It is almost humanly impossible to funnel a pitcher. It’s also pretty stupid. (So’s hitting on Quinnipiac girls, we’ll get to that in a second.) But don’t tell that to the brothers of Mu Alpha Chi Fraternity, cause it’s our initiation. So last Friday night me and Brother “Will” Starks and Brother “Pete” Okolo decided to initiate ourselves (we’re the founding class of the new Yale chapter, and we’re really cool and tough. Check out our website at

Starks brought the funnel over to my suite. We had plenty of beer left over from last weekend’s YDN happy hour (one of my suitemates is a YDN editor, and it’s safe to say that even though a lot them look pretty grizzled, most YDNers put away beer like girls in knee socks).

We drew up a few rules: I get to punch Starks in the face because he punched me last week. The pitcher must be filled to the brim. You have your choice of Red Dog, Busch, or Icehouse. No girls allowed. And you get to pick your theme song while funneling. With that, we donned our rally caps, and it was on.

I picked Eazy E’s “Eazy Street,” and, after 15 seconds of pure thuggishness, I puked up everything in my stomach everywhere (the walls, too — it was pretty sweet). Turns out that in that 15 seconds of glory I drank 3 and a half beers (5 beers in the pitcher — I calculated my consumption by displacement). It was pretty sweet. We processed into the bathroom. Pete finished his pitcher in three installments. At his insistence, we restarted the new Clipse song each time he drank. Then he puked. Starks didn’t quite get the whole thing. A beer and a half — shameful. But he puked too. Then I puked again.

It was about 10 p.m., and we were ready to hit the town.

“What’s going on tonight?” I asked.

“I dunno, not too much. There’s something in Silliman, and a “Moustache” party in Berkeley.” Starks said.

“What?” I said.

“People wear fake moustaches, and it’s a party.”

“Wait, what?”

Then I remembered. I go to Yale.

When I think about all the things I could be doing, Yale pretty much sucks. Earlier that night Brothers Starks and Okolo and I watched the new Clipse music video. We were enchanted by all the video hos dancing while Pusher-T rolled up to the club, unable to fit all the sex-crazed models into his chromed-out Mercedes SL5 convertible.

“Those guys’ lives,” Starks said, “are one billion times better than ours.”

“I bet they never even have to look at ugly people.” Pete said. We looked at each other. Then we looked at the beer all over the floor from our failed funnel attempt. It was true, their lives were a billion times better than ours.

“I bet they’ve never had to memorize a constant in their LIVES!” I said. “Not even pi!” The other brothers politely ignored me.

“All right,” said Brother Starks. “Let’s see what this school has to offer.”

Yale’s social scene gets a bad rap, and there’s a reason. It’s not because of New Haven, or our work load, or ITS’s decision to slow down Kazaa. Yale has a lame reputation purely because of us — the students who go there.

Why? Think back to high school. Do you remember yourself from high school? I’ll give you a hint: drama, improv comedy, and a cappella weren’t cool back then. They got you kicked in the balls. Face it, we were the social retards. While the normal kids were getting wasted before dances and freaking on each other, most of us were standing in the corner dreaming about the Moustache party we would one day throw. Those normal stupid kids went to lesser, stupider schools. This brings us to the Quinnipiac girls.

We grabbed some drinks in Berkeley, enough to get me drunk to the point where I’m pissed off about things that don’t really bother me (that night, puddles, North Face jackets and a poorly-designed poster next to WLH caught the heat big time). There weren’t too many people there, so we sat down on the couch and started looking out for the chicas. For quite some time, there were very few chicas. But then, like some sort of sketchy godsend, five clueless-looking girls walked in. Clueless is good. Very good.

“Hey I’m Burt. Welcome to my suite. Sorry the party sucks so much. What’s your name?” Pretending to be the host makes you look cool.

Not only was her shirt tight and her name Caitlin, but it turned out she was visiting from Quinnipiac. This, I thought to myself, was going to be smooth sailing.

“You go to da Q-pac, huh?” I said, feeling down with the lingo.

“What?” she said.

I’d confused her. Apparently people from Q-pac don’t call it Q-pac. She started drifting, distracted by another girl’s shoes.

“Anyway,” I continued, “why are you coming to Yale to party? Don’t you guys have much better parties there?”

Apparently, they don’t. According to Caitlin, schools like da Q-pac have very strict alcohol policies; RAs police them constantly, and good parties are rare.

But aren’t they the cool kids? Aren’t they always partying? No. And really, it makes sense from the high school perspective. Administrators of normal colleges SEE the high school freaking. They KNOW stupid kids like to party, so they batten down the hatches. This is where Yale students benefit — we get to sneak under the radar. We’re good kids! Regulations are lax and people figure we’re harmless. And because we’re harmless, we can do what we want.

So take advantage of that sweet trust and go crazy. Funnel a pitcher, puke on the floor — and good luck on your midterms.

Burt Helm actually needs those glasses. Yup, they’re prescription.