>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
November 16, 2003

Like I said last week, if the best part of frat parties is trying to remember where you are and who the hell is snoring so goddamn loudly next to you, then the worst part has to be trying to figure out where you live and how you’re getting back there with minimal supplies (i.e. no panties, one high-heeled shoe, a stained dress, and a Clinique compact mirror).

The stride of pride is a little different than the walk of shame. The stride of pride is performed when you go home from a party with Jennifer Aniston/Brad Pitt and wake up next to Jennifer Aniston/Brad Pitt. The walk of shame is carried out when you leave a bar with Jennifer Aniston/ Brad Pitt and wake up next to Susan Sarandon/Tim Robbins.

The two strolls are a little different in big cities like New York and Chicago. There’s no embarrassment factor when you can wake up, shimmy back into your party clothes, hop in a cab and drive off into the sunrise with the only witness being the foreign cabbie driver—who by the way is probably too busy yapping away on his cell phone to comment on the discoloration plastered to the side of your neck.

But not all of us can take advantage of this simplistic capability. For the rest of the population not living in an urban area the long journey home is a bit more problematic. And to tell you the truth I don’t know how you girls at big schools do it—and those with experience do it with style. I once spent a weekend at U of I with my friends, and the Sunday after a fun time I woke up as clueless as Jessica Simpson on a televised Jeopardy match. Lucky for me I ran into some nice girls that gave me a detailed explanation on how to get back to my best bud’s dorm. The trek included 3 separate bus rides, a 4-block walk, and a 2-hour layover in Dallas.

Girls are more concerned with their reputations than guys and of course make a dramatic spectacle of themselves as they try to get out of the frat house before post nasal drip boy reaches sober consciousness. It’s like playing a reality version of .007. “She flies through a labyrinth to evade possible identification later. Using her compact mirror to peer around corners, darting into bathrooms for temporary cover, and tip-toeing down the stairs, she narrowly makes it to the dorm exit. Barefoot and exhausted, she carefully opens the door, only to realize she's surrounded by half the campus rallied for Greek Week Celebration on the Quad. CAUGHT! GAME OVER.”

Some say I may be exaggerating here, but the truth is most girls don’t want to be seen doing the walk of shame. And it’s not because they’re humiliated that everyone knows they hooked up, they just don’t want to collide with any potential hookups for next weekend while wearing a crack whore outfit complemented by smeared make-up, and carrying a plastic cup jiggling with quarters from winning the drinking game the night before.

When I see one of my guy friends leaving a party with an attractive girl I’m pretty sure all his floormates make sure to leave their doors open the next morning so they can get the immediate play-by-play as soon as she leaves. But I bet the real fun is trying to determine if they guy is lying when he says he boned her but settled for a serious cuddling session instead.

But nothing compares to seeing one of my friends leaving a bar with a MILF—and yes it has happened, on more than one occasion, and every year since I arrived in Wisconsin. I often wonder what HER walk of shame is like. Does she drive him back? Did she make him breakfast first? Did he play video games with her 17-year-old son while she put Pop-Tarts in the toaster? Does she dare mention he has to leave before 7 because it's her day for the carpool? One thing’s for sure, if she does drop him off he’s going to pull a tuck-and-roll maneuver out of that moving vehicle with an audible “See ya Mom!” as his buddies look on—totally unconvinced.


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