What a week. Since moving into my luxurious shag carpeted and currently bug free beach house, I’m drunker than Joe Namath on Sunday Night Football, a phenomenon involving seven empty packs of cigarettes, abusive use of a sledgehammer, and multiple sustained wounds to my forehead. I’m still trying to figure out if the booze and these events are in any way related, but I haven’t yet made the connection. I’d like to take this time to welcome every last meathead, preppy, princess, and guido back to Fairfield for yet another eight month vacation.
Freshmen: I’ve welcomed a few of you youngsters to this fine institution at Freshmen Orientation but I’d like to personally welcome all the fly, of legal age, big booty freshmen honeys to campus. Myself and plenty other upperclassmen studs look forward to shamelessly hitting on you all year long.
Sophomores: Congratulations, you didn’t get kicked out! Although, speaking from a guy’s perspective, the fine females would be an incentive to try to stick around for more than a year. So, the sophomore class now knows they can survive the college lifestyle, i.e. doing the minimum amount of work your classes require balanced with the maximum amount of partying your bodies can endure. Your sophomore year will be a blast, despite the fact that some of you poor suckers got stuck in Jogues for a consecutive year.
Juniors: At some point this week most of you found yourselves sitting in your townhouses, calmly reflecting on wonderful Fairfield memories over a cup of hot cocoa in the company of Christian friends. (Translation: You guys sat around in a townhouse for two minutes wondering where the hell your first two years of college went before realizing “Hey, we’re sitting around in a townhouse, lets throw a massive ripper!” So much for nostalgia.) Live it up this year, juniors, before you know it, you’ll be a washed up senior like myself.
Seniors: Let’s take a tally of our first week back, shall we? Drinking in inflatable pools on the beach? Check. Multiple broken bones? We got them. Naked kids running across the Long Island sound? Why not. A pair of unnamed male and female Fairfield students getting it done (and I mean getting it done) on the sandbar at low tide being cheered by thunderous applause of onlookers? Enough said. If everyone survives at this pace in one piece for the entire school year, consider it an extraordinary accomplishment. But hell, we may as well try. A year from now, our lives might resemble Michael Bolton’s in Office Space, which sounds awful, because just like you and Michael Bolton, I don’t know what the hell “PC load-letter” means either. We have work waiting for us in the real world, so for now, screw work, get drunk.
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