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Fordham University


- satire


Madilyn Grey


In the Bro Bible of things that are chill and un-chill to do, keeping Saturdays for anything but the boys is considered especially whack. At Fordham University, the bros that keep the squids in line are members of an elite squad known as “The Squad.” These are their stories.

Name: Arthur Hoffman
Date: Saturday, September 30, 2017
Reason you got lit: Don’t ever need a reason. Tailgate szn tho.
Describe your Saturday in detail:

8:30 a.m.: I wake up Saturday hungover as balls. Yeah, that’s right, I do beers. I’m ready to get after it again, though, because I have the blood of Harambe coursing through my veins and the stamina of Jordan Belfort to keep me wildin’ into 2074. I am braveheart. Turn down for nothing. It’s Saturday, baby.

8:31 a.m.: I roll over and see that girl from the bar last night. Really thought she was hotter. Damn. Have to tell her to make like a bowel and move. No hanging around today. Why? Oh, because it’s Saturday. And you know what those are for? Oh, hell yeah - they’re for the boys. The tailgate is scheduled to start at 10:30 a.m. sharp. Venmo me $10 for one can of our beer.

8:52 a.m.: The chick leaves. I can finally fart. I shower with a 6 pack of beer because I can. ‘Merica.

9:30 a.m.: The boys and I rally to start going absolutely off. Big Bootie Mix Volume 11 (not 12, amateur) on maximum volume. I get on a table and punch a hole in my own ceiling while fist pumping to Stacy’s Mom. Safety deposits are for squids. The carcass of a dead rat falls out of the hole in the ceiling. We decide to shoot it out of our window in a potato launcher. Mad funny.

10:11 a.m.: I crush a few more brews before I make my decision of what vest I should wear today. I have eighteen. I decide it’s a Patagonia vest day. Send it. Sent it. Received it. Mailed it back to initial sender. Got lost in the mail. Waiting for UPS to get back to me. “You got mail.” Sent it again. Wait, what did I even send in the first place? Oh right, my dope vest. Full send, baby.

10:30 a.m.: We make our way to the tailgate. First ones here. Just the way we like it.

1:30 p.m.: Alright, we are still the only ones here. Not sure what’s good with everyone else. Game starts at 6:00. Seven and a half hours is just the right amount of time to tailgate. Easy math, bro.

2:10 p.m.: People start rolling in hot. I dab up all my homies. Make no mistake, I don’t mean I dab up a lot of my homies, I mean I dab up all of my homies. Roughly twelve dudes. Brothers for life.

2:15 p.m.: My boy Dalton shotguns a Four Loko. Young sav. The hot girl from my finance class says hi to me. She def wants the D.

2:16 p.m.: YOOOOOO Dalton just blew chunks. Mad funny.

3:06 p.m.: Realize I forgot to eat today. I’m on a one meal a day diet. Works like this: I eat one meal a day and drink for the remaining amount of time in that day. Spring break is seven months away and I expect to look like Zac Efron by then. I decide to eat 37 mini hot dogs as my meal today.

5:30 p.m.: I’m over this tailgate. My boys and I make moves to Howl. Howl Lemonades and wings on deck. I tell the hot girl from finance to come. She says no. Definitely still wants it, though.

6:05 p.m.: I am buzzin’ baby. I order five Howl lemonades. These things taste like sex. Forgot to mention, but in addition to doing beers I also do the sex. I am essentially Tom Brady minus the football thing. I am also 5 foot 6. Besides that, fricken’ twins, bro. I swear.

6:30 p.m.: My boys and I get on the aux. And by “the aux,” I mean that juke box machine in the corner of Howl. We also took a selfie on it. We’re playing “Shout” next. I mentally prepare for the hell storm that is about to be unleashed on the dance floor by me and my boys. No one is safe. We are about to burn Howl at the Moon to. The. Ground.

6:34 p.m.: We did not, in fact, burn Howl to the ground, but I did dump five perfectly drinkable beers on my head. It was tight.

6:59 p.m.: Dalton buys the boys a round of Jägerbombs. Let’s goooooooooo. I dab 700 times exactly before I take mine.

11:01 p.m.: Holy God, where the hell am I? Is this my bed? No, this is my floor. Mad cozy rug. My feet are literally never cold on this thing. So tight. I get up and find my roommate asleep on top of our refrigerator. His juul is still in his mouth. My mans.

11:15 p.m.: The squad group text has come to the consensus that we are making it out tonight. As if that was even a question. Rally szn. Have to change my vest real quick.

11:55 p.m.: We start pregaming again. Our last pregame until Tuesday. Sad! I’m waiting for my turn on the pong table as I crush a my last few Saturday brews. Let the good times roll baby. These boys are my dudes, man. This is what Saturdays are all about. It’s like some Stand By Me shit. Real talk.

12:00 a.m. (Sunday): It’s not Saturday anymore. Scaries hit me like a freight train. Saturdays may be for the boys, but you know what Sundays are for? The xanax.