Greek Life, British Humour Greek Life, British Humour
The following is an article we received from one of our fans across the pond. And yes, we’re being serious. This article was actually... Greek Life, British Humour

The following is an article we received from one of our fans across the pond. And yes, we’re being serious. This article was actually written by a fan from the UK. We’ve left it unedited so you can read it in it’s full British goodness. Didn’t even drop those unnecessary u’s, tempting as it was.

Born in a quaint Northhumberland town, I first got drunk aged fourteen, behind a bin with my mates. Cars could’ve run on the stuff we bought. Of course, it was terribly rebellious, and I’d have been sold to the workhouse if the parents knew. A few swigs in, I got so nervous I gave the bottle to a stranger. He seemed happy enough, and I stumbled home. This, if I’m not mistaken, is the basis of Greek Life. Drink and, with some reluctance, charity.

There’s no need to fib, you’re amongst friends. I’ve seen it on the telly, anyway. At some point before you arrive, the entire frat strips to the waist and covers itself in paint – and there’s no shortage of philanthropy, half the boys would give themselves to anyone. If you’re a man, you drink an enormous amount of beer, whether by bong or by pong. If you’re a woman, you keep a wary eye on Johnny Football and his million identikit friends. I don’t know if you’re aware of genetics – although you’re from Texas, so probably not – but frat-boys breed asexually. All it takes is one, and you’ve got yourself a litter.

Not that we’re blameless in Britain. In my university, Oxford, we have the same thing – only we call them ‘Drinking Societies’, for honesty’s sake. Our Prime Minister, David ‘Sharpie’ Cameron, used to be in one; trashing restaurants, sniffing coke with Mayor Boris, and wearing a daffodil waistcoat. In my particular college, the initiation (post-paddling) is to stand in the centre of the school, watch the courtyard clock, and wait until the brothers come back. It can last for days, and applying to a frat becomes – ahem – a waste of time. Then there are others where you have to drink a goldfish or vomit or something. I’m still working on the irony of them.

But then, that’s frats. I don’t know how to abbreviate ‘sororities’ – I want to say ‘sores’, but that sounds medical. In a nastier article, you’d have an aside about STDs, but as a serious point, I’d like to congratulate the Greek community on their sexual wellbeing. The way they’ve eradicated disease, not to mention harassment, is nothing but commendable. I want you to think of your last frat party, and the respect afforded to women. Give yourselves a round of applause – but not the clap! – my friends.

Let’s not forget the rituals. I don’t mean to say frat/sores are cults, but they’re cults, really, aren’t they? There are leaders and mud-wrestling and dodgy deeds, it’s like that bit in Indiana Jones where they take the heart and eat it. A friend of mine had to strip her hair-dye out to join a sore, which is the white-trash equivalent of heart-eating. And while it’s nice that frats are charitable, it’d be nicer if that was, you know, all they did. If only there were people who raised money for the poor without spending it on Coors Light. I wouldn’t be impressed if UNICEF was holding boozy fêtes at headquarters – doing tequila off of orphans, ribs like a shot-rack – and it’s basically the same.

That said, I wouldn’t be nasty if you didn’t go on about it. You never invite me to your parties, the Atlantic’s no excuse. Maybe soon I’ll come along to Dallas [College Station] and join in. Until that day, you can ship me the beer-bong, bud.

– Muddy Trousers


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