Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?

I got an email from Facebook tonight, saying that my friend S. Minnich, tagged me in a photo.

Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.

So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...

That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.

Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.

And I don't remember it at all.

This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.

This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.

Enjoy at your own peril.


"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).

But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.

After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"

My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.

"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"

Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...

"Progress report." Oh, boy.

On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.

And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"

Uh, okay.

I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...


"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.

One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.

So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)

They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"

The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...

Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"

I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.

"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."

Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.

On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.

Our conversation went a little something like this:

"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."

"You're too cool for me, Carl!"

For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.

On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.

He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!

Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"

It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."

This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.

Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"

I wish I would have.

"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...


Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.

My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.

I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.

Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.

It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.

After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.

And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.


"Look what I did..."


Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.

The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.

"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"

Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.

It took weeks to air out the place.


"ROAAARRRRRRR!"


So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.

After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.

Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.

He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.


"Grr grr beats woof woof."


Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.

There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.

There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.

There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.

There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...



I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.

But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.

Liz, out.