It’s Fling, you’re drunk. You have all weekend to try to top these premium moments from Flings past. Ready, set, FLING!
I LOST MY UNDIES
I don’t really consider myself a frat-loving girl, but there are some annual parties that you just can’t miss, among them the Sammy band party the Thursday night of Fling. As a carefree sophomore, looking for some free Lionshead and prepared to potentially give some later (I kid), I headed over to 3817 Walnut with a bunch of equally eager girlfriends. Dressed to the nines in faux-cowboy attire (themes, after all, are a college girl’s best friend), we were greeted by overall-clad brothers and the occasional bale of hay. Hilarity ensued as hundreds of drunk New-Yorkers-dressed-as-Texans bumped and grinded to “Cotton Eyed Joe,” but the true fun began for me in the party’s aftermath, when I headed home with a Sammy-unaffiliated cowboy to his house on Pine, a good four blocks from my then-abode in Harrison. After getting lucky in Kentucky, if you will, I woke up the next morning to find myself with ratty pigtail braids punctuated with a few too many stalks of wheat. Not wanting to prolong the “morning after,” particularly because I was dreading the Friday-of-Fling walk of shame that lay ahead of me, I threw on my plaid flannel shirt and barely-there Abercrombie jean skirt and ran out the door. It was only after I had made it halfway down the block that I realized I had left my underwear behind with my deeply sleeping conquest. Shit. With no other option but to persevere, I slid my straw hat onto my head and pushed forward, passing at least half a dozen block parties on my way, hoping the flingers did not notice the indecent levels of exposure I was secretly (or not so secretly) sporting. I never did get my underwear back, but talk about learning the true value of being a “naked cowboy … ”
I WAS A PRE-FROSH
I got accepted to Penn early decision. Anxious to begin my college experience before September, I ventured down to Philadelphia for Fling in April of my senior year. I also was not a big drinker before college. My body had no idea what it was in for that fateful spring weekend, as during a lovely high-rise cooked meal of risotto and chicken, I thought it would be entirely appropriate to take six shots of tequila in 15 minutes (my current senior self shakes my head in despair). I recall entering the Rodin elevator, prepared for a night of epic memories … and then I woke up the next morning with my head in a cardboard box of vomit (this is equal parts disgusting and true) wearing one shoe, jeans and a bra. Horrified at my unforgivable manners and utterly petrified from blacking out for 12 hours (TWELVE), I searched the apartment for my host, who retold the mess of events from the preceding evening. I learned that I had shamefully fallen into a heap during the carnival, had to be carried halfway up Locust Walk, attempted to make the second half of the journey home myself but ended up tripping over the low guardrails in front of Steiny-D and falling into the bushes (lost shoe abyss). After being rescued, I was escorted over the 38th Street bridge on the shoulders of two friends, stopped by a Penn security guard who recommended I be sent to HUP (which I absolutely should have been, but my friends were too afraid my Penn acceptance would be revoked … seriously) and finally somehow jumped the Rodin gate and ended up shirtless on the floor. Clearly this was one of my lowest points. Ever. Four year later, I still won’t go within a foot of tequila and will happily never eat risotto again.
I TRICKED THE COPS
The most infuriating part is that it wasn’t even my weed. When my two friends and I sat down at the Akon concert, a bro in front of us — pooka shells and all — whipped out a massive joint and passed it our way. Yes please. We’d only had one hit each when a hippo-sized security guard barreled over to our section of the bleachers and told us we had to come with her. Bro turned away and pretended he didn’t know us; we had to stand up and follow the seething woman into the stadium. Drunk and high, I decided my first plan of action should be to get rid of the flask I’d smuggled in. I found it in my bag and threw it on the floor behind me, pretty proud of my stealth moves. So then the woman called over an actual cop who started questioning us. I’m not sure why we all decided to play dumb, but it happened without any discussion. The cop asked us what we’d been smoking and we told him we’d thought it was a cigarette, that we’d never smoked weed before, some guy told us to do it. He looked skeptical, so I took it a step further. “If this is what smoking is like,” I said, furrowing my brow and trying to seem earnest, “I’m never doing it again.” I looked him dead in the eye. He smiled, shook his head, and let us go back inside.
I GOT A HEMATOMA, PLAN B AND BUSTED BY THE PO
My freshman Fling was a tragicomedy of epic proportions. My day started out faceplanting on the concrete in the Quad, unwittingly causing severe damage to my left leg. Despite the hematoma forming under my pant leg, I somehow managed to find my way to a random Quad room and, in short order, hooked up with my best friend’s hallmate. Over the course of this blackout fiasco, we realized the condom had disappeared (and the time spent on my knees definitely exacerbated my leg injury), but it wasn’t until the next morning at Hill brunch that I was cognizant enough to realize that I should head over to Student Health. After procuring Plan B from the nurse, I mentioned that my leg seemed pretty swollen and was all colors of the black and blue spectrum. I rolled up my sweatpants and the nurse actually screamed. They took me into the doctor who said that I had damaged so many blood vessels that my leg would atrophy if I didn’t stay off it for the rest of Fling. So there I was, unable to drink because of the Plan B, unable to walk because of my injury and unsure of how I would be able to still enjoy my Fling. I decided I needed some medicinal herb and kept my leg elevated on the windowsill (doctor’s orders) and smoked out my friend’s window in the Quad (by myself, naturally). Within minutes of lighting up, Penn Police was at the door, only to say that ”there are eight windows in here … why is only one of them open?” Of course they confiscated my weed, but it was a small price to pay to the Fling gods after that weekend.
I GOT WRITTEN UP BY APRIL
As a freshman, I was all ready to “get flung, bitches!!” This manifested itself on Saturday afternoon. Because I lived in Hill, I got really good at mooching off my Quad-dwelling friends and somehow found myself in a Fisher triple, pounding shots, until suddenly, we heard the dreaded knock. “Open up! It’s Fling Safe!” In a stroke of sheer genius, I grabbed two friends and ran to the closet, knocking down cups and spilling liquid in my wake. I slammed the door shut and made everyone be quiet — it was a fool proof plan! But obviously, Fisher Hassenfeld dean April Herring opened the door and found the three of us crouched down behind jackets and ties… holding a handle of Banker’s. Oops. After spending five minutes trying to push the Fling Safe guards out of the way I gave up and decided to play it cool. “No ma’amsss, I don’t go hejere. I’m just visisiting! No PejennCardd. Anobother ID?” I stealthily (read: drunkenly) opened my wallet, looking for my cousin’s Tulane ID, hoping to play it off like no big deal. Flipping through card after card, April leaned over and said, “You don’t go here? I’ll just take that PennCard.” She proceeded to write me up as “especially uncooperative” with a star next to my name. One year later and I still haven’t heard anything.
I HID IN A PORTA-POTTY
It starts with a little off-campus organization I joined my freshman year. For the older members of said organization’s enjoyment, the younger pledglets are usually required to sneak alcohol into the Quad. Having forgotten about bag checks until the night before, my freshman year they supplied us with six handles of Everclear to make dorm-room-trashcan jungle juice with. They didn’t take into account that we were wasted, the result of a long evening spent in their company. In our drunken stupor, we obviously overlooked the fact that our bacchanalian stench would arouse suspicion at the lower Quad gate. We also falsely assumed that our mysteriously oversized bellies would be accepted as a mass pregnancy pact, instead of flagging us as idiots who had ‘discretely’ stuffed handles under their sweatshirts. The security guard obviously asked to check our bags, so we tried the upper Quad gate, where three bottles slipped out from my comrades’ grips and crashed in front of Joe security man. Wanting to be the saving grace, I decided to take the remaining bottles, shove them in my backpack and sneak them through a hole in the nipple’s fence, which at the time was under construction. So, having been abandoned by my motley crew, I ran to the nipple and scaled the peripheral fence. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw an Allied Spectaguard, and hearing yells of “Stop! Stop!” I knew I needed to duck for cover. I saw a porta-potty, and lucky for me, the construction workers left it unlocked. So I jumped inside and waited with bated breath for the security guards to leave. Over their walkie-talkies, Penn’s finest proclaimed a manhunt for “what could only be identified as a freshman, sneaking what could only be assumed was alcohol into the quadrangle.” Two hours I waited, until one forgotten member of my pledge class came to find me and announce that the coast was clear. Needless to say, the backpack was squeezed through a hole in the fence and I was set free with nothing but my memories and a roll of Charmin ultra.
I STOLE A BUNNY
I didn’t mean to. Well, I kind of did. You see, it’s that damn Zete petting zoo. They just have so many adorable adorables, it was only a matter of time until I got emotionally attached to one of the creatures and decided to run away with one. It was a sunny Saturday last Fling, and readers, I was drunk. I was gadding about carefree, and someone suggested a trip to the annual petting zoo. So I strolled over to that bastion of Euro-frat-boy pretension and began wandering around the bizarre scene. There was a llama, a boa constrictor and a crocodile but most importantly, there were bunnies. And lots of them. There was a 40-pound bunny, a polka-dotted bunny and little bunny wunny babies. The rabbits were essentially kept in cages until inebriated college kids decided to pick them up and cuddle them. I obviously picked one up — his name was Fred — and wandered around the first floor wilderness, showing him off to all those around. I got so invested in little Fred that I forgot that he didn’t belong to me, and only realized that I’d walked away from the petting zoo — and little Fred’s owners — when I got to the Quad and was parading my newfound buddy at the Mask and Wig show, shielding Fred’s eyes from the naked men on stage. I made big plans to prepare a corner of my dorm room for him to live in. But soon, excitement turned to nervousness as the realization that I was an incompetent and irresponsible college freshman set in. I couldn’t handle taking care of Fred! So I tracked down the owners of the traveling zoo, broke down and confessed. But instead of being mad at me, they simply laughed and said they didn’t want it. In fact, they always have too many bunnies and counted on drunk college kids to steal them, to “control the numbers,” so really, I did them a favor. Ultimately, it took a few phone calls but I after hours of franticness, I found Fred a good home, and I was ready for Fling Sunday.
I REENACTED SCENES FROM BAMBI
It should be stated up front that I don’t smoke weed that often. This is for two reasons. One, I’m way too awkward to negotiate any kind of drug deal, and two, I’m the kind of guy that takes one puff and then coughs for five minutes. But eating pot — now, that I can do. And so I found myself at a friend’s apartment on a Friday evening with a tray of pot brownies that were not intended for me (sorry, Penn Singers) and I scooped one up with my drunk, greedy little hands before anyone could stop me. For a while, I didn’t feel anything. But en route from HamCo to a friend’s party on Pine Street, I took a detour to Jupiter. Those brownies took me to another world. And what a world it was. Do you remember the scene in Bambi where that rabbit teaches him how to talk? Because you are a normal person, probably not. He spends two minutes trying to get him to say the word “bird” but he can’t do it. “Buh … bir … b … BIRD!” Bird bird bird bird bird bird. I spent the next hour of my life reenacting this scene. I sat in the corner of a full room, said the word “bird” and then laughed uncontrollably to myself. Lather, rinse, repeat. Everyone abandoned me. My boyfriend bailed and went to another party. Other various friends stood on the other side of the room and watched. I finally descended to earth and walked to FroGro, where I purchased a box of water crackers, a wedge of Brie and a container of mozzarella balls. At least I’m classy?
I HARASSED GUSTER
I started my day drinking with my fellow fraternity brothers at 10 a.m., early by typical standards, but late for Fling. By that afternoon, I had wandered off with a friend of mine (in the middle of a brownout that would last the entire weekend) who told me that Guster was in the Quad. I’m a big Guster fan and demanded that I meet them. C’mon, every frat star has a secret passion for mushy rock bands. I went up to some dude on Junior Balcony whom everyone else was crowding around and asked him to play “Two Points for Honesty,” my favorite Guster song. He proceeded to say that they hadn’t played it in years. For about two minutes, though, there was a back and forth of “C’mon, play ‘Two Points’, it’s my favorite song” and “Man I don’t even remember how it goes.” While this short encounter was not especially memorable (for more than one reason), the following quote from Guster’s tour journal entry about their Penn gig was brought to my attention a week later:
“There was one close-talker of a guy who breathed his vodka-ass-breath on me in the form of “Bro, you gotta play ‘Two Points for Honesty’ for me” over and over. His eyelids were closing while he was poking me in the chest and spilling his drink … I remember at one point, after saying it wasn’t on the set list for the seventh time, feeling like I wasn’t getting out of that conversation without getting beat up, or having close-talker bro pass out on me. Everyone else at UPenn was super cool.”
After reading this, I wondered where the vodka had came from. I remembered many of the beers, but not vodka. I also wondered if I had actually poked him in the stomach. Then it hit me that I was now that dude who was a drunk, annoying, band-wannabe, frat bro. But I still made their website!