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The Time My Fraternity’s Leadership Consultant Got Me Blackout Drunk

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DeVry Trashcan

I meant to write this story up a few weeks ago right after it happened, but finals and graduation delayed me putting it into beautifully composed sentences like only I can.

What’s that? Oh yeah, the graduation thing. Yes, rumors that I am no longer an undergrad are, indeed, true. And, while I’m clearing the air here, I’d like to say that rumors of me fellating a brown bear during our woodser my sophomore year are patently false. It was a black bear. What kind of maniac goes near a brown bear? I’m not trying to end up like Timothy Treadwell. If you’re wondering why I chose a black bear, I was going to choose a koala but he was too clingy. BA DUM TSSS He’s still got it!!!

So yeah, I graduated from DeVry. Don’t believe me? Just watch.

Don’t worry, though. I’ll still be around.

Now, onto the story at hand. My fraternity’s leadership consultant was sent to come check out my chapter from Monday-Thursday during a week in April. This is a pretty ideal time for the dude to show. No weekend days mean far fewer opportunities for us to fuck ourselves over.

Our consultant, who we’ll call Fred, got in on Monday, gave a presentation at our chapter meeting, and then went out with me for dinner and some beers. Some might say I was trying to schmooze the man in an attempt to put our chapter in good standing with him, but the reality is that I had met him the previous semester and believed him to be a fairly chill brah. This dinner confirmed that. And, since my Tuesday night was free, I vowed to get this man drunker than he had ever gotten in his entire life.

I had the whole thing planned out. I’m in a dart league (sorry to disappoint those of you who thought there was no way I could possibly be any more frat) and scheduled two of our makeup matches to be played on Tuesday from 6-10. Four straight hours of drinking before ten? “Schwasteytown, population: Fred,” I thought. After darts, we would head on over to the KK, pound some swamp waters and Vegas bombs, and then catch an Uber to the local titty bar. I’d bring a plastic bag for Fred to puke into so we would avoid the $100 cleanup fee, I’d write a column about the time I got my fraternity’s leadership consultant blackout drunk, and that would be that.

But that wasn’t that. The motherfucker (as well as Motherfucker Jones) tricked me. But I’ll get to all that later.

We started the night off at dart league. I’m not sure how many of you play darts (more specifically cricket) competitively, but for those of you who don’t, there is a pretty steep learning curve. If you have never played, you’re awful. If you rarely play, you’re awful. If you sometimes play, you’re still awful. I don’t want to say Fred was awful, so I’ll just leave it at “he only played sometimes.”

Luckily for our three-man squad, we had a fucking ringer on our team. You know him, you love him, you’ll be afraid of him when you have a high school-aged daughter. He is my boy, Bootystank Joe. Except when he plays darts, we call him by his two darts nicknames: Joey Darts and Jos. E Darts. If he’s just playing okay, he’s Joey Darts. But if he’s playing out of his mind, Jos. E. Darts is in town. And suit up, you guys, because Jos. E. Darts came to play on this particular night.

The matches are best of thirteen. We’re up six games to five, and it’s Jos. E. Darts and Fred vs. two of our struggling-but-hanging-in-there opponents. It’s a huge game here, and there’s one bullseye left to hit before we win the match. It’s Fred’s turn. He turns to me, somewhere near a pitcher deep, and says, “I’m going to hit this.” Even though he is my fraternity brother, I had absolutely no faith in him. I guess that’s how we all feel about all of our fraternity brothers, though. We have no faith in them because we’ve seen them all at their worst, but guck gummit do we love ‘em.

Fred walks up and nails it. First dart. I threw my hands up in the air, Jos. E. Darts smiled in excitement, and Fred just awkwardly stood there, not knowing what to do with the other two darts he was holding because he had never won a game of darts before in his life. It was a beautiful moment, and a moment I knew I’d be able to parlay into getting Fred even drunker than previously planned. And, oh yeah, the 1.20 MPR Fred threw ended up being the worst MPR posted all season in dart league.

Then a wrench got thrown into the plans: a tipsy Fred had to miss our second darts match to go meet with my fraternity’s scholarship chair. Two things here. 1. Yeah, this guy is pretty badass, and 2. Not only will Fred not have the chance to drink more over these next two hours, but he’ll be sobering up during them. Not ideal if I’m trying to get him tatas to the cranium. But you got to play the cards as they’re dealt.

While we were playing the next dart league match, a man in his mid thirties came over to us and started talking. And when I say talking, I mean he wouldn’t shut the hell up. The first thing he did when he came over was call the 5’6″ Asian kid on the opposing team “Yao” in what was one of the more awkward and hilarious moments I’ve seen in a while. This talkative man’s name was Jones (but we all immediately called him Motherfucker Jones), and he appeared not to be leaving anytime soon. In an effort to get him to do so, I asked him if he could buy us all shots. He pulled out an empty money clip and said, “I would, man, but the county owes me money.” Not the government, the county. That’s an important distinction, I guess.

We ended up winning the match, taking a couple celebratory shots, and then leaving that bar to go to the KK with Motherfucker Jones in tow (he told us he’d be walking with us until he got to his bus stop, which was on the way). We got to the bus stop, at which Motherfucker Jones proceeded to loudly cat call two women who were waiting for the bus and continue walking with us to, and into, the KK.

At this point I had grown to appreciate and admire Motherfucker Jones as an addition to the squad. Sure, he might be a little old for the KK, and he might be involved in a legal dispute with the county, but he was our mysterious over-aged potential delinquent. Motherfucker Jones told me to go buy a couple pitchers so I obviously did (his confidence was another reason I respected him), but when I returned with them he was nowhere to be found. I found it pretty odd I couldn’t lose him when I tried, but now that I wanted to hang out with him, he was nowhere to be found. Did Motherfucker Jones just friendzone me?

Fred arrived, and we proceeded to play that drinking game where everyone puts their finger on a cup of beer and you go in a circle trying to guess how many fingers are still going to be on the cup after you count down from 3. I have no idea if that description of the game makes any sense, but all you need to know is that it got us all even drunker.

This is when Fred turned the tables on me. I was still dead set on getting Fred blackout, so I went to the bar and ordered 4 Vegas bombs to start us off – 1 for him, 1 for me, and 2 for people undecided. Well, after each taking our Vegas bombs, Fred decided that we were those 2 undecided people. So we took them. Then Fred goes “now it’s my turn” and buys 2 more. And we took them. After back-to-back-to-back Vegas bombs, I should have noticed Fred had turned my plan of getting him blackout into his plan to get me blackout, but we had just done back-to-back-to-back Vegas bombs, so that thought did not occur to me. What did occur to me were two things.

My first thought was that it was time to Facebook chat my friend’s little brother.

A high schooler whom I’ve never met, my friend’s little brother added me on Facebook during my sophomore year. I was super drunk at the KK one night (April 8th, as the evidence suggests), and ran into my friend (his older sister). We decided it would be funny for me to Facebook chat him, so I did. He was confused.

Screen Shot 2015-05-24 at 4.01.20 AM

I followed up 9 days later. Make note that I’m not creepy because I only respond to/communicate with him after 1 A.M.


And then I responded 11 days later on the night in question.


I don’t know what the fuck I was talking about either.

My second thought was “I need to jump into a trashcan.”

Nobody knows why I wanted to do this. The closest thing we have to an explanation is a quote I apparently said to Fred some amount of time after we took the Vegas bombs: ”You can sleep on my couch if you want, but I’m going to go sleep in a trashcan.” Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe I thought it would impress some people, maybe I felt like trash after getting tossed around by Motherfucker Jones. I’m not sure. All I know is, it happened.

devry trash

So I, in my drunken stupor, jumped into a trashcan outside of arguably the most popular college bar in my town. Of course that wasn’t enough to satisfy drunk DeVry, so I guess I decided to invent a new game. It’s called “Oscar the Grouching,” and it’s where you jump into a trashcan outside of a crowded bar and yell at people like you’re Oscar the Grouch. A video of me engaging in this activity exists, and, lucky for you all, I already have no shot at any career in the political realm and can share it with you. I recommend watching it fullscreen with your brightness all the way up so you can fully appreciate it.

The next day, after Ubering to class, I met back up with Fred to discuss the night he created. He was proud of his work.

I see now why nationals hired this wonderful man. If you can lead a man into a trashcan, I have no doubt you have the ability to teach us the skills we need to lead our fraternity to greatness. Especially now that I’m gone.

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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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