10 o’clock list: Five Things You Should NOT Do at an All-Campus Party

bandit grinder

Now that we’re entering the fourth week of school and have had the first round of all-campus disasters, it’s safe to say that everybody needs a little refresher on some of the more frowned-upon behaviors at parties. If any of these apply to you, please, do us all a favor—adjust accordingly.

1.     Be the Grinding Bandit. So you’re dancing with your girl-frands, having your “I don’t need no man moment” when you suddenly feel somebody’s love muscle on your tooshie. AWWW HELL NO! By the time you turn your schwasty face around he’s gone. Or maybe you never turn around. Either way, a note to all the Kenyon bros—just don’t do it. 

2.      Jump on stage unless you know the song. Or the DJ. This isn’t So You Think You Can Dance. Or American Idol. And despite that fact that you don’t care, we don’t love it.

3.     Violate the rules of dance floor make-outs. Please keep hands out of clothing for the duration of the party. In the event that you need to exit the party, you will find marked and open exits on each side of the dance floor. Emergency fornication devices are located in Crozier.

4.     Sneak alcohol into the party. Natty’s too fratty? NEWSFLASH. You’re at a Greek party. And let’s check in with the real world again: sipping something out of a water bottle or a flask doesn’t make you sophisticated. It makes you creepy.

5.     All-Campus is not a synonym for “blackout.” We understand that the basement of Old Kenyon is a little bit like the fifth circle of hell, but hey—you’re probably going to want to remember that so you can bitch about it later.

4 responses

  1. Looks like you have all the answers on how to be a classy motherfucker.

    Screw that, I enjoy watching people being sloppy. Why are you trying to take this away from me?

    Want classy? I’d avoid the Old Kenyon basement completely.

  2. My daughters would never do anything like this. I mean really. They never would. They are good girls. At least they used to be…they used to be before those boys left. Before those boys left with my car and that brute of a pimp came crashing into my house and the word was something real and tangible. Now it’s all fucked. Poetry. Mexico City. All of it. I used to be an architect. I was on the edge of everything-of the entire Latin American avante garde. I wasn’t interested in what was classy or new or who got drunk. Who slept with who. That was 1976. It was Mexico City. My wife had left me and my daughters had all but left me. They used to be poets. One of them won the Laura Damian prize a few years ago. Or I guess it must be more than that now…you all wouldn’t understand any of that. Fucked up kids. What are you all reading? Hugo? Blake? Kluge? Paz? A bunch of kids. Read Alma Mater and you’ll cry your fucking eyes out. Beautiful book. Me? No, I’ve never read it, I’d get too nostalgic. The anxiety of memory and all that. Anyway, get good and drunk and fuck like kids should fuck. Stop talking nonsense about the dogs and dragons. We’ll figure out all that. Put down Descartes and your westchester pride and read a goddamn novel.

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