Just post-party detritus?

Lost dignity aside, the remnants of a weekend party never get any glory. We come, we consume, we conquer. The Urban Explorer’s maxim (“take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints”) could not be farther from the unofficial Yale party-going adage — something catchy like, “snap incriminating photos, make a fat mess, forget all your valuables, and then GTFO before your host has a chance to wallow in the damages incurred.”

Sure, there’s always that uneasy kid in the back doing the pity cup cleanup. Not to be topped, there’s also the bro with a Napoleon complex making a recreational habit of spilling on every visible surface because he totally knows how to throw down!!!! Or better yet, consider the feisty little cage-dancer in training with “exotic career” goals far superior to the working order of party throwers’ home furnishings. Beware aspiring hosts: Fun clearly comes at a price ($200 for lost iPhone, $50 for forgotten pair of pants, $3k for reconstructive facial surgery after forsaking all self-respect). But next weekend, boost weekend sustainability with a little attention to your social footprint and minimize the archaeological evidence of last night’s soiree.

Only after the bodies cleared out did I realize, after a small but rowdy get-together one night, that dancing, music and the typical revelry were accompanied by FILTHY THIEVES OF MY HEALTH AND WELL-BEING. Someone clearly saw a chance for comedic genius in the appropriation of my Sam’s Club bulk container of tiny swine shields. And then — full-on insult to injury — the spiteful drug-trafficker, whose booty I graciously allowed be shaken in my home, decided my entire stairway and the pavement outside deserved MY daily dose of vitamins A through K more than I did. To the reckless immunity bandit who brutalized my entryway: thanks for the chest cough.

I’m all for multi-purpose clothing. But really, this fabric scrap left at a dorm dance party is some sort of sartorial hermaphrodite. Is it a belt? A skirt? A blindfold? But moreover, how could anyone leave behind such a versatile piece?

Nalgenes, plastic bottles, sippy cups and industrial-sized jugs litter the floor at most weekend festivities. Forget the moral imperatives to recycle — nobody wants your left over jungle juice. Take a cue from mom and clean up after yourself, or better yet, take a cue from grandpa and get a flask!

These pint-sized intimates ended up in my common room one night. I’d like to seize this opportunity to create an open dialogue (see footer for my e-mail): if they are yours, would you like them back? Accordingly, if you are an 8-year-old boy, how did you get into my room?

After the crowds clear, bodily fluids inevitably remain. All over the walls. Permanently. Sources say the unfortunate hosts of one infamous lingerie party now have an abstract sweat-drip fresco to complement their Timothy Dwight common room. I wouldn’t know how to address such intimate graffiti, but I’m tempted to recommend a wall-sized stick of deodorant.

Comments

  • GWhynot

    OMG, not only are these people over overachievers, but based on the ones I have met, their whole purpose in life was to get into an Ivy. What’s after for these early admits. Sorry, but it irks me when I hear how people will do anything competitive to get into Yale. Oh wait, I am legacy. LMFAO