What happens when seven guys who have been living on the same floor in a dorm for two years move into an off-campus house that is falling apart? How will they survive without RAs, sober kids, girls and other generally decent human beings?
It was the first Saturday night of the year. The first week of classes was over, and it was time to celebrate. Time for freshman to get TEMSed, older guys to hit on younger girls, and frats to throw parties before getting kicked off campus. In my house, at around 10 p.m., the Natty Light was flowing and the smell of Jenkins was in the air. The seven of us were preparing for a story-making night.
At noon the next day, we woke up. One of my housemates, we'll call him Ned, stumbled into the bathroom. From my room, I heard him yell, "What the hell?!" through the corkboard walls. Instantly, another housemate ran into my room and said, "Dude, you gotta see this."
As I walked toward the bathroom, the hallway smelled worse than usual. It was an unmistakable scent, and I had a good idea what was coming next. I saw three guys and a girlfriend in a semi-circle around the toilet, crying from laughter, pointing to the bowl, attempting to speak. I grabbed the girl by the shoulders, moved her aside and gazed at the toilet. And to my bewilderment, there was a towel sitting in the bowl.
Without further inspection, it was clear that this towel had been used in lieu of the toilet paper sitting next to the toilet. It wasn't just a dirty towel; this towel had the remnants of a massive excremental blast. This was not something that could ever be used again. Biohazard gear would have been appropriate.
Since there was nothing else in the toilet, it seemed as if this person also tried to flush. It was too much to handle. Between laughs, we attempted to solve the mystery of who the towel pooper was, but clearly none of us thought it was ourselves.
We knew it could not be any of the downstairs roommates, and each one of us upstairs was certain that we could not have done the deed. Through deductive logic, we narrowed it down to the girlfriend and Ned. Both were positive it wasn't them, but I am pretty sure no one broke into the house to use our bath towels. Since girls don't poop, and Ned was the drunkest of us all, it had to be him.
The rest of the day was spent convincing Ned he did it, until he finally admitted it was a definite possibility. Meanwhile, the towel was still floating in the toilet as the seven housemates watched football. During halftime, a proclamation was made: "He who did the crime must go and remove thy festering hand cloth, without any questions asked"-a clear trap.
At precisely 3:17, Ned stealthily tip-toed out of the room. Three minutes later, we heard the rustle of a plastic bag and feet slowly creaking down the rickety staircase. Ned darted past the open living room door, until someone yelled his name. The culprit was caught redhanded under the guise of "no questions asked." Ned went into exile for the rest of the day, and every time he walked into a room, he was greeted with uncontrollable laughter.
In the dorms, there was always someone there to keep you in check, always a voice of reason coming from somewhere. There was an RA to tell you not to throw chairs out of windows. Girls were around so you wouldn't do anything too gross or too naked. The sober kid would come out of his room and tell you to stop yelling at 4 a.m. and to please clean the shaving cream off the door. When seven guys are allowed to all get drunk, you never know what madness will ensue.
I just hope that next time it doesn't smell as bad.
