After spending a relaxing week back in hell, I’m rested up and ready to return to the trials of finishing my first year at Duke. That’s what Spring break’s for, right? We go someplace hot for a week of partying to break the monotony and prep for the next seven weeks of partying.
People in hell work goddamn hard. As a result, we have the best parties in the world. Do you know how good a beer feels after working by the lake of fire all day as a foot muncher? (We get a lot of evil feet in hell, and somebody’s gotta munch ‘em.) Alcohol is the only cleanser that can simultaneously wash the taste of feet out of your mouth and the shame out of your soul.
Hell has this beloved tradition where we encourage one another to drink fatal amounts of alcohol. If you make some wussy comment like “I think I’m gonna throw up” or “I think I’m gonna die” a demon with a breathalyzer comes by and reassures you, “I got your bac.” At a good hell party, it’s expected that you’ll die several times from alcohol poisoning. Only 10 seconds later you’re respawned at the back of the readmission line on a road paved with good intentions. If we have a party in hell and the line doesn’t reach Detroit, I start to get worried.
By contrast, the parties in heaven are about as fun as the Republican Party. That’s not a jab; most cloudies are Republicans. And the parties there suuuuuccckkk. They might be fun if anybody in heaven had a crappy day job. But cloudies don’t know how to punish their brains at night because they spend all day grinning and offering each other chocolate. (Which they accept, but only to be nice. Everyone in heaven totally has enough chocolate already.) If you catch someone up there drinking a beer, it’s probably to appreciate some old European culture. Eww.
Duke’s parties aren’t as badass as hell’s, but remembering heaven’s parties makes me thank God I go to Duke. I know how to work the scene now, but nobody starts off knowing exactly how to party here. This brings me to an embarrassing confession: during my first week at school, I made the mistake of going to a Devils After Dark event. My thought process went something like this: “Well, that’s what I am … and that’s what time it is … sounds reasonable …” I quickly concluded that the organizers of that necklace-making festival were wildly misinformed about what real devils do after real dark. The event should be called Angels in the Afternoon … or Eat the Food and Leave … or … something. Whatever it’s not my job to save their sh***y non-parties.
To cope with my disappointment in DAD, I went over to the Duke Coffeehouse in search of some devil worshippers. They didn’t have a ritual going on that night, and I got tired of looking at the novelty waffles on the wall pretty quickly. I stepped outside for a cig, and overheard some girls making those noises they do when they want people to think they understand a joke that they totally don’t. They sounded drunk, so I followed them. I know that sounds creepy, but I was hoping they would lead me to a legit party. I swear … I’m BTT.
After three winding staircases and long halls I made it to my first real frat party. I was finally in my element. They had beer every bit as nasty as my beloved Son of Samuel Adams lager, and they played the same three David Guetta songs on repeat—just like home. I would’ve liked to see a couple more deaths, but I saw one naked dude on the floor of a locked bathroom stall; I guess he seemed dead enough.
About two hours into the party some cops came, and they did the craziest thing—they started citing people. They didn’t understand the importance of drinking at Duke, so I spelled it out for them: The harder the job, the harder the drug. They should’ve been commending us on how our breath reeked of hard work! The cops said that I was the one who needed a lesson and they escorted me out of the party.
I don’t have a lot of respect for the police. A cops’ vice is donuts and coffee because their job is super easy. Duke students work their asses off all the time, so caffeine and sugar just don’t cut it. If you speak maths, the profession/vice hardness pecking order looks like this:
Police < everyone else < GDI’s < Michael Phelps < BME majors < Snu bros< Miley Cyrus < crack whores
I tried to alert the cops cuffing me about the crimes against recreation over at Devils After Dark but they told me to shut up. They’re not all bad though. As they were driving me down to the station, the officer riding shotgun confided, “We checked that place out, but it didn’t seem like much was going on so we ate the food and left.”
The Devil only gets one week off in the Spring, and Duke thinks that year should have fewer hours than other weeks.
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