Friday Night Fights

My childhood friend attends West Point in New York, and he gets very little time off to visit. (We’ll refer to him as Clint.) So, when
Clint does visit, he gets good and wasted, and tries to make the most out of every situation. And that’s exactly what we intended to do over our Christmas
break.

Clint arrived on a Friday night and we immediately went out to a bar with a few friends. I had a newly mended tooth which was still sore
(another story entirely), but that couldn’t stop
me from drinking anything put in front of my happy little face.

"I turned around, almost in slow motion, to see a douchey frat fist coming rapidly towards my face."

We were all ecstatic to be together and the shots flowed like R. Kelly’s urine over a 14-year-old. And if you didn’t know,
that’s a lot of urine. Err, shots.

We jumped from bar to bar for a few hours until we ran into an old buddy from high school. One thing led to another, and he invited us to a
party at his frat house after he got off work. I think we were all pretty skeptical at first, but we were drunk, and there were going to be girls there. So,
we agreed.

We showed up at the frat house drunker than Nate Degraaf after two Mike’s Hard Lemonades and made a spectacle of
ourselves. But I wasn’t worried. Even though I’m of a pretty normal build, my friends are large men. Clint plays football at West Point and is right around
6’4, 230 pounds, so I was feeling pretty confident to say whatever I wanted.

We signed up for next beer pong and made the rounds until our turn was up. I did a shot of Crown with some chick and puked Thai food in some
guy’s sink. I laughed, but she didn’t think it was that funny. Sorority girls are bitches.

Eventually, Clint and I were up, and we went to our predetermined side to show these guys how we do things. As we were setting up, two brahs
walked over and pushed their way in front of us and started setting up their cups.

Me: What the fuck dude?

Brah #1: Chill man, we live here. *High fives buddy*

Brah #2: Yeah brah, move your ass the fuck out of here!” *High fives buddy*

Before I could say anything, Clint’s fist came flying into Brah #2’s face. Clint jumped on top of him and began wailing. I
started giggling like I was the star cheerleader and the quarterback of the football team was protecting me.

Then, things start to get out of hand. Within maybe 15 seconds, 8 guys had jumped on Clint and were working on him. I sprinted over to pull
these douches off of my friend.

In the middle of yelling and trying my best to diffuse the situation, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around, almost in slow
motion, to see a douchey frat fist coming rapidly towards my face.

It connected. I hit
the ground.

Suddenly, all chaos ensued. The place fucking erupted and me and Clint officially got the shit kicked out of us. And by kicked, I mean
literally kicked. We were both on the ground in the fetal position getting kicked and stomped on by maybe 30 brahs.

Our high school friend ran down from upstairs and tried his best to get everyone off. Luckily, he is very high up in the hierarchy of frat
gayness and was able to subdue his loyal minions of beer pong specialists and roofie aficionados. He cleared a path through the house and we were able to make our way
out.

We limped out of the door holding each other up, scowling at our other friends who just stood there in shock and didn’t help out. I was
ready to get in the car and get the fuck out of there, until… I realized what car we were driving: Clint’s mom’s purple fucking Excursion van. Now sure,
this thing has everything you could want—limo lights, TV, fold-down bed in the back, pussy magnet under the hood—but you don’t exactly look like the
coolest guy in the world driving it.

We pulled our asses into this beast, and drove away to comments like, “Nice van pussies!” and, “Have fun picking up your
kids from soccer practice!” I returned the favor by yelling things such as, “Have fun buying your friends!” and, “I puked in your sink
dick!”

They didn’t like that, and started coming towards the van. We drove away bleeding all over ourselves.

As we sped into the night, I examined my injuries. The right side of my face hurt pretty badly, so I reached in my mouth and… OH MOTHER
FUCKER! MY TOOTH!

My fucking tooth had been knocked out again. I was so mad; I started pleading with get Clint to turn around again so we could kick their
asses. He said no, and I told him to quit being such a pussy. He looked at me with the burning hatred of a 1,000 suns. It was probably a good time to go home.

Now, this story isn’t meant to portray all frat brothers as douchebags—I think our fearless editor Court Sullivan was in a frat, and he’s only a little
bit of a douche—but there are definitely some out there.

In retrospect, it was our fault we got our asses kicked. We went on their turf and started some shit, and paid the price. I want my fucking
tooth back though.

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