April 8
Panel Proposes to Crack Down on Fraternities
A committee of professors and administrators convened by President Milton Strauss has recommended sweeping reforms that call into question the future of the fraternity system at Devon. While most fraternities are off campus and not themselves within legal reach of the university, the Committee on Fraternal Life at Devon is recommending a series of moves it feels will diminish the appeal that fraternities hold for some undergraduates. Among the recommendations up for consideration is to prohibit fraternity members from holding leadership positions on campus such as sports captaincies, club chairs, or editorships. Further, the panel suggests that Devon decline to provide fraternity members with recommendations for prestigious scholarships such as the Rhodes or Marshall.
These potential steps come after a well-publicized racial incident earlier this year at the Beta Psi house. Further, Devon officials cited various studies that suggest sexual violence is endemic in the Greek system. “Recent events on campus have focused the nation’s attention on rape culture, and it is simply not an option to sit on the sidelines and do nothing,” said Professor Martha Geddes, a member of the panel.
A spokesman for Milton Strauss said that the administration would review the committee’s recommendations in the coming weeks.
Tug lowered the paper as the brothers booed and howled. “Well, that blows,” said Mound.
“As usual, brother Mound is a font of insight and brevity,” Tug said. “Strauss appears to be serious about this.”
“Guy’s a total nob,” Finn Belcher said, an observation that met with much agreement.
“Complete asshat,” offered a junior named Pudge.
“All true, but our clarity around this does not solve the problem.”
“This is all because of that stupid bitch crawling around campus every night,” Billy Curtis said.
“But seriously, what the fuck did we do?” asked Pudge. “It was that English prof, what’s-his-name.”
“Russell, I think. They are using the whole thing to take us down. They’ve been looking for a way for years,” Tug said. “Russell, Lulu Harris—it’s all just an excuse. Bryce, don’t you know this chick?”
“Yeah, kinda. She’s a social type that I used to see around the city when I was at Collegiate, and the next thing I know she’s Lena fucking Dunham. She came to our party in December, but she blew me off as soon as she got here. She was pretty hammered. Think she might have hooked up.”
“Oh, I know she hooked up,” said Finn. “Right on that couch.”
Mound was on the couch. He looked down at it and made a snorting noise that most interpreted as a chuckle.
“She was with that asshole from the PSA,” continued Finn. “The one with the dreadlocks. I happened to come down the stairs really late and saw them on the couch. Almost forgot cuz I was so wasted.”
“That commie douche got laid here? Only we’re supposed to get laid here,” said Digger.
“Fuckin’ A,” said Mound. I am in agreement.
“Well, I say this bitch is full of shit and is messing with the wrong fraternity,” said Digger.
The brothers growled at that and pounded their hands on tables.
“Well, technically,” Tug said, “she hasn’t said a word about us, but she’s definitely the catalyst here.”
“Same difference,” said Digger.
All in the room knew that President Strauss’s proposals would effectively end Beta Psi and every other fraternity at Devon. A particularly sore point was the ban on captaincies. Beta had no fewer than three current sports captains. Those positions were résumé burnishers, frequently leading to positions on Wall Street and elsewhere through a well-established network. Tug himself had a job lined up as a financial analyst at Morgan Stanley. The Mound, well, he was working on it.
“Does anyone have any ideas?” Tug asked.
The room fell silent. The meeting had been longer than usual, and a keg waited in the next room as soon as they were done. Solving for their very existence tomorrow had to be weighed against drinking today, and it was a close call.
“Jimbo,” said Tug. “You’re the sergeant at arms. That’s kind of like being a lawyer. Any suggestions?”
Jimbo looked startled, like the kid who just got called on who hadn’t done his homework. The sergeant at arms was mostly responsible for handing down drinking penalties, so what did he know? “Uh…”
Joey Spears, he of Hitler fame, raised his hand, bailing Jimbo out.
“Der Führer wishes to speak,” Tug said.
“Sieg Heil!” yelled everyone, as was the custom.
“What if we did something for, you know, the community. Some charity bullshit. Then, you know, told people about it.”
“Excellent thinking. The older alums who come here and get hammered after football games tell me Betas did that kind of stuff once. What could we do? Ideas?”
More silence and blank stares. Mound gazed with longing toward the keg in the next room. It was silver and shiny.
At last one of the sophomores spoke up. “We could go to a hospital and, like, hang out with sick kids…”
The brothers thought about this before Mound, breaking his mind meld with the keg, said, “I hate fucking hospitals. That idea sucks.”
Everyone quickly agreed with this assessment, relieved they didn’t have to pretend otherwise.
“How ’bout we do the big brother thing?” someone else suggested.
“That’s a good thought,” Tug said, “but I’m afraid we need to make a quick impression. We couldn’t gear that up fast enough.”
“What about we clean up all that goddamn chalk!” offered Digger.
Everyone laughed, knowing full well what a Category 5 shitstorm that would create.
Mound had had enough. He silenced the room with a single pound of his fist to the table. Raising his impressive girth up off the couch and stabbing the air with a beefy finger, he said, “How ’bout we tell all those fucking fucks to go fuck themselves!”
Everyone rose as one to their feet and cheered, “Mound! Mound!”
Tug, after briefly marveling at Mound’s ability to use fuck as an adjective, noun, and verb in the same sentence, tried his best to yell over the crowd. “Guys, I don’t think we can blow this off!”
Someone changed the chant. “Fucking fucks! Fucking fucks!”
Seeing it was hopeless, Tug cried, “We have a motion to tell those fucking fucks to go fuck themselves. All those in favor!”
“Aye!”
“The motion is carried!”
“Fucking fucks! Fucking fucks!”
Tug threw in the towel on the meeting. The brothers were a crazed mob now, a single organism descending on the glistening keg in the next room.