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Sure, your entire wardrobe consist of nothing but chapter designated game day polos, tasteless pun-laden rush shirts, and witty sexual innuendo-charged formal tank tops. Your tinted out Tahoe or jacked up Ford Raptor may have a license plate frame from the campus Greek life store accompanied with your oversized white letters pressed firmly against the back windshield. The paddle up on your wall and sorority painted recruitment banners that line your room could be collecting years worth of dust in the house. You might even have the holographic, scarred remains of a once infected, poorly applied coat hanger ass brand, but you’re not truly in a fraternity until you get inked up with the markings of your brotherhood.
Where branding is the equivalent to savagely mouth fucking your woman like a human fleshlight for fifteen seconds, getting tatted up would be a prolonged box munching session where you’re constantly looking up to see if she’s remotely close to finishing. She’s not, but she still very much appreciates the effort. Sitting on the parlor table for what seems like an eternity as the artist outlines and fills in your lifetime loyalty to something you’ll be completely apathetic towards in a few years is the type of no forward thinking commitment this world needs. There’s no going back. The chips are pushed to the center of the pot and you’re all in on Sigma Chi.
It’s the wedding ring you can’t take off. A neon lit billboard loudly telling every other clique to gargle your sack. The overflowing plastic landfill island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. An STD for the world to see. Beautiful, unrequited love that you’ll eventually resent and be ashamed of down the road. That’s what REAL brotherhood is about: jumping off the cliff without ever looking down to see if there’s water to land in.
Just ask the Latin Kings, Crips, Bloods, and countless other street gangs that are oftentimes covered in ink from head to toe pledging an everlasting allegiance to their organization. Their ride or die dedication and devotion is the type of foundation that fraternities should not only strive to build from its members, but downright NEED. And who better for affluent, white males to learn from than these relentless turf ruling tycoons of the American drug industry.
The Romans actually used to tattoo prisoners to identify their crimes, so if you’re not sold yet, you could just think of it as a badge of honor for all of the depraved, unlawful shit you got away with in college.
Besides, what girl doesn’t dig tats? You’re the bad boy their mothers warned them about. The tattoo tells her you’re a spontaneous motherfucker who will sweep her off her feet and give her the hardest orgasms of her life for the first month, only to then drop her into a volatile downward spiral for the next two years of you being emotionally unavailable, her friends saying “she deserve better,” and the two of you exclusively fucking doggy-style. Well, exclusively on her end. You had too much razor sharp edge in your pants to go around.
A member without the fraternity’s letters or crest stamped somewhere on his body is a lot like the guy your mom dates after the divorce with a soul patch and hoop earring. He may be giving you unwarranted advice and wear your pop’s old robe after tagging your sweet mother on a nightly basis, but he has no stake in the game. You can’t trust that guy. There’s really no telling what his true intentions may be.
If the brother is not willing to blindly drink the Kool-Aid and take a needle on behalf of his so-called friends, he’s definitely not taking a bullet for them, either. And when shit hits the fan, and that time comes when the university cracks down on the burmese python wrangling operation you had pledges run out of the basement, who would you rather have on your side? The guy who forever littered his body with the most important thing in his life at the moment without a single thought of how it would impact his future, or the kid that could never fully commit to something he saw as more of a temporary hobby? Exactly. Has a mark, not a narc. More ink, more link. True crews have tattoos. Not frat ’til you get that tat..