Law Students

Cooler than Tony Stark

Some drunk 1L e-mailed us and asked to post his exploits as he attempts to complete the Ironman and attend every single Feb Club party.  We thought long and hard about our journalistic integrity, the level of quality we require and then did what any blogger would do: "Free Content!  Hell yeah!"  This'll be a regular column so long as he keeps surviving. 

In 1996, world-famous marathoner Uta Pippig was cruising to an unprecedented third straight Boston Marathon victory. Toward the end of her grueling 26.2-mile race, Pippig began to slow. Apparently, she needed to relieve herself. Rather than stopping, squatting, and risking her lead, she elected to… well… not.  Complicating things for the East German champion was the fact that she was menstruating—not that such a triviality would faze her. So as she crossed the finish line—arms raised in victory and head thrown back in exhaustion—urine, fecal matter, and the lining of her uterus were running down her legs. She had won, probably because the other runners couldn't stand the smell enough to pass her.

When people ask me to describe the Feb Club Ironman, this is what I tell them. They usually don't ask me twice.

During Feb Club you gather each night with your law school classmates—the future intellectuals of America—drink responsible amounts of alcohol, and meet up with your designated driver [Ed. note: seriously though, don’t drink and drive.  Sleep on the couch.  That's a great story anyway.] to arrive home before 11:30 p.m. to ensure a good night's sleep for the coming day's studies. Or at least that's what I imagine Feb Club would be if it were organized by any other law school in America. If you have missed any of the seven parties so far this year, you have missed a man wearing very nearly nothing but a mustache threatening to kill a terrified 1L for touching the party iPod. You have missed girls in nothing but trench coats. You have missed four guys covered in mud, beer, and sweat attempting to body slam each other and anyone who came within their reach. You have missed a dog poop in the living room to the surprise of no one. You have missed the strong WOOOSH sound of hundreds of people simultaneously losing their dignity.

That is not to say that Feb Club is perfect. Depending on your perspective, you have seen either way too much or not nearly enough male ass crack. A slip 'n' slide that went unused brought tears to my inner child. And don't even talk to me about the Super Tuesday Party, given a 3.5 by the highly objective Feb Club Blog (pfft). Some people use substandard parties like the latter as an excuse . . . an excuse to ditch out on Feb Club. Others use them as an opportunity, like a preseason warmup for when the games really matter. I, for one, have constructed a highly detailed drinking regimen to maximize my tolerance. Winners practice. Or as two-time World Series champion David Wells (probably) once said: "Let's go get really drunk." And he's won two World Series. What have you done?

By my last count, myself and about 10 other brave souls were still attempting to go to every Feb Club party. At some point, something has to give: reading, sleep, attendance, hygiene, or sober interpersonal relationships. My money is on my renal functioning.

I'll see you at Feb Club. You'll know me by the smell

- The Ghost of Bobby Kennedy 

Full post as published by TJ's Double Play on February 09, 2008 (boomark / email).