GUEST FRIDAY COLUMN: The Irony of Frat Parties

by Arielle Wolfson

Arielle Wolfson would like to share some of her experiences at fraternity parties with you. Unfortunately, she writes for Punch Bowl.


Ever since I was a freshman, frat parties have always provided me with a certain level of entertainment. Normally, I’d be referring to the “I’m going to see how many frat boys I can drunkenly make out with in one night,” kind of entertainment, but in this particular instance, I mean much more, “I am going to awkwardly get-hit on in the corner, and see how many slap happy brothers I can remember to make fun of to my friends come morning” kind of fun.

Lets begin with frat party number one. It is a Saturday night after the first week of classes, and freshmen are upset because they have finally realized that they must spend more time Van-Pelt-partying than I-can’t-remember partying, that walk of shaming on a Tuesday is no longer acceptable, and that waking up the next morning on college green next to a God-Preaching pastor railing against the vices you committed the night before will not get you any street cred. However, Saturday night has finally arrived again and it is time to consume more shots of alcohol than the number of children Brangelina have adopted from Cambodia.

As I walk towards the doors of the “meat shack” (and I’m not referring to Beta’s emergency BBQ storage shed), I notice two “bouncers”, asking people “if they think they’re tits are large enough.” Now, this is a funny sight because, while they are putting on the façade of the angry looking burly guy from a sixties motorcycle gang movie, I happen know that next weekend they are planning to return to “their” New York pad to have Rosh Hashanah dinner with Grandpa Milton.

15 minutes and three broken ribs later (clarification: from elbowing our way in, not the “bouncer”), my friends and I enter said meat shack. Three minutes later, we are still standing in the same place, behind that drunken girl who is shedding enough beer tears to solve the water shortage problems in a third world country. After half-heartedly consoling this girl by confirming her fear that the boys at Penn are all douche bags, we finally reach the dance floor. It is so crowded that the combination of sweat, alcohol, and perfume, foment into a single odor that would scare the shit out of a port-o-john overdue for being emptied. I realized at this point, if I was going to spend my time there, I mind as well get myself some jungle juice and a frat boy.

The next morning, I begin to relay the events of the previous night to my friends and tell them how entertaining it is to observe all the freaks at this school. All of a sudden one of my friends retorts, “Uh..did you see yourself last night? YOU were the girl everyone was laughing at!” Hmm.. I guess jungle juice really does work wonders.

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