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One thing that is great about being an ex-academic athlete, who, has endured the trials and tribulations of several seasons of gaping questions like: who composed "The Rite of Spring" and "The Firebird," is that you get to haze the younger members every time you come back for break. For example, one of my previous teammates (who didn't know the answer that that question, might I add) was just walking innocently down the hall of our high school when, suddenly, an overly-enthusiastic Asian girl (me) glomped him within an inch of his life. Glomped and kissed, might I add.
I might also add in front of his girlfriend whom he was about to meet.
But then again, I never liked the girl to begin with.
Another victim of my superior alumnus academic athletic wrath would be my exboyfriend. Yes, the geeks got together and procreated. Holy shit, someone get the janitor. In any case, Jared and I had been a very academically-oriented couple in the sense that we would laze around on his bed all day and read excerpts from The Bad Popes. Read and did other stuff. Or mostly did other stuff, but we did read, and that's the point. This time when I came home, I promptly gathered a group of former classmates to abduct him from the clutches of his Nazi mother. What did we do? We threw rocks at his window at 2 am and told him to come down to get dead drunk with us.
And they weren't small rocks either.
Then we drove down the street screaming his name like a pack of madmen freshly released from the asylum.
The lesson here? Haze as much as you can when you're still at the top of the pack.
A little bit of trauma never hurt anyone. |
