The Harvard Hooligans

Hunchback Hooligan was an angry man this weekend after I “borrowed” his European disco-tech shirt for a Spee Party.  Although Hunchback is generally a generous person, he has Swiss banker-blood in him which means that he wants everything that he lends to be returned to him….with interest.  By contrast, I’m a lawless lad from the West with little attachment to material things.  After getting Hunchback’s shirt all sweaty while disco dancing, I decided to take it off and carefully hide it on the floor.   I return to the Palatial Penthouse Palace to find an angry Hunchback demanding his disco-tech shirt.  I also discover that my old high school friend had come to Cambridge and spent the entire evening hanging out with my roommates. Two worlds were colliding and Hunchback was not very happy about the whole situation.

Despite the darkness and danger that lurked on the Cambridge streets at this ungodly hour, Hunchback told me to march back to the Spee and pick his shirt up from the floor.  I tried to tell him that it had probably already disintegrated beneath the feet of frantic dancers, but he rejected my pleas. When I triumphantly returned with his purple, striped garment, Hunchback refused to accept the offering until it was dry-cleaned–$5.99 at Cambridge Cleaners.  That’s a pretty damn high interest-rate if you ask me.

Exhausted by the educational experience of the classroom, Hillbilly Hooligan and I embraced the Roman ideal of “mind and body” by joining a pick-up game of football in the Eliot courtyard. Although Hillbilly was once the star quarterback for one of Georgia’s biggest jock high schools, he is now almost as fat as Housewife Hooligan (also a former athlete).  Despite his flabby belly, Hillbillly still has a decent arm which he uses to rifle passes right into my stomach.  But our team lost after a mammoth member of Harvard’s Moot Court team joined the game and started rushing poor Hillbilly who is too fat to dip and dodge like he used to.  As this rushing tacit turned the tide of the game, much debate was had about whether the rush count should be “5 Mississippi” or “5 Hippopotamus”.  The damn wannabe lawyers won the debate, of course, and so we got stuck shouting “1 hippopotamus, 2 hippopotamus…5 hippopotamus” like a bunch of idiots.  No wonder we lost.

After any great athletic endeavor since the time of the ancient gladiators, it is customary to eat a large meal.  This post-game feasting was aided by the parents of Housewife who happen to be in town for a few days.  They generously invited all the hungry hungry hooligans to Border Cafe.  The goal of eating at the Border Cafe is to kill yourself. We consumed 12 baskets of salty greasy tortilla chips before tearing into massive burritos and fajitas.  I definitely made the right menu decision because my portion was so large that I remained eating a good ten minutes after everyone else was finished.  Sometimes it’s good to be last.

Poor Hillbilly is even fatter now.  As he sat on the common room couch studying accounting with Hunchback, he was forced to unbuckle his belt because “it was digging” into his flabby flesh.  He claims that he will begin a intensive workout regiment tomorrow.  Fat chance.

Because my roommates are a bunch of drunks, I’m going to keep something of a journal senior year so that they’ll remember these magical experiences even after they all get alzheimer’s.

Senioritis, Day 1:

Because we swore upon our departure for summer not to pick rooms until everyone returned to campus, I spent last night sleeping on a sheet-less smelly mattress in order to ensure that my returning roommates would not accuse me of trying to claim a bed.  Mac had enjoyed such spare accommodations since his earlier arrival while Steve had wisely attempted to stake out the “worst” (i.e. second best) room in the suite.  Hunchback managed to convince his girlfriend to allow him to sleep in her bed by speaking in French to her.  Girls love French.

Because I nearly froze to death while sleeping without sheets, I had to thaw myself out of bed at noon.  I spent the rest of the day giddily anticipating the return of the rest of my roommates–Housewife, Hairy, and Hillbilly.  Housewife and Hairy were flying from Frankfurt, Germany after a three week European excursion.  Hillbilly was coming from a little less sophisticated location: Atlanta, Georgia.

I heard a tap-tap-tapping on the suite door at 10 pm and my heart began to pound-pound-pound. I even checked my teeth in the mirror before opening the door for my long lost friends.  I slapped their faces heartily and told them each how ugly they looked and how much they suck at life.  Hairy, believe it or not, was even hairier than when I had last seen him.  Apparently he had forgotten his electric shaver in Europe and was too stupid to use a real shaver without slicing his neck veins.  Housewife, who usually looks pretty plump around the edges, had lost his breasts because he was too cheap to splurge on European cuisine.  Hillbilly looked dumber and more conservative than ever with his closely-cropped hair.

Hillbilly spent the summer working at an investment bank in NY.  The experience reminded him that he actually wanted to fly fighter jets.

Instead of doing the wise thing and picking rooms, we instead got drunk at the new Charlie’s Beer Garden in Cambridge. We returned to the Palatial Penthouse Palace just before midnight.  There was some talk that we’d decide rooms via wrestling match, but the weaker (i.e. more intelligent) members of the blocking group objected.  So instead we decided rooms the lame way in Harry Potter by picking numbers from a hat.

Housewife drew the best number and received the gargantuan room at the end of the suit with its own rooftop deck which overlooks the Charles River.  Hopefully these fine accommodations improve his sex life.  Mac drew the worst number and is now happily situated in a room the size of bathroom stall.  My room has a splendid view of an old tree branch.

It’s going to be a good year.