Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Washing the Sidewalk

As I mentioned in the previous post, our townhouse is way too nice for us. And to be honest, I'm surprised they even rented to us. One incident in particular is indicative of the direction we're heading.

After only three weeks, we received our first of many eviction threats. A neighbor across the street happened to witness one of us urinating from the second-floor balcony into the street after a long night of binge drinking. Adding to the spectacle, the urinator was apparently trying to write his name on the sidewalk while humming/singing Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." (We learned all this after the fact, as none of us had any recollection of the event occurring in the first place).

As you can imagine, the neighbor, not being a partier, was unimpressed and called the landlord to voice their displeasure and general disgust with our antics. What a great conversation that must have been: "Jesus tap dancing Christ, who do they think they are, pissing off the building like that?! This is a neighborhood!" I'm sure the landlord was mortified. (Umm, sorry for partying).

After that particular fire storm settled, we were let off with a stern warning about how "this isn't a frat house, boys." I'm sure we'll disprove that statement in due time.

Long Bong Silver

In May, I moved into a townhouse in Arlington with three other bros. The place is brand new, gorgeous, and definitely way too nice for us and our penchant for random, irresponsible debauchery.

As we began to outfit our house with all the items that 20-something males consider domestic necessities (barbecue grill, mini fridges-4 of them, flat screen television, tiki torches, etc.), it soon became apparent to us that something was missing from our otherwise dominant household. There was a void and we could all sense it. What could we add to our house to show the neighbors (the fun ones) what kind of bros we truly are? What could we get to really demonstrate our fratitude? It had to be something that not just anyone could buy and possess. Something unique... We needed a beer bong, but not just any beer bong.

Now for those of you who grew up in Utah or have been living under a rock since the Eisenhower Administration, a beer bong is a wonderful contraption that allows the user to consume stomach-stretching quantities of beer in remarkably small amounts of time. It's just a funnel attached to a tube, but it can do amazing things simply by harnessing the power of gravity and some complicated bit of physics involving fluid dynamics.

Any amateur can build a beer bong, but only enthusiasts like ourselves who are truly dedicated to the SFP lifestyle would ever dare to construct and use a 25-foot-long monster that can hold a six pack. We spent an hour and $90 at Home Depot collecting all the necessary components: heavy duty flexible contractor's tubing, solid brass fittings and splitters, adjustable aluminum tube clamps, and the piece de resistance- mouth pieces fashioned from industrial-grade natural gas pipe valves. Another hour of assembly at home (it helped that one of us had an engineering degree) and our Frankenstein was a reality: a two-person thrill ride that dispensed beer like a fire hose. We christened our new creation Long Bong Silver (or LBS, for short).

One Saturday evening, about three weeks after our inaugural weekend with LBS, we were well into the second case (at half capacity- 3 beers a pop- 6 or 8 people can easily put away a 30-rack in under 15 minutes) when the po-lice paid us a visit. We didn't give this much attention since it has become a weekly occurrence, owing to the fact that we bro-out just a little too hard for some of our neighbors. This visit was slightly different though: it was a lady cop. She got out of the cruiser and sidled over to the base of the balcony, ready to tell us to quiet down.

"Good evening, you guys need to keep it-" she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes riveted to the beast draped from our balcony. Can you say penis envy? After a few seconds of dumbfounded silence, she said "You know, you guys can't have that thing up there. You need to take it down." I decided to push the envelop: "You wanna try one, Officer? Basically anyone can handle it," I said, knowing full well that it would probably knock her flat on her cop ass. "I can't, I'm on duty," she replied. I was buzzed and feeling lucky: "You didn't say 'no!' Where I came from, no means yes and yes means harder." Needless to say, she was not impressed. Sorry for Partying.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Introduction to SFP

Hey ya'll. KNOW THIS: you are going to get to like this blog. Mostly written by 2 fraternity brothers, one current and one alum, along with many guests.

Sorry For Partying is the web's new home for all things related to: drinking, drinking outdoors, tailgating, 3-story beer bongs, doing ridiculous shit, country music, reasons the South is better than the North but why we live in the North anyways, and generally being awesome. Trust me we're experts. And yes, while writing about it in a blog would generally disprove this, we are the exceptions to the rule.

So what exactly do we mean when we say "Sorry For Partying" (or not, as the case may be)? We turn to the always informative yet often lame Urban Dictionary for a concise and compelling explanation:

Sorry For Partying-

the act of apologizing for having an awesome time; in no situation does this saying not apply.

You kill your neighbors dog? Sorry For Partying. You steal your friend's credit card at the bar and run up a huge tab? Sorry For Partying. You bang your friend's mom with an empty beer bottle? Sorry For Partying. Piss your pants in the bar? Sorry For Partying. Can't get a boner because you're too drunk? Sorry For Partying.

Liam: What the hell, you just threw all my food at that house!?
Chris: Sorry for partying. I thought this was college.
Liam: You're right Chris, continue. My bad.

Man: You just smashed all my pumpkins, I'm gonna kick your ass!!!
John: Sorry for partying.
Man (walks away calmly)

The title says it all: we sure as shit are Not Sorry For Partying.