Law Students

Maybe take a night off? Never!

Our Feb Club correspondant has gone round the bend.  Some give the guy a hug or something, okay?

I need to go back in time two weeks and kick myself right in the nuts.

What kind of moron goes out every night for 30 straight days?  Yeah, it’s easy to talk a big game: “Who needs sleep? I’ll sleep when I’m dead!” and “Yeah, technically you only have to come out for an hour and two beers, but that kind of attitude has no business in Feb Club!”  But what in God’s name compelled me to actually take myself seriously?  Especially when it means I keep waking up in my bathtub, covered in McDonald’s wrappers and my own urine.

I thought Feb Club would be a glorious, beautiful experience — the way you expect the blinding light of heaven to look when you first arrive.  But Feb Club holds terrible secrets they don’t tell you about, like when you actually get to heaven and find out it’s just a bunch of Mormons and all they want to do is play Scrabble. For eternity.

That is the problem. People think that the Feb Club Ironman is so grueling because you have to drink every night until you lose every last shred of your dignity.  I thought “hey, I already lost my dignity sophomore year of college! This will be a breeze!”  But there is so much further to fall, my friend.  I am now convinced there is a place so far past dignity, and it is populated by drunk law students making punny jokes about torts. Also, it is killing me inside.

Maybe an example will help. You’ve heard of law school hot? I am now convinced there is a phenomenon called Feb Club hot. You can only really get this after spending a good week or two either constantly drunk or hung over (or both, which is what it feels like when you burp too hard and you throw up a little in your mouth, except it’s for seven straight hours and it’s your whole body puking).

Law school hot occurs when you’re surrounded by nothing but law students for so long that your standards get thrown out of whack. Feb Club hot is the same, except everyone is packed in a basement, drunk, smells like jockstrap and dressed like a pirate.  Your standards are just messed up enough to believe that these are the beautiful people. 

My standards for others have dropped dangerously low, which is probably why my standards for myself aren’t any better. After calculating that I am consuming approximately 48,000 calories every night in beer, it didn’t really make sense to do things like eating right, working out, or caring for my general well-being. It started with eating Five Guys burgers every day, but the drive down there took too long. So now I’m just eating spoonfuls of mayo and ketchup packets. Little Martha Stewart Feb Club tip for you: A box of Kleenex contains 300% of your daily fiber needs!

Listen, the point is that I am going to finish the Ironman, even if it kills me. But it probably won’t kill me, it will just turn me into Sloth from Goonies. Literally. I plan on being chained in a basement, screaming about Baby Ruth and rocky road. Once a year the 1Ls can release me to go help a bunch of kids find lost treasure and save the town from Anne Ramsey and Joe Pantoliano.  That movie was awesome.

Also, as an aside, someone needs to man up and host the last party of the month. I know, I know, everyone is going on spring break. But if no one else volunteers to host, I will be forced into my normal Friday plans and the party is going to be at my place. The theme will be “come drink Heinekens and watch me play Xbox and drunk dial my ex-girlfriend. Also there will be no music, just the sound of me crying into my pillow.” You see what’s at stake here?

- The Ghost of Bobby K.

Tune in next week to see if he's alive.   

Full post as published by TJ's Double Play on February 17, 2008 (boomark / email).