By contributing writer Alex Black

Well, it’s that time of year again…no, not the one day you show up to class for the final review…I'm talking about summer! You’ve lasted through the grueling minus-fifty days waiting for the bus at quarter to seven in the morning and fought hard through the second semester to complete all your final projects and exams. Or at least that’s what you’ve told your parents and potential employers, when we all know damn well an 8 degree temperature change in either direction was a good enough excuse to skip class and that gigantic beer pyramid in the corner of your room definitely took priority over your design project.

We all know what’s comes next, you tell your peers that next year “I’m really going to try and buckle down,” “No more alcohol,” “I’m gonna be in by 10 o’clock every school night,” and possibly my favorite: “My GPA is going to get up there next year.” BULLSHIT. We all know full well that next year’s going there will be more late nights and heavy drinking. Why, because you my friends have mastered the art of the 15-page paper in a continuous 7-hour stretch. So after you’re done trying to make excuses as to why you’re a failure, just accept it, and move on to two immensely more important summer rituals.

1. Find a summer job, because next session won't pay for itself.

AKA, funnel away some beer money, and find another student loan source, 'cause banks #1 and #2 are gonna run dry soon.

2. Begin drinking.


Only when you forget you have a helmet on are you drunk enough.

Yes, you are aware it’s now time to find that summer job, so you'll go out for one day, hand out 20-30 resumes, run into a few buddies, and before you know it you’re on the bathroom floor of the local strip bar wearing a bra and panties with “DRATER” written across your forehead when you look in the mirror. You eventually take a $8 an hour job because it was the first thing that came up, and besides, some time in the sun and physical activity is more like getting paid to look better, right? After the first week of shoveling cow manure into the back of Cletus’ truck at 5:30 in the morning freezing your ass off in the rain you decide you’re a fucking idiot.

One hard week into work and it's time you've earned a sick day. Thursday night is Ladies Night at the local club, so you figure it's time to tap into the ol’ college fund—$40 extra just to buy some pretty ladies a few cocktails (so you can shove yours in her tail). A few trips to bathroom later and another $100 comes out. Hey, it’ll be fine, you’ve got a new job anyways. Then it happens: your dancing with Jenna Jugs (who’s really a 300lb black middle linebacker for the college team who’s trying to stop you from humping HIS leg…again) when you open your eyes and it’s Monday afternoon. This isn’t your bed, that’s not your girlfriend…wait, neither is she (YES!) and this is definitely not your Hillary Duff shirt. You stand up and do a quick damage check:

Scratches on your back, cool.
Penis ring, weird.
Tattoo, sweet…
…off the once-prominent pop group New Kids on the Block, FUCK.

Then the weekend kicks in and the headache starts as. It’s now 11pm, you’ve eaten dinner at a local drive in, found your cell phone, discovered you're in a small rural community 5 hours away from home base, and found your pants…in that order. You get a ride home with a trucker named Phyllis and her basset hound Chuck, after a delightful discussion about her time in “The Pen,” and make your way up the stairs, Hillary Duff shirt in hand, and you're in bed by 6am.


The six-pack transformation: a natural stage in summer drinking.

It’s 8 o’clock phone rings, late for work, you say something you don’t quite remember in full, and the boss fires you, you sleep until Wednesday when you go out to find a new job, apologize to the ol’ ball-and-chain for missing dinner with her family on Saturday, and the apparent Sunday news footage of you running stark-ass naked in some unknown rural cornfield. Then you find out what tattoo removal’s all about, and turn down an invitation to Karaoke Night at the lounge down the street, feeling it’s time to buckle down. But by Thursday you've found a new job and it's time to go out and celebrate with the guys.

You wake up Sunday morning, something poking you, it’s a dog humping your leg, you shake him off and look around, the road signs are written in German, you have no pants, and this time it’s Boyz 2 Men.

Yes, summer everyone…it’s finally here.

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