walking back down fraternity row, thinking about how big this trend was going to get and how nice the House Mom was, when I got the Facebook notification on my phone.

It read “HAHAHAHA GOTCHA! Thanks for returning the clock ;),” and attached was the following picture.

Picture 3

I sat down on fraternity row to try and comprehend what had just happened.

What did she mean by “GOTCHA?” Why did she have my email response to the House Mom? Wait, did the House Mom say she “didn’t even notice it was gone?”

Then it hit me. That email was not sent to me from the House Mom. The girls had created a fake email account and were merely pretending to be the House Mom in order to get me to return the clock.

I got fucking catfished.

It really was the perfect plan. They knew that since I’m a huge pussy I wasn’t about to have a police report filed against me. There’s really no way this whole operation wouldn’t have been successful, but that doesn’t ease the pain.

If I’ve learned anything from the #KONY2012 movement, it’s that the leader of a movement is the face of their organization. If they fuck up, their entire movement gets run into the ground. I’ve always been told I was like the #KONY2012 guy, but I thought that was for my steadfast dedication to stopping that awful man Joseph Kony, not for my ability to destroy the things I love.

Looks like the only trend I started is the trend of KONY2012 advocates all being fucking failures.



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Jared Borislow

Jared Borislow (né The DeVry Guy) is a Senior Writer for Grandex Inc and a 2015 graduate of the University of Wisconsin.

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