While you’re busy busting out A+’s and making new friends in college, it’s always really nice to go home for a weekend. And that is especially true during your freshman year when home friends routinely have elaborate parties where people drunkenly reunite. It’s great really; chugging a few fuzzy navels with your best high school buddies, reminiscing about all of the TOTES COOL theme parties you’ve encountered on frat row so far, and all of the (Oh Em Gee) hot dudes you’ve met.
My particular high-school-post-first-month-of-college party came in late September my freshman year. My entire high school class was there (literally all 170 of us), and we finally had enough over 21 contacts to scrounge up all of the alcohol we could ask for. We even had tents set up for drunken hook-ups sleeping. Now, in order to follow the story, I have to set a prominent scene for you. The location of the party was any college kid’s dream: it was a giant hill in someone’s backyard that opened up to a serene lake with a small mud wrestling pit, a sauna, a hot tub and a huge dock.
It was heaven and everyone was so excited to be there with all of our friends that the drinking became excessive.
Soon here were mud-wrestling matches with girls in sports bras clawing at other girls, hoping to get all of the old, retired high school football captains to watch the girls “be drunk and sexy.” Afterward, people would dive into the lake and cool off make out and then sit in the sauna for a brief sobering up sesh.
I was having the time of my life. I ran around with my old girlfriends and even was paid five dollars to kiss one of them! Then I lost the five dollars when I sloppily mud wrestled and played a game of ‘human bowling’ in the mud pit. I think I made out with 5 people that night. It’s one of those things where you feel comfortable with your old high school friends and all of these weird drunk hormones take over. It’s mildly embarrassing but extremely entertaining.
Eventually, after falling off the dock and producing the largest bruise known to man, me and one of my girlfriends decided it would be a good idea to run home. We’d had enough and we wanted to sleep in beds, not on the ground next to two horn dogs going at it.
Her house was only across the cornfield, it shouldn’t be that bad. At least that’s what we thought. So in flip-flops and shorts, we went on our way. Now, don’t let the soft dirt in passing cornfields fool you. That shiz is deep. Like probably two feet. And lucky for us, it had rained the night before. By the time we arrived home at 5am, I had lost my flip flops and had mud up to my thighs. We passed out with crusted dirt on our legs on a deserted futon in her basement. Spooning.
But that wasn’t even the best story to come from that party. That award goes to another fine young lady in attendance, which we heard about from the host’s parents.
The next morning they were sitting in their kitchen sipping coffee and talking about how nice it was that the old crew was back together and everyone had grown up so much. Then, enjoying the beautiful morning, they looked out the window to find a young lady crawling drunkenly up their massive hill in their backyard from the cluster of tents at the bottom. Mid-sip of Starbucks via, the parents watched her pull down her pants and pop a squat right in front of their eyes…in their very own back yard. Like a car crash, they were unable to look away.
Then, almost like out of a movie, Mrs. Pop-a-Squat started teetering mid-pee. Like a tree, the girl tipped and rolled down the hill. Peeing. Pants at half mass. All over herself.
That story, among many others from the evening, got through town pretty quickly. Needless to say, we never had another party again. But it’s OK; that one will forever live on in infamy.