By staff writer Alex Willen

High school kids suck. I sucked, you sucked, and Carrot Top probably sucked more than he does now. They tell stories like, “Duuuuuuude we got so wasted last night after we finished those eight Miller Lites that I stole from my dad!” and, “Oh man, I totally banged [awkwardly groped] this fine ass girl [y’know, the one with the braces].” Frankly, I’m all for classifying being in high school as a minor degree of retardation, but that’s an argument for another article entirely.

Anyway, though high school kids suck, they do occasionally have their moments. My moment of near-college-level-debauchery lasted for a full summer after my friend Kevin and I convinced our parents that they ought to pay for a four-person apartment for the two of us so we could show up to the single philosophy class we were taking on the days they showed movies. I hold this as a special feat in my heart, because my parents hate Kevin. They hate him with the fury of a thousand women bleeding out of their respective hatchet wounds in unison after just discovering that Baskin Robbins is out of Rocky Road. They cite him as the cause of the entire laundry list of everything that they can find wrong with me. (Luckily they haven’t figured out what pot smells like yet, so he’s still off the hook for that one.)

Anyway, my clever argument went pretty much as follows: “Mom, there’re no more dorms left and I don’t want to commute so if you don’t get me this apartment I’m going to sit on the couch all summer and do nothing and then colleges won’t accept me and I’ll never be able to go to law school and I’ll never be a respectable member of society and the family will shun you and we’ll be forced to move to some Midwestern state and buy a farm and raise emus. You don’t want that, do you?”

She caved, and after numerous warnings about having alcohol or other people over, we moved in. General shenanigans occurred, and Kevin, as he virtually always manages to do, kept a stream of very attractive Orange County girls coming in and out of our apartment.

Finally, one night it looked as though I was just going to have a peaceful time on the couch playing NBA Ballers and, if I was so lucky, wake up with total recall of the previous night’s events. In addition, I even made the good decision to go to class the next day for the third time that quarter. This decision was, of course, put to the test when Kevin got a call at 1:30 AM from some girls that he’d met God-knows-where and demanded my presence. I, however, in an attempt to not be an utter academic failure (a goal I have long since renounced), decided that I was going to stay in and go to bed. Kevin called me a pussy and went to meet the girls. I went to bed.

When I heard the door fly open I checked my watch, noted that it was 3:00AM, and hoped that it was only Kevin so I could get back to sleep. Obviously I wasn’t so lucky, and I found myself as disappointed as one can be when one’s roommate comes home with three girls. With the four of them were two other male friends. The first of these I will name ThePrettyOne—he never really had game with girls, but he was such a stereotypically attractive Orange County kid that as long as he stood behind Kevin, who did the talking, he could just be silent and get laid. The other was a more interesting character—a pretty tall guy who, despite having embraced stereotypical Orange County culture, was still a tad goofy and had hair growing between his eyebrows. Thus, we’ll call him UniBro.

The six of them came in, and as I tried to lie silently on my bed so as to remain undisturbed and return to my slumber, ThePrettyOne opened my door and threw two of the girls on my bed. I know, I know, my life is so hard. I told them that while I was sure they were great young women, I’d be most appreciative if they’d let me sleep. Lovely little frail creatures that they were, they tried to leave, but TPO was holding the door closed, so I got up, pulled it open, tossed him into the hallway, and let them out.

They collectively decided that I was dedicated enough to my sleep that they’d leave me alone, but by that time I realized that there was no way I was going to sleep, especially with them out in the living room. I got up, wandered out, and noted pretty much what I’d expected to see: each of the girls was next to one of the guys, and they were playing some obviously improvised stripping/drinking game. I had a beer and let them entertain me, while noting that the drunker UniBro’s girl got, the more she openly mocked him and his beginning vestiges of a unibrow. This led UniBro to drink more and more heavily until it was apparent that even if he somehow managed to get this girl to hook up with him (a nigh impossible task at this point), he’d be too comatose to know what to do with her anyway.

Eventually, he just sort of disappeared, and his girl came to sit on my lap. Now, I’ll turn down a meeting with women, and I’ll even turn down two girls thrown into my bed given the right circumstances. On the other hand, however, I’m not retarded and I do have a penis, so there are some situations that even at my peak of self-restraint I won’t refuse. Kevin took his girl back to his bedroom, and I offered to show mine my own room. She graciously accepted, so I escorted her down all ten feet of hallway, and we started hooking up.

It’s worth noting here that for all her looks, she didn’t exactly seem to have a boatload of experience. She started giving me a handjob, and while we’ve all had awkward HJ experiences, I was convinced that she was trying to play Street Fighter II with my penis. Seriously. If there had been buttons on my nuts, I’m pretty sure she could’ve had me shooting fireballs. That might also have had something to do with the Chlamydia, but that’s just getting off-topic.

I was enduring it for the sake of having sex with her once her arm was tired out when we both heard what sounded like the bathroom door fly shut followed by loud vomiting sounds. I told her it was probably just UniBro and nothing to worry about, but she didn’t accept this as a reasonable explanation and ran out to check. I eventually followed, and upon seeing that it was TPO’s girl, I resigned myself to having testicles of a lovely azure shade and started talking to Kevin and TPO while the girls dealt with their friend.

None of us could figure out where UniBro was, but that became a secondary worry once TPO looked at his watch and realized it was 5:00AM and that

he’d snuck out and needed to be back home before his dad got up to go on a jog. (Remember, still in high school.) One of the girls also realized that they should probably get back to
pretending they were having a happy slumber party so their parents wouldn’t think they were whores.

It was then determined that I was, in fact, the only one sober enough to drive a car (and it’s not like women can drive anyway), so against my better judgment I got into the car with TPO in the front seat and the three girls in the back. We made it about half a block before one of them yelled that I should pull over. I didn’t really need to ask, but I did, and they made it apparent that TPO’s girl wasn’t going to make it much further without heaving. It wasn’t my car, and I definitely didn’t want to be responsible for that kind of mess, so I started to pull over. TPO, on the other hand, had different ideas—he started yelling that there wasn’t time, he had to be home, and I needed to get him there fast. I finally compromised on opening a window and making vague threats about what would happen if all her vomit didn’t get outside the car.

She threw up while I was driving, and the drivers of all four other cars on the road at that hour gawked. Eventually she stopped, so I sped up so as to get TPO home in time, but, naturally, she lasted about ten minutes before she started vomiting again. By this point I was on the freeway, so there wasn’t much slowing down to be done. Apparently this didn’t bother her, even during vomits number three and four. Though, to be fair, the last one was more dry heaving than anything.

TPO directed me back to his house, where I dropped him off, and the girl I’d been hooking up with directed me to the place they were all staying. When we were about halfway there, I realized I really had to poop. REALLY had to poop. This was a “drank the water in Mexico followed by a picante salsa enema” kind of need to poop. I sped up and got them home, and only half-listened to them as they gave me directions back to the freeway. I also had to pee, so I drove down a block and peed on somebody’s lawn, then got back in the car and tried to recall where I was supposed to go. Of course, when it comes to directions, I immediately morph into a 12-year-old with Down’s syndrome, so I wasn’t doing very well. I pulled into a gas station and asked for directions. He rambled on in a heavy accent that I couldn’t understand anyway, and I debated asking to use the bathroom. There is, however, little that I enjoy less than pooping in a gas station, so I got back on the road, drove to the next gas station, and again asked for directions. By this point, however, I was on the verge of expelling the fires of hell from my ass (with little pieces of corn in them) so I asked if he had a restroom. He countered by pointing to the “customers only” sign. This isn’t a policy that I usually object to, but at 5:45 AM, when someone comes in lost and looking as though a small animal is clawing its way out of his asshole, you let him use the bathroom. It’s just courtesy.

I left in protest (and because my wallet was at home) and took his directions, which lead me approximately nowhere. I tried one more gas station, where I was graciously permitted to drop the Cosby kids off at the pool and received what proved to be solid directions.

I made it to the freeway, got off on my exit, and drove to the apartment. I pulled in and took someone else’s ticket to put on the windshield so parking enforcement would leave the car alone. (Kevin refused to get a parking pass because he thought he could beat the system, but 14 tickets later The Man had won that fight.) I walked up the stairs and realized I didn’t have my keys, so I started knocking. No answer, so I knocked louder. Still no answer, so I walked to the main office to get them to let me in. Unfortunately, it was too early, no one was there, and I appeared to be shit out of luck. Before sleeping on the grass, I figured I’d try to get Kevin out of his alcohol-induced slumber to let me in one more time. I kicked the door as hard as I could until our downstairs neighbors (who had called several varieties of law enforcement on us during our stay) came outside to glare at me. I wasn’t in the mood for any old people sass, so I glared back until they decided I wasn’t worth fighting.

Kevin finally made it to the door, and when I started to ask him where he’d been, he put his finger up to his mouth and shushed me. I questioned him silently, and he motioned for me to follow him.

I followed to our pantry, and he slid the door open. Inside I saw none other than UniBro, on the floor with one thumb in his mouth and the other clutching a now-empty handle of Smirnoff.

The lesson here? Honestly, I don’t really deal with lessons, but I guess I’ll go with “No matter how gay the word tweeze is, if you’ve got a unibrow you should probably do just that.” You’re all welcome.

Got a special high school party story? Share it in the comments…