Rush Beta!

A week or so ago at a fraternity party, one of countless similar gatherings that litter any post-secondary institutions calender, the gamma-hydroxybutyrate flowed to the brothers content. After the fact, ten girls claimed to have had their drinks tainted with this clear, tasteless, and tactless date-rape drug. Just how many girls how actually drank it unaware, and how many, in reality, just couldn't remember why their cunt was sore and regretted the previous nights debaucheries is another story altogether. For all intents and purposes, we'll assume that these Beta frat boys were at fault for all ten cases.

A facebook group has been started in an attempt to discover the identity of the uncouth hand(s) by which the plan was concocted. The guys who've posted replies should be of interest to the cops.

Stephanie Anapppppsomethingerother, the groups founder, said she really didn't expect to get date-raped:
"The worst part about this was it was my first frat party and after talking to other people I have learned that this is a common problem at these Frat parties[".]

She sucks. If you go to a frat party, expect to get raped. I know that, so I don't go. Can't rape the willing you say? Yeah right, just try it. Easy peasy. Coincidently, in her senior yearbook, she was voted most likely to be rapped.

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While all this was fresh in my mind, my eyes befell a slogan, white on black, laying across a young mans back; "You may not remember, but you'll never forget." Let us call this man Rapist. I can only assume that the front of his shirt advertised a beer company, or a certain frat, or maybe a favoured brand among date-rape enthusiasts. Regardless of what he was advertising, the chuckles gleaned from this slogan, along with shared high-fives between bros chilling, tend to show the injustice of being a douchebag. If you support forgetfulness of the alcoholic kind, you support girls getting raped. I wanted to whip my cock out in the middle of the poli-sci lecture and slap it in the mans face, while screaming, "Forget this motherfucker". Needless to say I didn't; my cock is not nearly long enough to inflict wounds upon a face, and i would have been arrested. Instead, I wrote up a draft for this piece, skipped class half an hour before it ended and went to The Gallery and ordered a pitcher.

I did not consume Bacchanalian amounts, nor did I become festive. What kind of equation is it that equates throbbing sore headaches and streams of vomit with fun had the night before? Is that rational? I invoke artistic license now to say to that man, proud of the memory darkening effects of booze, I hope you get raped.