I started off rushing for the free food and alcohol, but after a night of brotherly bonding at Atlantis Gentleman’s Club, I realized that fraternity life has a lot to offer. These were the guys I wanted right by my side during lap dances, not just in college, but for years and years beyond it. That’s why I turned to Brother Kirk and said, “When we’re old and saggy, I hope you’re still stuffing dollar bills in a lady’s lady garments while she grinds up on me. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever ‘pitch a tent’ again, so to speak, without the audience of all twenty or so of you fine men.” Brother Kirk walked away so fast that he must have been hiding tears.
I didn’t necessarily get a bid to this or any fraternity. But as I always say, “What? It’s a free country.” Having seen House Bunny eight or so times, I know more than enough about pledging to serve as my own pledge master. So that's what I'm doing. The worst part about the process is that I’m a real hard-ass. Just ask anyone who knows me and they’ll say, “That Bradley sure would be a hard-ass pledge master.” Then ask me to respond and I’ll be like, “Damn straight,” and then I’ll slam a door, real loud.
I already gave myself a hurtful nickname, to which I am forced to refer to myself in the third person. It’s “Ass-tigmatism,” mocking my irregularly shaped cornea and the fact that as a pledge I’m a good-for-nothing ass. Most of my pledge tasks—like this weekend’s “What Sex and the City Character Are You Night?”, which entailed drinking a different cocktail featured in the series at every frat party going down on campus and then analyzing what type of drunk I became (I’m a Samantha!)—take place alongside other pledges. Unfortunately, Penn is so hard on hazing that I have to do some things indoors. Like eating a whole box of Poptarts by myself, without toasting them. I vommed. No homo.
Listen, I’ve met these frat guys, and they’re some real cool, real chill dudes. Once they see what a dedicated pledge I am even with such an intense pledge master, they’re going to reconsider not giving me a bid. But even if they don’t, I bet I’ll become one of those family friends who their kids call “Uncle” even though there’s no blood relation. I can just hear Brother Kirk’s little girl saying “Daddy, why is Uncle Ass-tigmatism sleeping on the couch?” And good ole’ Kirkus will say, with a tear in his eye that he no longer needs to hide around me, “He’s drunk, sweetie. He’s drunk again.”
