I wake up, kick off my Ohio State bed covers and drink the protein shake waiting on my nightstand. Thanks, pledge.
When I take a shower, I use Axe, because of course I do, and you bet your ass I wear the letters—for every king a crown, bitch. It’s cloudy but I wear the aviators, because even in winter there needs to be a barrier between me and my inferiors.
I step outside. If I were in a movie, you’d hear gangsta rap as I walk down Sheridan (N.W.A., because you know I don’t give a fuck). Oh, wait, you think I’m going to class? Hilarious, brah. I’m going to SPAC.
Beneath the frat-tee is another ripped-up frat-tee that I work out in. It’s low-cut, high-cut and sleeveless because my pecs, tris, bis, delts, abs, traps, lats, cats, hats and bats all need to breathe when they’re getting huge. Not that they aren’t huge already. Just when they’re getting huger. Because I’m really huge.
When I’m done with the daily pump, I drink protein shake number two (thanks, pledge) and head to Norbucks because some chick wants to buy me coffee. I order the second-most expensive thing because I have to prove I have standards but also that I’m not a fucking asshole. She asks me if she can pay, and since I’m a gentleman, I allow it. Gotta give the people what they want, brah.
I dump the baggage at Norris and head to Blomquist. It’s time for my intramural basketball game. My team is called All the King’s Men, and to give you an idea of my play style, picture the Miami Heat but take away all the scrubs. Just like in life, I’m the number one seed. Before warm-ups I walk through the cardio area so all the sorority babes can confirm I’m there. They follow me like a flock of foxy sheep, because missing a chance to see me play basketball is like missing a chance to see Jesus Christ play basketball—in both cases, you’re bound to see a fucking miracle.
We win thanks to my “Give Me the Ball” game plan. Foolproof.
I don’t eat lunch because that’s what people do when they’re too mentally weak to wait for dinner. Instead, I pound down shake number three. Thanks, pledge. Time to go to the house.
If you’ve never been in my frat house, picture Leo’s swank-ass pad in The Wolf of Wall Street with all the chicks and babes and shit. If you haven’t seen that movie, quit being a bitch and picture it anyway. I’m not here to make comparisons for you. I turn on Eastbound and Down (so frat) and call a pledge. He comes and kneels in front of me so I can put my feet up. I don’t say thank you, because you shouldn’t thank someone for doing what’s expected of them. Write that down.
Other things for you to write down:
- My name—fucking remember it.
- Never let someone inferior tell you anything—it’s not worth hearing be cause you’re better than him.
- Be huge, in all facets of the word.
- Use dope-ass words like “facets” so the weak-minded in your presence can’t keep up.
- Always play the game. Always play to win.
I have a mixer tonight. To prepare, I do nothing, obviously. I check my phone, and underneath the missed calls from Pat Fitzgerald, Chris Collins and Morty Schapiro (Pretenders think they can come up in my shit? False.) is the usual slew of texts from all the top-tier babeage I’ll see tonight. I respond to exactly none. They’ll show up just on the faint possibility that I’m there.
I tell the pledge to go upstairs to check on the beer. Serving warm brewskis at one of my mixers is like serving warm brewskis at a mixer for Jesus Christ—in both cases, we’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.
The beer is nice and cold, so I try one. Fucking perfect. The scrubs who buy the beer usually go for Bud Light or Pabst Blue Ribbon, but as soon as it crosses my threshold, it might as well be the elixir of life. Beer tastes better in my house—my aura of high standards can have that effect. You’ll see what I mean when the girls come over.
I assume the throne. In my basement, the throne faces the entire party, and I always keep one or two pledges by my side to make beer runs or lay claim to a pong table. When I claim a table, they hustle over and set it in front of me so I can shoot from my throne. My current beer pong record is 524-1. The one loss was to Jimmy “The Master” Sanderson. He is now deactivated.
Girls can approach me—for a fee, naturally. It’s a constant reminder that interaction with me is not a right, it’s a privilege. If they’re lucky (and hot), I’ll let them kiss my frat ring. If they’re really lucky (and really hot), they can sit on the throne with me. No pictures allowed.
After the night’s conquest, I turn in. Under my Ohio State bed covers, I look out the window and down onto all that I rule. Every night, it’s the same final thought before I crash—it’s pretty damn good to be King.— As told to Tyler Daswick