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Near the end of every semester across the fraternal halls of America, the worst pledge class ever typically embarks on a weekend-long excursion away from campus.
Depending on what part of this great country you call home, pledge retreats typically take place at one of the pledge’s cottages, a casino, hotel, or somewhere otherwise as far away as possible from both the haze-happy brothers and local authorities who tend to frown upon destruction of property. My pledge retreat was at a chapter alum’s summer vacation mansion located on a donkey farm 15 minutes outside of our Alpha chapter.
What follows are the true events of that weekend. Nicknames have not been changed to protect the guilty, because forget those guys.
Cars are packed up and ready to go. The pledge master rounds up the 40-ish man pledge class in the parking lot, and begins screaming.
“Enjoy your little weekendgetaway now, because when you get back the brothers have a little surprise for you.”
Our SUV hits the interstate. Our Explorer has five people in it, four of whom would later be known on sorority row as “the B-Squad.”
Somehow “I run it myself like a quarterback option” has become the truck’s catchphrase.
Sex and Aladdin have rounded us up to make an announcement of the “upmost importance.”
“Guys,” says Sex, “Aladdin and I are starting a Fight Club.”
Crickets from the gallery. PCP puts Ol’ Miami police on speed dial.
Sex and Aladdin have spent the past three hours debating the finer nuances of Pledge Retreat Fight Club rules. Because of course. This involves slow motion almost-punches in order to best articulate what their slurred, barely conscious voices are unable to.
Sex and Aladdin square up to fight.
Aladdin is on the ground unconscious with a bloody nose.
Still no sign of Bootstrap.
Bootstrap has been found. For $500, he offers to fornicate one of the donkeys with his hand.
Having found no takers, Bootstrap says he will run across the ten-foot long bonfire for two cartons of smokes.
The market price of self-arson has apparently plummeted to 2 Marlboro Reds.
Bootstrap has tripped over a log, and is currently lying passed out on the ground as his left arm is aflame.
Awake from my La-Z Boy coma. Room feels strangely chilly.
Look down at my feet. Never took off my Gunnison Drivers. Uh oh.
Awaken in the chapter parking lot to the entire fraternity pounding on our SUV windows.