If someone were to tell me that my fondest memory of college would include inflicting physical harm on another individual, I probably would have gone along with it. But truth be told, I would have hoped it would be in some sort of self-defense situation, or while protecting a super hot drunk girl with a wet white t-shirt who was assuredly going to be taken advantage of later in the evening by a guy who thought 'Crazy Bitch' was the best song ever written about crazy bitches.
Needless to say, not many of my fondest college memories involve drunk chicks with wet shirts. In fact, most include drunk dudes and some wicked intense games of Scattergories.
My fondest memory of college occurred just a few weeks into my first year at the University of Minnesota. My friends and I had retired to my dorm room after the Golden Gophers football team had been on the receiving end of a crushing defeat at the merciless hands and feet of the Michigan Wolverines. We sat on my futon, trying to piece together the game to see where we had gone wrong. There wasn't much to dissect, however, as the Gophers just sucked at football.
Just minutes before I was about to show my friends out, Kyle—a hall mate of mine at the time—barged into my dorm room, sat down between us on the futon, and lamented about then President Bush. Kyle had choice words for the President, who, unbeknownst to Kyle, was actually not in my dorm room with us. Kyle's verbal onslaught lasted for what seemed like forever. My eyelids grew heavy with every "Fuck him!" And even heavier with every "Fucking cocksucker!"
It should be made clear that Kyle, when not tanked out of his liberal mind, was an entirely charming fellow who more or less kept to himself. Apparently alcohol brings out the worst in some people. Who knew?
Eventually I left Kyle to vent with my friends while I retrieved my Community Advisor, Miriam. I made her aware of the situation, and requested that she call for security. Moments later, Miriam and I arrived back to my dorm room where Kyle was still shelling the President with F-Bombs. Miriam, a fragile Korean girl who would never have the heart to tell children that not all dogs go to heaven, was forced to send Kyle packing. She needed assistance of course, and my friends and I were able to remove him from my room with little resistance.
Miriam, apparently convinced that Kyle wouldn't be able to figure out the lock on his own door, decided to return to the front desk of the dormitory to file a security request. Kyle, no stranger to standard door locks, managed to sneak his way back into my room. Within minutes, the fuzz showed up to take Kyle into custody. Rather than forcefully remove him from my room, they simply stood in the hallway and spectated the incident from a distance. Miriam and I were left to do the dirty work.
So, as gently as I could, I pushed Kyle toward my doorway. However, just before breaching the hallway, he snapped around, and latched his hands onto the frame of the door. It was this experience alone that taught me that beer gives you superhuman strength, which I why I drink lots of it now. I had to pry every one of Kyle's fingers from the frame, and eventually This Little Piggy'd my way to peace and quiet.
As I shut the door, Kyle made one last ditch effort to reenter my room which—and I wasn't aware of this at the time—included sticking his hand in between the side of the door attached to the hinges and the door frame itself. I struggled with the door, wondering why it wasn't shutting, and what it must've been caught on. Kyle started screaming nonsense words, and Miriam just started shouting. She pleaded "Evan, stop! Stop!" But I didn't understand. Eventually I caught on, and pulled the door back to release Kyle's hand, now bloodied and raw.
"Evan, you crushed me!" Kyle howled. "You…crushed me." The look on his face was of utter betrayal. How could I have done such a thing? I mutilated another man's hand. I probably broke some of his bones even. Was this the first fight I had ever been in? It wasn't a fight, but in a way I felt like I was defending myself, and I did inflict pain onto another human being.
Either way, it was fucking hilarious. I shut the door, and laughed about the whole ordeal with my friends as if it was a distant memory. "Remember that time when Kyle got really drunk?" I pondered. "Wasn't that hilarious?"
Eventually my friends returned to their respective dorms for the evening. And little did any of us know that what we had experienced that night was just the tip of the iceberg for Kyle.
The student newspaper, The Minnesota Daily, publishes campus crime reports in every issue. And yes, this includes drinking arrests. And yes, the morning after I had crushed Kyle's hand, an article regarding that very incident appeared in The Daily.
Apparently, while we were all sleeping soundly in our rooms, Kyle blew a 0.22 and was being escorted out of the building by the police to an ambulance waiting out front. The police, like just about anyone, decided that Kyle didn't need to be handcuffed as he probably wouldn't make it very far without losing his marbles along the way.
Unfortunately, Kyle bested the police, if only momentarily. He needed motivation though, and this came in the form of yelling to himself "Run away from the police!" This, according to a witness. Kyle then broke free from the officers' restraints and ran toward and subsequently jumped over what he didn't realize to be a wall with a 20 foot drop to a concrete driveway below.
This, you might think, is perhaps the most twisted fond memory of college you've heard. Allow me to clear the air. I was not happy to hear about Kyle's incident. I was honestly devastated and scared for him. I was worried he was going to be sick, and that his hand was going to be damaged beyond a simple repair. But it was the way that The Minnesota Daily article summarized Kyle's injuries that made this whole event my fondest college memory.
"The man fell 20 feet onto a concrete surface below and as a result suffered a broken hip, broken arm, and cuts to the hand."
Needless to say, not many of my fondest college memories involve drunk chicks with wet shirts. In fact, most include drunk dudes and some wicked intense games of Scattergories.
My fondest memory of college occurred just a few weeks into my first year at the University of Minnesota. My friends and I had retired to my dorm room after the Golden Gophers football team had been on the receiving end of a crushing defeat at the merciless hands and feet of the Michigan Wolverines. We sat on my futon, trying to piece together the game to see where we had gone wrong. There wasn't much to dissect, however, as the Gophers just sucked at football.
Just minutes before I was about to show my friends out, Kyle—a hall mate of mine at the time—barged into my dorm room, sat down between us on the futon, and lamented about then President Bush. Kyle had choice words for the President, who, unbeknownst to Kyle, was actually not in my dorm room with us. Kyle's verbal onslaught lasted for what seemed like forever. My eyelids grew heavy with every "Fuck him!" And even heavier with every "Fucking cocksucker!"
It should be made clear that Kyle, when not tanked out of his liberal mind, was an entirely charming fellow who more or less kept to himself. Apparently alcohol brings out the worst in some people. Who knew?
Eventually I left Kyle to vent with my friends while I retrieved my Community Advisor, Miriam. I made her aware of the situation, and requested that she call for security. Moments later, Miriam and I arrived back to my dorm room where Kyle was still shelling the President with F-Bombs. Miriam, a fragile Korean girl who would never have the heart to tell children that not all dogs go to heaven, was forced to send Kyle packing. She needed assistance of course, and my friends and I were able to remove him from my room with little resistance.
Miriam, apparently convinced that Kyle wouldn't be able to figure out the lock on his own door, decided to return to the front desk of the dormitory to file a security request. Kyle, no stranger to standard door locks, managed to sneak his way back into my room. Within minutes, the fuzz showed up to take Kyle into custody. Rather than forcefully remove him from my room, they simply stood in the hallway and spectated the incident from a distance. Miriam and I were left to do the dirty work.
So, as gently as I could, I pushed Kyle toward my doorway. However, just before breaching the hallway, he snapped around, and latched his hands onto the frame of the door. It was this experience alone that taught me that beer gives you superhuman strength, which I why I drink lots of it now. I had to pry every one of Kyle's fingers from the frame, and eventually This Little Piggy'd my way to peace and quiet.
As I shut the door, Kyle made one last ditch effort to reenter my room which—and I wasn't aware of this at the time—included sticking his hand in between the side of the door attached to the hinges and the door frame itself. I struggled with the door, wondering why it wasn't shutting, and what it must've been caught on. Kyle started screaming nonsense words, and Miriam just started shouting. She pleaded "Evan, stop! Stop!" But I didn't understand. Eventually I caught on, and pulled the door back to release Kyle's hand, now bloodied and raw.
"Evan, you crushed me!" Kyle howled. "You…crushed me." The look on his face was of utter betrayal. How could I have done such a thing? I mutilated another man's hand. I probably broke some of his bones even. Was this the first fight I had ever been in? It wasn't a fight, but in a way I felt like I was defending myself, and I did inflict pain onto another human being.
Either way, it was fucking hilarious. I shut the door, and laughed about the whole ordeal with my friends as if it was a distant memory. "Remember that time when Kyle got really drunk?" I pondered. "Wasn't that hilarious?"
Eventually my friends returned to their respective dorms for the evening. And little did any of us know that what we had experienced that night was just the tip of the iceberg for Kyle.
The student newspaper, The Minnesota Daily, publishes campus crime reports in every issue. And yes, this includes drinking arrests. And yes, the morning after I had crushed Kyle's hand, an article regarding that very incident appeared in The Daily.
Apparently, while we were all sleeping soundly in our rooms, Kyle blew a 0.22 and was being escorted out of the building by the police to an ambulance waiting out front. The police, like just about anyone, decided that Kyle didn't need to be handcuffed as he probably wouldn't make it very far without losing his marbles along the way.
Unfortunately, Kyle bested the police, if only momentarily. He needed motivation though, and this came in the form of yelling to himself "Run away from the police!" This, according to a witness. Kyle then broke free from the officers' restraints and ran toward and subsequently jumped over what he didn't realize to be a wall with a 20 foot drop to a concrete driveway below.
This, you might think, is perhaps the most twisted fond memory of college you've heard. Allow me to clear the air. I was not happy to hear about Kyle's incident. I was honestly devastated and scared for him. I was worried he was going to be sick, and that his hand was going to be damaged beyond a simple repair. But it was the way that The Minnesota Daily article summarized Kyle's injuries that made this whole event my fondest college memory.
"The man fell 20 feet onto a concrete surface below and as a result suffered a broken hip, broken arm, and cuts to the hand."