How to shut down a frat party
See, I have a healthy distrust of law enforcement, as does the next leftist political science student. To prove it, I have ACAB tattooed on the knuckles of both my hands. And FUCKP OLICE tattooed across my toes.
Really: The Vancouver Police Department is already siphoning 20 percent of the city’s budget that could be used for vital social support to Vancouver’s housing, poison drug and affordability crises.
So when the noisy bastards next door in the frat village literally start banging pots and pans at 3am during finals week, 911 is the last number I would ever call. But that leaves the question: how do you shut down a crappy, crappy function without betraying your abolitionist principles?
Let me guide you through my journey to radically and anti-repressively getting my neighbors to shut the fuck up.
Get off my lawn (Frats scream outside the nest)
— Ubyssey Blog (@UbysseyBlog) September 26, 2022
Politely ask her to calm down
Of course I tried that first. i am not a monster What I am is a 6’2, 100-pound model UN delegate with a sexy little mustache. Long story short, they called me an incel and broke my glasses with a stray beer pong pitch.
But I read critical theory, so I kept intriguing.
Infiltrate their party and spread chaos from within
The next night they were at it again: EKSPP’s Hawaiian hula-hoop pineapple-on-pizza Hoedown Hamstravaganza (“It’s appreciation, not appropriation, bro!”).
I had a political theory paper to finish by midnight (“Looking for a Third?: How Independent Candidates Queer the US Bipartisan State System”), but they were belting out “Girls Want Girls” by Drake so loud I couldn’t hear myself thinking.
Enough was enough: I put on my best floral shirt and picked up a page from the enemy’s playbook.
I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed as many six pack abs off the counter as I could fit in my oversized basketball shorts. I chatted and bided my time.
When they realized they had run out of beer, they sent Brad out to get more. I tucked Brad’s spare PBR down my pants (and the spare spare PBR) as soon as they turned around.
Eventually, people began to notice the mystery of the missing alcohol. I started chatting up random guys and each time blaming a different shitty guy for the theft.
In the blink of an eye, they were at each other’s throats, blaming each other for screwing up the beer. The energy between the brothers turned hostile. I hoped the rancid mood shift would end the function and let me grind at the midterms in peace.
I was hoping wrong: the stolen bearing sparked a loud brawl. The guys started throwing punches and soon breaking glass.
I didn’t call the police, but another neighbor did. Another mistake for the police with broken windows. I wanted to end the party, but I didn’t want it to end like this: with RCMP sirens and PBR poured down the drain.
Plant fossils in the yard and have the Fraternity House designated as a historic site
The night before the next rampage I crept into the yard under cover of darkness. I brought some strange rocks that look like bones and a bug in amber that I got from a museum gift shop.
I threw in some of those teeth that dentists soak in Coca-Cola to show how bad soda is for you (the decay makes the teeth look super old). Then I sent an anonymous tip to the UBC archeology department.
I awoke the next morning to archaeologists swarming through the fraternity house like bespectacled ants. The nerds took the bait: UBC archaeologists mistook my junk for evidence of a new species of hominid discovered right here in Vancouver.
“This is completely changing our narrative of human evolution!” exclaimed the archaeologists as they unearthed a painted potsherd dating to around 4000 BC. was dated. 2017
The yard was soon fenced off with caution tape.
An archaeological dig site is obviously no place for an angry man. My party animal neighbors quietly walked in to play Settlers of Catan, and they even invited me to join in. No police needed.
The Dingbat is The Ubyssethe humor department. Submit pitches and finished pieces [email protected].