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Tag Archives: Post office

50 Shades of Purple, Chapter Two: The Battle for the Keg

10 Jul

“At first I was like, ‘You know, it might not be such a great idea to go skinny dipping in the Amazon with a bottle of Patron and the entire San Diego Chargers Charger Girls squad,’ but then I was just like, ‘YOLO.'”
-Morton O. Schapiro

Don’t worry, the sex scene’s coming soon.

It’s a Monday evening, and my roommates are pregaming the pregame for the Keg. I’ve had a pretty stressful day in Journalism 301, filled with lots of hard-hitting pestering of innocent yuppies reporting for my enterprise story, and it’s time for me to kick back and relax. I pop a bottle of Peach Andre and my night has begun.

“How was your interview with Ross Packingham?” asks Beverly Brooke, my roommate and consummate frenemy.

“Intriguing. There’s something secretive about him that I can’t figure out. Is it true he once had a threesome with a Theta and Willie the Wildcat in the library stacks?”

“I heard it was with Stephen Colbert and two theater majors on South Beach while Andrew Bird played in the background,” Beave answers, “But that’s just what I read once on College ACB.”

We finish off our bottles of Andre while watching Say Yes to the Dress and head over to Alpha Delta for the true pregame. The second we step into the basement, our senses are assaulted by skunked beer, bros in tank-tops, and Katy Perry. Lots of Katy Perry.

“WOOOOOOOOOO” shouts Beave as “Teenage Dream” comes on, and immediately begs a frat brother who looks suspiciously similar to an Asian Nic Cage (and almost as belligerent) to let her take a beer pong celeb shot.

I leave to get myself a drink. I pour myself some Mohawk vodka into a solo cup of Busch Light, which I affectionately dub ‘The Bobb,’ because the drink’s always a party and smells like piss.

The Alpha Delta brothers are getting rowdy. Some jackass tries to hit on me by asking which Vice President I’m most sexually attracted to, only to leave the next moment muttering to himself about the similarities between House Republicans and gonorrhea.

“KEG! KEG! KEG!” The Alpha Delta brothers shout. I down my drink and steel myself for the heinous that is to come.

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HE’S HERE! OMIGOD HE’S HERE!!!

It takes me a little while to recognize the man before my eyes, but after I adjust to the hedonism around me and get over the brief torrent of terror that shot through me as the Keg bouncer took an additional five seconds to ensure that I truly am the 25-year-old Beyonce Lovato from Anchorage, Alaska that my ID said I was, I realize that I really am beholding the elusive Ross Packingham, HERE, in the flesh, at the Keg!

Gorgeous as all hell and with a gleam in his eye, Packingham is freaking the night away with some co-ed like he’s Channing Tatum on ecstasy.

“Carla!” He shouts, “Carla Rossi! Over here!” He’s beckoning me over to join him and his slam-piece on the dance floor, and I head his way.

And then, with a tremendous blast, the door of the Keg comes crashing down. A dark, shrouded figure looms large in the doorway. For a moment everything stops, douchebags freeze mid-thrust where they were dancing, and even that one townie playing pool turns to look. The only sound is that of Ludacris’ verse on “Baby” as Mayor Tisdahl, clad in combat boots, night-vision goggles, and a James Taylor t-shirt, fully armed with a crowbar and flanked by a cadre of Evanston cops, steps into the neon light of the Coors Light sign.

“My sources tell me that there’s been underage drinking in this establishment,” Mayor Tisdahl growls, tossing the disemboweled corpse of an engineer into the stunned crowd. “You can thank this snitch here. Now I’m going to shut this motherfucker down once and for all.”

All hell breaks loose as Elizabeth Tisdahl and her police posse attack.

Intoxicated and sweaty bodies frantically jostle with one another (not unlike the Keg on a normal Monday night) as Tisdahl brutally swings her crowbar with reckless abandon at poor defenseless English majors and ETHS seniors while the cops gleefully cite students for underage drinking by the score.

“That’s for yacking on the Evanston Post Office!” screams Tisdahl as she brains a Comm Studies student with her crowbar as he tries to scuttle up a stripper pole.

“And this will teach you to holler about blowjobs on MY streets!” she adds, sucker-punching a Tri Delt like she’s Michael Barrett squaring off against A.J.

“Say blowjob one more time. I FUCKING DARE YOU!”

I can’t bear the sight of her pile-driving two foreign students through a window, and quickly duck under a booth and pray that God will save me, or at least turn off the Bieber that’s still playing if I am to be summarily executed by Mayor Tisdahl in this den of debauchery.

The Keg has all but cleared out as I cower in fear, watching Tisdahl and her cops methodically pour big cups of Bud Light and handles of Svedka and Wild Turkey all over the Keg’s walls and floors.

Tisdahl shoulders her crowbar and lights a cigarette. Turning with a menacing gait, she addresses the few remaining students.

“Based on what I see here, I think that the Keg has some grave public safety concerns. I’m revoking the Keg’s license,” she flips her cigarette onto the booze-soaked floor, “Permanently.”

The flames erupt immediately, burning away years of sin and memories. Students scream, and Tisdahl laughs, but just as she turns to leave a gallant figure, wearing nothing but an enormous purple cape, bursts through the Keg’s window riding on the back of a dashing wildcat.

“MORTY SCHAPIRO!” everybody cheers as the lionhearted president rushes to their defense.

His body is lithe and stately, glistening in the fiery inferno as his beard bristles with the white-hot intensity of a hundred thousand Pat Fitzgeralds.

“Oh no you don’t, Tisdahl!” cries Morty, slapping the Mayor back with his massive appendage. More cheers from the students. Morty rips off a stripper pole to serve as his quarterstaff (he already has a full staff down below).

“I’m going to give you the Chet Haze treatment tonight, baby,” shouts Morty. “You’ll be white and purple when I’m done with you.”

Then Morty sets to work, fighting off cops left and right with the help of his trusty wildcat. Those police officers who are too foolish not to run away suffer the awful fate of his beard, and Morty and his steed finish them off faster than the NCAA finishing off Northwestern’s March Madness dreams.

Yet somehow in all the confusion, Mayor Tisdahl managed to escape, cursing Morty and swearing that her revenge is nigh. Few seemed to care, however, as Morty ripped open a fire hydrant with his bare hands, soused the Keg’s raging flames, and turned the club into an all-night slip-and-slide.

“Come here,” a voice says gruffly. I turn with shock and look at the man gripping my hand. It’s Packingham. “This way.”

He leads me to the Popcorn machine, raps it three times with his knuckles, opens up the top, and helps me inside. “Follow me,” Ross says, pushing a button and revealing a secret passageway that travels out of the popcorn machine and leads to a mysterious tunnel. I follow, obediently, trusting Ross completely.

“I hereby declare the Keg re-instated!” bellows the victorious, and still mostly-nude, Morty. “I wish the Keg luck with their newly instated Lifetime License to Rage!”

I can barely hear the cheers as I go deeper and deeper down the tunnel, guided only by the mysterious Ross Packingham.

To be continued

Chapter one of 50 Shades of Purple can be found HERE.

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Where to Find Your NU Love

9 Dec

With any luck, one day you'll make a heinous rock all of your own.

If you’re like me, a socially awkward alcoholic, you haven’t found your NU love yet. This is probably because the venues you most often frequent have three Greek letters in their names and smell vaguely like Four Loko and urine. Haven’t found any keepers while projectile vomming in the Beta Kappa handicap stall? Keep looking, young freshmen. Take my hand on the magical road of dating: from the painful first encounters and sloppy make outs to the time your suitor hangs your bra on your locker after you left it in his car. Oh wait, this isn’t high school anymore.

It’s time to look for some more obscure places to find your future lover and/or tonsil-hockey teammate. Here’s where to start.

1. A Swanky Restaurant
I suggest Bistro Bordeaux on Church St. Nothing can ever go wrong with a good French meal. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bristol, I need to find a future lover before I can go to a swanky restaurant. Wrong! Go alone, but inform your waiter that someone else is joining you. Wear a red rose. Pray to God that someone mistakes you for their exponentially-cuter-than-you-looked-online blind date. If no one shows up, cry to your waiter about being stood up. Pray to God the waiter feels sympathetic/gives you their number/accompanies you back to your sex lair for the night.

Too forward for you? Work your way in slowly then. (That’s what she said.)

Yes, I'd like an overnight package please.

2. The Post Office
Guaranteed to generate the best pickup lines:
“Wanna be my priority male?” (Punny, right?)
“I’m here to pick up my package.” [Cast eyes down to genitalia]. (Classic.)
“If you liked it then you should’ve put a stamp on it.” (Because Beyoncé is a goddess.)

3. Dark Parking Garages
Ever feel uncomfortable introducing yourself to a girl in a bar? Wait until she’s walking back alone to her car! Explain that you saw her walking in a dark parking garage that may or may not be chock full of rapists or flesh-eating Republicans and decided to walk with her to protect her from said travesties. At first, she’ll probably pepper spray you, SING at you (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin),* or force you to watch a video of Michelle Bachmann eating a corn dog. But as soon as she realizes you’re just a creepy motherfucker with good intentions, she might just give you the seven-digit password to her pants.

Trolling for some bitches

4. Dog Shows
It works, believe me. It’s like a Cincinnati Cyclones game on $1 beer Wednesday nights, but with wine and trust-fund dog owners on Sundays at high tea.

Perhaps just as important as the places you should go, are the places you should NOT go.

1. University Place or Ridge Avenue
Unless you want to fall in love with a punk in a hoodie who steals your smartphone.

2. The Showers at SPAC
Unless you’re into watching/performing/assisting in self-gratification. Then balls-to-the-walls, young harlots!

3. The Sauna at SPAC
You are not into naked old Jewish women who look like sweaty beached whales. So don’t go in the sauna for love. In fact, don’t go into the sauna at all.

4. Find your NU love/ Flirting for Nerds
I attended both the speed dating event “Find your NU Love” and the seminar “Flirting for Nerds,” more out of irony than desperation. I did not find my NU love, nor did I learn how to flirt anymore heinously than I already do. So unless you want to wince every few minutes when the girl knitting a pair of Eskimo slippers snorts loudly, avoid NU dating events.

You know where to go. Now go and get ‘em, you sexually frustrated bastards.

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*Miss Congeniality