Alumni Status

This weekend was the third Legacy Weekend that my old fraternity Beta Upsilon Chi put on, and the first Weekend that the alums took seriously. To cap it off, we were invited to dine with our descendants.

When I was on the executive board, I divided all the pledges into four houses named after the four major founding fathers. I bet you can’t guess which fantasy series that followed a heroic boy wizard I was reading at the time. Now, a few years later, the system has grown. Alumni were supposed to lunch with their particular house. The problem is, the system was never retroactive. Only four alumni knew which house they belonged to, and that’s because these were named after them.

So instead the rest of us just picked the best restaurant offered. During the meal I asked a pledge what house he belonged to. Responding with confusion, he told me it was Cooper. “Cooper,” I announced to the rest of the table. “We’re in House Cooper.”

Many brothers came in. Statistically, each American time zone was represented, but it was a bit misleading. Most are still Central. At lunch, we spoiled many a secret accidentally as we spoke too loudly about our memories. Most stories were followed by a disclaimer aimed at the current pledges, like “The new BYX takes that much more seriously,” or “There’s a No-Nudity clause now.”

As many that came, most did not. A quick survey of the alumni would’ve seen that mostly all of us were on the executive board at some point. We lamented the old faces that didn’t come back, the figures of legend whom we taught the pledges to quote. I had a mental grocery list and would request older and older stories through lunch about mythic fraternity brothers who had become adjectives and verbs. Most likely they would’ve ruined the fun if they had come – they could not live up to their names.

For instance: Luke Porter was an ex-defensive end for the Razorbacks who started modeling business suits for a thirty-something store when he was nineteen. He shaved twice a day. Once, the army hired him to put on a uniform and stand behind a recruiter on campus for a day. He looks like a lumberjack action hero.

Everyone had a Luke Porter story. He said many silly things. As we passed his memory around, I spoke up about my recruitment. BYX used to (and still does) take potentials to an ice hockey rink to play broomball. It’s supposed to be a time of bonding between members and possible pledges. Instead, during my year we played a rough and physical game of members versus pledges. The first member on the ice: Luke Porter. He tore his shirt and made a snow angel bare-chested. Then, the only time I touched the ball, he checked me into the glass and I got a nose full of chest hair. It was like he didn’t want me to join.

A few years later, at the bachelor’s table of a brother’s wedding reception I retold that story. Luke was there. When the table looked to him to respond, he said, “This guy! I love this guy!”


What Could Have Been

I was asked to come back to my fraternity’s chapter meeting to speak about their spring formal. Though it was most likely because of the prospect that I would tell an embarrassing story, I seized upon the opportunity to relive my glory days. Also, they promised to pay me with fried chicken and a medium soft drink.

Formal was always my favorite fraternity event; however, most other brothers would say, “I don’t have a girl I care enough about to rent her a room” or “dress up” or “talk to her for two straight days.” That excuse seemed incorrect to me. Formal, to me, was about the guys and not a girl. It was a time to put on a suit and eat a steak dinner and celebrate a good year with best friends. I didn’t want to risk happiness with the prospect of interpreting signals. So I always took blind dates.

I did this for most functions my senior year – for the winter semi-formal, I let the pledge class submit and decide my date for me. Out of the three formals that I went to, I keep in touch with only one date. I don’t know where one girl is, and I’m not quite sure who the other was.

I told the fraternity this; I didn’t recognize two-thirds of the crowd and they had never heard my spiel. And I told the story that was expected of me: in a nutshell, my junior year I had a bro-mance with Aaron, a burly and silly pledge brother, and we decided to go to formal together.

That was my old happy face. I've had some work done since.

However, we needed dates to dance with. We met two girls from Ouachita Baptist at a party and decided that night to take them. Three weeks later we drove to Kansas City together and had a wonderful and joyous weekend. Aaron and I couldn’t have been happier. And afterwards, we never called them again.

Now, I am older and wiser and have been reprimanded several times for that. In fact, a year later she met another frat brother at a sunny beach spring break and expressed some residual resentment about what happened. Understandable. But the point that I made for the chapter was that I didn’t need to call her again – all I wanted was to party with Aaron. And the chapter clapped for me when the story finished.

Afterwards, I talked to Ryan, who was a good friend when I was in college. We reminisced about a carnival BYX held in South Fayetteville – there was a competition between members for the best booth game, as voted by the children. I got second, having shown up with nothing but deftly creating a bag-o game and an wrestling announcer personality. I lost by two votes to T-Rex Karate Attack, which I think explains itself.

As we were talking, Ryan laughed and said he had to confess something. That day, he thought the name T-Rex Karate Attack was so stupidly creative that he voted for it five time, writing it in with his left hand. I forced myself to laugh, but underneath my skin my organs curled into a hundred little fists.

The prize for winning the best carnival game was no fraternity dues. A five hundred dollar value. Since I was a senior at the time, I’m sure Ryan thought it didn’t matter. But he was wrong.

The carnival took place right after spring break, a trip where I met for the first time Holly Dulin, who I married three months ago. At the time, I was obsessed with the idea of flying her from Montana to our fraternity formal in Memphis. My new blind date had already been informed that she might not get to go. I had even got a written agreement from the fraternity president that if I won the carnival, I could use the five hundred dollars to buy Holly’s plane ticket.

At chapter, I couldn’t say anything, because that story directly contradicted my passionate “bros before those who are not bros” thesis I stated in front of chapter. So instead I went to Memphis with a blind date, and a year and a half later married Holly.

End of the Year Party Without Government Oversight

After we found out that the American government wouldn’t be paying for an end of the year party, the Fulbrighters in Turkey decided to throw our own. It took about two months for someone to finally say, “Fine! I WILL plan this carouse. With great power comes great resplendence.” Something like that.

We settled on Antalya, the Turkish Riviera; the people who named it thus are the same
who call Erzurum the Paris of the East. Middle class Europeans and rich Russians vacation there because it’s cheaper and not heavily policed, respectively. Our all-inclusive resort, The Sea Life, had a view of a rock beach, a swirly slide, and an open bar. Looking like a Sandcrawler of the Sea, it had everything we needed. In three days I only left to go to the airport. I’ve never stayed in an all inclusive resort before (and probably won’t again – it was like a Little Europe with big iron walls to keep out the Turks), but I’m amazed at how they make any money. We got a group rate, and I made sure to make my money back at the dessert bar during lunch, dinner, and breakfast (chocolate cake keeps well in the minifridge).

Turks aren’t big on shorts or exposing any other part of the body, so no one’s skin was prepared for the sun. Even now I look like someone hit me in the stomach with a water balloon full of red chili powder. We spent most of Saturday standing in a ten person line at the waterpark-style curling slide, misusing it as best we could. After going through every variation of backwards, upside down and handcuffed that we could think of, we started sliding with eight to twelve people at a time. On the penultimate run, I was trapped at the bottom of the pool as other Fulbrighters fell out of the slide on top of me like elementary students dog-piling an outcast. However, it turned out I was in pretty good shape as one girl in the run broke her knee. After she was Jesus carried out of the shallow end, one of the guys said, “Do you think we could do fifteen?” And we did.

I used to run award shows for my fraternity. At the end of the year I put together a Powerpoint with pictures and titles like “Most Resembling a Muppet” or “Most Likely a Robot.” My senior year I was called on to do this in three hours – I bought twenty items from Dollar Tree and worked backwards with awards like, “Member Who Looks Most Like a Square” and “Achievement in Magic Shoes.” Shortly after someone decided to wrestle the logistics in Antalya, I volunteered to give awards. Some of my favorites:

Best Couple
Best Dance Crew
Best Rap Duo
Secretly Engaged
Secretly Canadian
Most Motivational Facebook Statuses
Most Inspirational Bro
Most Valuable Frank
Most Sarahs

The last one went to the four Sarahs who ruined the program by having the same name. They got what they deserved. Runner-up was Sasha Frankel, who was one consonant away from winning. She was also honorable mention for Most Valuable Frank. Better luck next year. Many of the awards came with stories; people emailed these in with superlatives attached, and I got to embarrass different people by revealing their dark secrets. I now know much more about my friends than I wanted.

Later that night we sang karaoke on an outdoor stage until an employee took away the hard drive because we were rocking too hard. We also spent a good deal of time at a Turkish wedding reception that was happening with thick bass beats in the resort’s built-in disco (they also had an in-house DJ). Finally, a few people wrestled in the lobby and one Fulbrighter peed in a potted plant. I watched this all happen. Somewhere in the weekend, one person made the comment that as Fulbright scholars, we are America’s future. Some of us will go into politics, law, the arts. Several are already headed to Ivy League graduate programs next fall. I think this comment was made after we slithered in a fifteen-person snake down the waterslide. Post-knee-break.

You’re in good hands, America.

The Past Three Months Have Been a Lie

The University of Central Arkansas just founded a BYX chapter in late January. To survive the first couple of years, a new chapter needs a strong group founding fathers. These guys need to be consistent for maybe three years while inconsistency in recruiting get worked out. It’s not really until the third or fourth pledge class that real growth and commitment can be seen from the group as a whole. Anyway, what I’m saying is UCA has what it takes to make it. They have this strong group of committed founding fathers. Some of them have changed their life schedules – will now attend graduate school at UCA – in order to facilitate and grow the Alpha Gamma chapter.

Last night the UCA BYX chapter had it’s first big campus event, Starbyx. It was an outdoor concert, with couches and acoustic music and girls – GIRLS! I had seen pictures, but in real life they’re more beautiful than I’d imagined.

Three of us from Arkansas went down. Difani, Burton and I had all served on the last executive officer core together; Burton had been tapped by the Alpha Gamma chapter to play in a line up of three bands.

Burton is the one holding the chips. That’s what he was paid in. You can find his music here. If you do visit his MySpace and see his album cover, I’ll tell you a secret. The t-shirt he’s wearing – he bought it off a homeless person. It looks like it was drawn on with a Sharpie marker, which is most likely true. He paid twenty dollars for it.

This is a continuing relationship between our chapter and UCA. In late January, we took six guys down to UCA to help lead the initiation ceremony for the founding fathers. It’s secret ceremony, so I can’t talk about it, but I created an ambigram that reveals the truth. You have to find it first (buried in the basement of Old Main).

The night before initiation that January, Difani and I drove down alone. He wanted to hang out with the fathers, some of whom he knew from high school, and I had a blind date, set up by my sister. This girl played volleyball for UCA – that was what sealed the deal. My dad said, “Think of my grandchildren!” He wants athletes.

I took this girl to Stoby’s, a sandwich/burger shop with great cheese dip and pie. We went there specifically for the appertisers and desserts – I’m not even sure we ate an entree. We had good conversation, and there was never any lulls or awkward moments, but the best part – the part that made the whole date worth it – came at the end of the meal. Our waitress brought us a piece of pie and said, “We all voted you cutest couple of the night, so you get a free piece of pie.” At this point I wasn’t head over heels for the girl, but the Cutest Couple award was the best thing to happen to me so far into 2010. The next day, of course, I told that story to any of the UCA initiates who would listen. Difani and his friends just said, “That’s awesome, man.”

Driving back from Conway last night, Difani brought that up. He asked me if I remembered my date, then made me retell the story to Burton. Of course I got excited again thinking about my reward, and played the story up, ending with the punchline, “Cutest Couple of the Night!” At this point Difani started laughing uncontrollably. He said he had something to confess. I thought he had seen her, or someone I knew was dating her. Those things mattered not to me.

He said that that night, I had been facing away from the door, and he and four or five of the UCA founding fathers had walked into Stoby’s. They sat directly behind me and watched the whole date. I never turned around. Near the end, they grabbed their waitress and told her to serve us a piece of pie on them, to say whatever she wanted but to give us the pie for free.

He said they were going to tell me the next day, but I was so estatic about the free piece of pie that they couldn’t burst my bubble. They had a meeting later, all of them, and decided to never tell anyone.

I sat in silence. Difani asked me to say something, and I said I was furious. He asked if it was because I was the joke, and I said no – I honestly believed I had won Cutest Couple of the night. The fact that it was a fake award – that I really wasn’t a part of the cutest couple – devestated me. Even now I cannot get over it; I realize Stoby’s doesn’t give out a weekly Cutest Couple Award, but I really thought that our waitress thought my date and I looked good together. I mean, I tipped her really well.

However, Difani suggested I use this story to reopen communications with the blind date. I think she has a right to know.

PIPIP Hooray!

Every BYX chapter puts on Island Party in the spring semester. It was the first BYX event at the University of Texas in 1985; it’s supposed to be an open party for PR. Everyone does it differently. Many chapters do an all day concert, with a long line up of bands. That’s what it is traditionally, but there are other ways. OSU builds a giant Easter basket and cooks burgers inside it. They give out all the food for free to passing students. My freshman year I went to SMU’s Island Party – it was a beach volleyball tournament. Very fratty. The Arkansas chapter of BYX runs a carnival for kids in South Fayetteville.

Last year I had to work the dunk tank. I wore this felt hat that looked a lobster, and every time I’d go under it would disentegrate a little more. Eventually I wasn’t wearing a hat but a red wig. I had to pick felt out of my chesthair. This year I graduated to Baggo, where we held a tournament with official rules. The kids voted on their favorite game at the end of Island Party. I got third place, right behind Plinko (I don’t understand that one) and the winner, T-Rex Karate Attack (I totally understand that).

Since my college run is ending in two weeks, I wanted to go out with a bang. I wanted to leave a legacy that was more than, “That stain was created when Cass dropped his shrimp gumbo during American Idol night.” Also, I had been watching a lot of the television show Greek, and I wanted to throw a party like the fictional Kappa Tau’s.

Earlier this semester I took over a committee called Brotherhood. Seniors don’t hold positions their spring year, because they can’t take them up again in the fall, but because I am power hungry and conniving (like Franny on Greek – she was evil!), I stepped in and used their budget to pay for whatever I wanted to do, like Lasertag and lottery tickets. This was no different. I checked what we had left in our budget, and then I spent it all.

We hired a band, bought drinks, and rented not only sound equipment and staging but also spotlights and the Arkansas and American flags, complete with stands (it was only two dollars a flag – why not?). Then we convinced UCA to send their pledges to us for a “bonding activity.” Yeah right. More like “parking attendants.” Or “human furniture.” Best love seat I’ve ever sat on.

It was called PIPIP, for Post Island Party Island Party. We held it outside a barn. The UCA pledges set up the sound system and the stage, then worked parking and the spotlights. They were going to have to work the drink bar as well, but that turned out to be a highly sought after position. D-Rock was in charge; he spent a hundred dollars not only on soft drinks, but on juices and flavorings. The drink bar was in the basement of the barn. While UCA pledges worked the snowcones and popcorn, D-Rock used mixing canisters to create anything that was asked for; he posted menus of his own creations on posterboard. Most requested: tie between Cotton Candy Dr. Pepper and the Ninja Turtle.

The irony: this marked the third event I’ve planned in order to get a specific girl to come, and she still hasn’t shown up. This time she said she had to wash her hair. I believe her. I had to do it last Thursday.

This is What I Want to do With My Life

Over Spring Break ten fraternity brothers and I watched two seasons of the television show Greek. I got it from my little frat brother Tim Yopp. He’s like Rudy – five foot nothing and a hundred and nothing. The past two Thanksgivings he’s loaned me his copy of Final Fantasy. He has them all.

The seasons are divided into two chapters each, and Tim gave me three chapters. I thought I would just watch one; it would be a pain just to watch one. Instead, we watched all three then watched the last ten episodes online.

Greek covers the social drama of two fraternities and a sorority. Many things that happen are impossible in real life, but we did get many ideas for new pledge activities. More importantly, we all agreed Rusty could have done better than Jen K. We loved Max and we were sad to watch him leave, and we really want Beaver and Betsy to get into a destructive, black hole type relationship.

I got these DVDs from Tim because one of the principal actors, Jacob Zachar, who plays Rusty, read a script I co-wrote. He liked it and wanted to make it. So I thought I’d do some research. Little did I know I would fall in love. Tale as old as television.

Because of his interest, we’re trying to kick up some fairy dust and advertise this project to investors. It’s called True Love Sucks; it’s basically a hipster Romeo and Juliet. It isn’t what I like to write, but that made it fun. And it turned out to sound a lot like myself. Example: I’ve been asked to run a blog of one of the characters from the script. It’s pretty much like this blog except instead of lying about somethings, I lie about everything. It’s ultimate freedom. You can read it at

Final plug – we’re trying to raise money through a website called Kickstarter, which looks like a pyramid scheme but what the heck I’ve always wanted to be a part of a pyramid scheme. You can read about our project and, if you so chose, invest in the film. It can be found at here at Kickstarter.

An Open Letter to Mike Turner

Hey Mike –

How’s Costa Rica? I hear they don’t have an army. You need to watch your back. When Nicaragua invades you are SCREWED. I’m crossing my fingers that it doesn’t happen but my sources at the Pentagon are seldom wrong, except when they said they didn’t know who sent the assassin. But I figured that one out pretty quickly. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, CIA.

We haven’t talked in a while and I wanted to reach out to you because this weekend was formal. I bet you’ve heard about it by now – we went to Memphis and had the dance on a river boat named The Queen Mary. David Lee ripped his pants, right down the outside of his thigh. Everyone saw it.

The boat provided a DJ. Two DJ’s, in fact. One was fifty with grey hair and glasses, and the other – the one who I think would have been your favorite – was in his forties and maybe a hundred pounds overweight, and wore a beret. He knew his music, though, but he kept asking us to shout if we were having a good time. This would have been fine, but he sounded like a Speak and Spell.

David Lee wore this  nice three piece blue suit; it all fit very well except the pants, which were beyond skin tight. They clung to his muscle tissue. After dinner he told me he was going to disappear for a half hour with his date and buy new pants. I said the number four rule of functions is never change pants. I’ll be honest, Mike: I made that up. On the spot. But I lie to him all the time so I don’t think he cares anymore.

They ripped down the outside seam of his right thigh. A big hole, maybe six inches long. It appeared like a magical snake while we were dancing inside this boat. Afterwards, when we went to IHOP in inner city Memphis, he kept his hand in the tear pretending it was a pocket. He got cat called by all the people standing in line outside the restaurant at 3 a.m. It was a huge line. There were no other BYX guys there, but there were several other dances in Memphis that night. I guess they all wore tall t’s to their proms.

(David Lee is the only one in a blue suit. He stands next to me. I made the picture large hoping you could see the rip, but I don’t think it’s there yet.)

Last year we had maybe 40 plus members go to Kansas City for formal. It wasn’t that important to the chapter. This year we had 240 people on that boat. We’re growing, Mike! It’s exciting. And the real reason I’m sending you this is because during the spring semester of my sophomore year, when I studied abroad like you, this past weekend was the most depressing weekend of those four months. I knew everyone was at formal while I was reading books in my bathroom (the bedroom light was out and I didn’t feel like changing it). I wanted you to know that while formal was fun, David Lee’s pants ripped, and so some people’s formal wasn’t as fun as you might imagine it. Think of how embarrassed David Lee is now that everyone saw his upper thigh. So don’t sweat it. There will be more formals. And change your lightbulbs. And don’t steal toilet paper from restaurants because you’ve run out.


Cass Trumbo

Some Enchanted Evening

While I was on Spring Break I found out I was scheduled to be in a burrito eating competition. I was invited on Facebook to the event, held a Qdoba, which featured five BYX brothers competing against five guys off the street. Among the list was Tron McKnight, which, if you’re here, you know as my alter ego.

Before I go forward, I want to say I prefer Flying Burrito to Qdoba because I think any burrito making establishment which does not offer refried beans is elitist.

I’m not an eater. I’m a fighter. A fighter pilot. I was trained by video games. The point is, I don’t eat a lot since I stopped working out eight years ago. Besides, I was going up against David Norris, who ate fifteen pancakes in under sixty seconds at the ZTA Crowning of Champions fraternity competition. I figured I was just there as a dancing monkey. They expected me to do something crazy. So I did.

In preparation, immediately before I ate two eggs benedict and a brownie. It was Breakfast for Dinner Night and the Kappa house, and I can’t resist that. I did wear an old shirt, athletic shorts and sandals. I was going to get dirty.

The day of the competition, when they said go, instead of eating the burrito like everyone, I started rubbing it all over my face. I opened the top and mashed the rice and pinto beans into my eyebrows. I was eating through osmosis, I told the judge. After covering my beard in cheese, I asked for water, but instead of taking the paper cup which was poured for me, I took the water pitcher and poured it on my face. I’m a pro at getting dirty. I get paid to do this entertaining kids at summer camp.

After maybe a minute and a half someone took my burrito away from me. As it turned out, this was a team competition; five on five. David Norris had not only eaten his burrito, but also the burrito of Firechief, who sat next to me. Firechief is a short stocky freshman and I have no idea why we call him that. But we won. Easily.

I decided to walk home. The weather was warm, and I needed time to pick the chicken out of my hair. But on the next block I saw a large, well dressed crowd entering the Walton Arts Center. It was the opening night of South Pacific. I had never seen the show, so on a whim I asked the box office if there were any student tickets. They said Wednesday was the only day for student tickets, and they had one left on the second row of the balcony. I took it. It was fifteen minutes before the performance started – just enough time to wash my face.

When I sat down, I realize that though I had washed my face, I not only still smelled like burrito, but my shorts were soaking wet. Also, I was wearing a bean stained white v-neck, and the men on either side of me were in suits. Oh well.

The show was great. I fell in love with whoever played Nellie – that dame could sing. At intermission both men who sat beside me switched places with their wives.

And That’s Why I Walk With a Limp

Sometimes after dinner at the Kappa house, we play the game Two Truths and a Lie, where one person gives three personal facts and the others have to guess which isn’t true. I always tell three lies. Yesterday it went like this: my great-grandfather was one of the first combantants ever to win the Medal of Honor for stopping a German advance in the trenches of Marione in WWI, my mother carried the Olympic torch for the 1996 Olympics, running a little over a mile just outside of Spokane, and the first time I met my ex-girlfriend’s parents while eating at Bordino’s I accidentally lit her father on fire. They picked the pyrotechnic story. I said no, the story about my mom was the lie. Then I had to describe how I set the father on fire.

Most lies I make up on the go. People ask me questions I don’t have the answer to and I start talking. Usually after the second or third sentence I know where I’m going, but sometimes those first two sentences are enough to sink the lie. I had a blind date to my fraternity’s formal my freshman year. One of the upperclassmen asked me how long my date and I had been together. I said six months before she had a chance to respond. I spent the weekend creating fictions about our relationship, including setting her dad on fire and getting in a clown car wreck. I finished the story about the clown car by saying, “And that’s why I walk with a limp.” He told me he always wanted to ask about my walk, but didn’t know if it’d embarrass me.

I tell lies all the time. Here, especially. I combine events and change characters and I never get dialogue right. You can’t, because real life is boring, and often it doesn’t make the point you want it to make. At our last chapter meeting, I was asked to tell a story about formal to get everyone excited. I talked about how last year, Aaron, one of my brothers, and I took two girls from a different school that we had only met once. It was a weekend long double date, and a lot of fun. Look at me. Look how much cooler I was two years later. That could be you someday.

In the end, we waved goodbye to the girls as they got in their car, then we high fived, and never spoke to the girls again. I told this story to emphasize how formal was really all about your brothers.

But it was a lie. Half truth, really. I haven’t spoken to my date again; we had a great time, but I’m trying to focus on my career right now. However, last summer when I was in Ireland I met up with Aaron’s date. I was studying and she was on a tour. We went to the King’s Head pub in Galway to talk. This was the same night that I was pulled aside by a stag party (Irish bachelor party) and harrassed. We made friends quickly, and after talking about American television shows they asked me to come back to their rented penthouse and snort cocaine. At the time I was an office in my fratnerity, and we have by-laws against that sort of thing, so I had to turn it down.

That story is actually the truth.

An Inside Look at Fraternity Emails

Every Sunday, one of the girls in Kappa Kappa Gamma sends out an email to all her sorority sisters reminding them of chapter on Monday. Invariably, she gets twenty plus emails back with snarky comments meant to frustrate and/or amuse her. Last night, instead of replying directly to the sender, one girl accidentally sent her fun filled and private response to the whole chapter. Someone let me read it. I’m paraphrasing here:


It went on for several sentences. When she came into lunch, all the girls stood up and yelled, “YO YO YO.” She was embarrassed, not only because the chapter read it, but because somehow it got sent to the head of their National Advisor, an older woman who sits on the National Council. She had to explain what Ecko whites were. To me. I didn’t know.

I’m going to cheat with this post and copy some emails that I sent to the chapter in preparation for our Laser Quest. I realize 75% of my reader base is fraternity brothers, but this is for the four friends I have that aren’t in BYX. Pertinent information includes our fraternity’s Mom’s Day was Saturday, and also I can say whatever I want because I’m a senior.

Is your mom not coming till Saturday? Does your mom live in Fayetteville and you don’t necessarily want to hang out with her on a Friday night? Then put your face next to my shoe because I’m about to give you a kick in the teeth!

Tron here. I’ve reserved 10 spots at Laser Quest this Friday from 8 to 9; I need fellow soldiers. I’m talking about LASERS – the kind they use to create fractals and experiment on turltes with. It’s going to be BIBLICAL, but instead of trumpets, angels are blowing LASERS out of their mouths and making Venus implode! Imagine that – there are few who can.

It costs 14 dollars a man. For 14 dollars, we get two twenty minute games in a huge arena involving thirty puntable children, and we also get our own party room for downtime. Like a birthday! But instead of a cake, we’re eating LASERS and putting a kid’s head in a toilet! BYX RULES!

This is a BROTHERHOOD EVENT WITH LASERS! The last time this happened, we had to invade Iraq. Great job Saddam! If you want to go, email me directly at I need to know by tomorrow night. If we don’t have 10 guys, we can’t do it. We’ll leave Fayetteville around 5, and we’ll be back by midnight.

Tron McKnight

This was followed three and a half hours later with another email.

OMG THIS JUST GOT REAL. I just got off the phone with J.C. who works the desk at Laser Quest. That’s right – Jesus Christ himself runs that light show. Talk about a sweet retirement gig. It turns out in the two hours between calling him, thirty beautiful girl scouts booked our 8 o’clock time. THIS PLACE IS THAT HOT. It’s like that time your cat accidentally crawled into the oven with the meatloaf. Or was it put there?

Nevertheless, our time is now six o’clock on Friday – and this is great news. We’ll meet at 3:30 at the IM parking lot because we have to be a Laser Quest in Tulsa at 5:30 for briefing! You can still come if you wear boxers, but prepare to pee in them. AND GUESS WHAT – we’re up to twenty people now. To give you some perspective, that’s how many skulls are in my basement. That’s a lot of laser tag participants!

We’re leaving from Baum at 3:00 because I want to be safe – that’s how I’ve been able to keep those skulls in my basement (if you put skeletons in your closet, someone is going to find them. Don’t be a moron). If you’re leaving before 3:00, text me so I don’t have to track you down, retrieve the seven dollars, then put your skull in my basement.

I’ve attached a pictoral representation for Jessie Green. If he sees it and wants to go, open an email and let him make his mark. He deserves equal treatment.

Jessie Green is our current treasurer. Before he got elected, I started a smear campaign that painted him as illiterate. Though he was still elected, I count the campaign a success because many new members honestly believe he has trouble reading. In the picture he is depicted as a yellow dinosaur.Tron