By Alex Saltiel
Who told you? Was it Billy? That little boner. WOWIE! Well, that boy will get a stern talking to and a can of whoopee in his tushee in the morning, but golly, you’re still here, and I guess this is as good as time as any to say:
The brothers at Pi Beta Rho (PBR) welcome you in liberte, egalite, fraternite! We may not be the most popular, the most athletic, the most Asian. But we are real—as real as the streets, as real as the rumors you hear about PIKE (if I remember correctly!). But shh! We are a secret crew, so please, let’s keep this between us hermanos (and let’s keep hermanos between us… appropriation of certain cultures has not gone well in the past, even if they do have fun hats).
All right, sure, we don’t have a house (due to a certain ritual, involving grapes and butts—thanks, Dean Kromm! I bet if we did it on your lawns, you’d be giving us high ves on the Lerner ramps). But our walk-through double in Wien ts us well. And some nights, after particularly rowdy evenings of making kissy faces and pounding brews, we huddle close, shed down bare to our bathing suit parts, and cross paths in our little sink just to prove that we are men: men who love each other very much and like to make beautiful works of art like the Bellagio fountain with our supreme bladders and massive units.
IN THIS WAY: We are very selective about our membership. We want scholars, Renaissance men, the future intelligentsia! AS SUCH! Each potential rushee must recite a poem at the big, fancy dinner party (BFDP). During DP, two prospective PBR(OS) switch off line by line, and by the time one of them says “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through,” we will have researched which of your daddies can pay for our dues. That even rhymes! Isn’t that fun? When we ask you to join, we also ask your whole family to join. It’s part of our mission here: the richer the better, the richest the best. Now isn’t that literary! We think so! BUT SHHHH!!! SECRETS! THAT MEANS YOU SILLY BILLY OR YOUR ASS IS—
Speaking of LIT! Our first rush events are just around the corner. Come along and play some pong, while we stare at you with our cool, dead eyes, clad in black (the color of understated coooooool).
We do not like to show off our wealth, but believe me, we have it. We are looking for a more diverse pool this year—so if you’re a Rothschild or a Cohen, let me be the first to say SHALOM brother. Unless you’re a zionist; God knows we can’t take any more flak from this school. So, if you are, keep it to yourself, or join CCSC – you’ll feel right at home.
Just, at the very least, please don’t wrestle. Or use GroupMe.
By Alexandra Warrick
You absolute jizzhead.
You honest to God, absolute, utter jizzhead. My eyes are like… stinging just looking at you. I am so mad right now I could crack a steel pole in half. I feel like I’m going to start crying blood. Why, how, in what universe could you—ugh! I wish I could carve what you just said out of my ears with a trowel.
I invite you to my home, my hearth, my Riverside refuge. We walk up four ights of storied, scarred-up wooden stairs—god, the history here—to sit cross-legged on my fine Persian rug. I offer to give you guidance, to be your rudder through the mangroves of campus social engagement. To be kind, I proffer you a fine libation to sip upon as we do so—I am a generous host as well as a lover, a connoisseur, and an unfailing gentleman to
animals and children.
I offer to let you suckle at the great golden teat that is a Pabst Blue Ribbon, that nest of brews. What a tip-top liquid, what a font of wheaty, umami terroir. And you say:
“Is P.B.R. a frat?”
Note this: I was holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon directly in front of your damn Boo-Boo-the-Fool face. CONTEXTUAL. CLUES. INDICATE.
Contextual clues also indicate you’re a genuine fuckmunch. I don’t know where you’re from, nor do I care too, but whatever swill piss-drink you hoover down in the podunk shithole from which you hail can hardly compare to the clinquant glories of PaBluRib. The fact that you hadn’t even heard of this fizzy ambrosia boggles the damn mind. A Pabstless life: I don’t even want to reckon with this idea, even acknowledge it. It hurts too much.
Is. P.B.R. A. Frat. Yes, Terrence, it is a frat. You know what else is a frat, if we’re doing this whole wackadoo beverages-as-frats thing? Your mother’s rancid breast milk, honey, and you’ve been tapped. The Society of Terrence’s Mom’s Filthy Awful Breast Fluids! How elegant. What else… how about St. Clam Chowder Vomit Hall? That sounds like a… good t for you.
Terrence, get out of my house. Do not pass go; do not collect $200 dollars; get out of my house before I start screaming. Here I go: AAAAAAAA. Wait, you fucker, you just took a damn sip of the Pabst in the middle of my throaty scream session? There, I slapped it off the table. Look what you made me do.
Now the carpet’s fucked.
Terrence, have you seen a little David Lynch lm called Blue Velvet? Only the most Pabst-iest of films? “You know what a love letter is? It’s a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker! You receive a love letter from me, you’re fucked forever.”
Sound familiar? That’s a quote. From the lm. From #zaddy Dennis Hopper. It’s not wrong, my friend, my pal. I’ll send you a love letter and an Edible Arrangement to top it off. By which I mean: you better run for your life, you lobotomized donkey. Run.
Aaaaand—scene! Okay, that’s a wrap. Okay, brothers, you can come out from behind the couch now. Terrence, meet the gang–boys, say hi! You handled that pretty well, Terrence my dude. Sorry for the freaky intimidation spiel, just gotta see how you handle pressure. It’s part of the Pi Beta Rho rush process. You see, we like you a lot. We really do. We’re considering offering you a bid, actually—you really didn’t sweat that, and I was really coming at you guns blazing.
So concludes Rush Process: Phase One. Alright, boys, you got the paddles? You got the whips and chains? You’ve got the live pig? All righty then … Rush Process: Phase Two.