Actually, it IS Rocket Science


Somewhere during my first year of college, I attended a party hosted by an unknown person who I knew by no other name than “That Drunk Guy.”

As in:  “Oh, this bottle of Blue Moon?  I got it from That Drunk Guy.”

As in: “I’m not sure where the chips are, That Drunk Guy knows; this is his place.”

As in:  “Bathroom?  Ask That Drunk Gu-eeeeeewwwww…

…When did you eat cat food?”


I think I’ve mentioned before what voracious partiers LSU attendees can be- you learn to afford these little mishaps once in a while.

And sometimes you have to learn how to roll with the punches.  Another good skill that attending LSU will grant you through experience…

The evening that I’m referring to was one toward the end of the school year, which is important to mention because it meant that a lot of students were cramming as much partying in as they could before they had to return to their parent’s homes and succumb once again to curfews and having to explain the questionable stains on their carpets, clothing and/or bed linens.  A lot of other students also realized their parent-supplied per diem’s had provided a surplus of funds to throw around, and rather than contributing to a thoughtful charity or even saving it, god forbid, they splurged on copious amounts of booze and threw ragers every night their budgets could afford.  Which is how I ended up at one that fateful evening.

On this occasion I tagged along with a few friends to one of the most notorious apartment complexes for all night carousing, as the landlords had apparently waved the white flag decades ago and loud, boisterous activity was neither frowned upon nor reported.  Interesting to note here- that’s a very dangerous amount of free reign to offer to an age demographic who still teeters the fence on behaving like adults and flat-out fucking crazy 5 year olds on methamphetamines.

We walked through the door and were greeted immediately by the cacophony of gorilla sounds and high pitched shrieks as there was obviously some re-enactment of the latest C-SPAN footage going on, and proceeded post haste to the kitchen to acquire our saving grace for the evening- a rather large, generic red (or blue- choices!!) plastic cup with which to house an abrasively large amount of overly-foamy beer from the keg which sat nearby.

I moved over to the keg first and began to pump the tap- my inaugural year of college had taught me much about the delicate intricacies of a keg- how to nurture it, work with the melted icebath that surrounded it to achieve maximum pumpage, how to properly tilt the cup to cut down on froth.  Not to toot my own horn but BLAMMO- I was a veritable keg aficionado when it came to that point.

look a that lil keggy beeboo!! And by the way, guy? You're doing it wrong.

Nevertheless, once I began performing the ancient ritual of “getting beer,” I was not surprisingly interrupted by some eager youth of the other sex who still subscribed to the mentality that “girls don’t know what the hell they’re doing at a keg,” and the dude cut me off.

“Here!  Lemme help you with that.”

*Goddamit* “Hokay.”

“See, you gotta pump it before you load it.”

*load it??* “Yeah, thought I’d done that already.”

“Naw, it’s cool, here- lemme get that for you.”


“Here ya go!”

And handed me a cup that was disproportionately in favor of foam to brew.

“Thank… you?”


Now, something to consider- I wasn’t always a smarmy-assed bitchloader.  I was definitely getting there, but I was 17 when I moved away for college and in many ways I was still very starry-eyed and had a lot of high expectations for my brethren before the world does what it is wont to do and takes a mighty shit on you and you learn that some people are, have been, and always will be, helpful (you know, for lack of a better phrase).

So in this sense, I thanked him and continued to talk with him since he had made an effort and didn’t seem like a rapist, so the two of us continued conversation while milling around the 800 sq. ft apartment.  And we actually started to get along after a while, go figure!  Actually, he was a pretty decent guy, maybe a little over eager, but who wasn’t at 19 years old fueled by Natty Lite and having just completed your first year of Journalism school?

We met back up with my friends who I had come there with and proper introductions were made.

Which is when it happened.


I don’t remember exactly how it went down, but I’ll give you the jist.  Because it doesn’t matter the lead-in, what matters is the outcome:

Journalism buddy was being handed off to greet my friend Allison when he did a double take.

Journalism Buddy:  “Your name is Allison?”

Allison:  Yeah.

JB:  And your name is Ashlin?

Ashlin:  Yyyyyeeahh…

JB:  Haha!  Do you ever get confused by other people??

JB:  You know, because your names are so similar- and you look… kind of identical.


Wait, just… wait one second.  For the record, Allison and I looked nothing. Alike.  She was blonde and I’m a ginger.  She had an epic tan that put everyone to shame and my skin has always been, eh… pretty much translucent.  She had perfectly trimmed bangs and had mastered a curling iron pre-kindergarten.  I had only recently learned how to wield an elastic ponytail holder.  We’re talking Pam An to Powder.

Look it up, anyone who doesn’t remember the 90’s.


We both exchanged looks of “Oh, this dude just wants to get busy and will do anything to pacify my wingman” faces when he dramatically gestured between the two of us to make his argument final when his cup tilted to that scientifically appropriate angle and the contents within did a swan dive…

Onto my pants.

And I was left with a poorly placed stain that looked too much like this:

Oh Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas- I am so thankful for you legitimately pissing your pants onstage to offer me multitudes of laughter as well as a wonderful visual example of what my jeans appeared to contain at said moment.

Now, there are few options as to handle a situation at this point…

One can:

A) Rush to the bathroom to blot dry the stain gradient (futile, why the hell would you even try that?  Denim is a veritable sponge.  That shit ain’t getting blotted out)

B) Give up the ghost and go home.  Oh, I didn’t drive? And it’s only 11?  And I live in Louisiana where resting in the car for more than 20 minutes will undoubtedly amount to heat stroke?

C) Pull a Billy Madison and state that you’re not cool unless you pee your pants?  No.  Apart from the fact that that would never work in the real world, I still have three more years to spend with you toolbags and I don’t see it fit to carry a reputation as being “that girl who pissed her pants back in freshman year.”


Or you could do what I did.


You know how when faced with immediate crisis your brain suddenly gets impeccably clear and you go into almost robot mode to see exactly what needs to be done to handle said crisis?  In the time that it took Journalism major to flip his shit and begin the multitudes of apologies that tend to ensue when you douse your lady friend with a wave of booze that just happens to hit that magical spot that looks EXACTLY LIKE SHE HAD AN ACCIDENT, I was already in recovery mode.  I looked around the room, weighed my options, and did exactly what needed to be done.

I sacrificed the contents of my red plastic cup over the remainder of dry area, thus SOAKING the front half of my jeans.

Doesn't that look like FUN??

Now,  contrary to popular belief, NO ONE IS COMFORTABLE wearing soaking wet jeans.  I was no exception.  I sat through another THREE GODDAM hours of that shit, pretending to have a good time and invariably guzzling beer to detract from the feeling that I was sitting in an unmistakably lukewarm bog.  But there was a payoff in doing what I did.  That payoff was that I didn’t have to respond to douche upon douche asking me why I happened to be dry in all other areas other than my crotch.

Which is why I thank Louisiana State University, and all of its constituents, for not finding a girl trudging around a party saturated from the waist down at all noteworthy.  I was allowed to go about my business as if it was no big thing.  Happens all the time, apparently.

Journalism boy?  What do you think happened with me and Journalism boy.  I’m sure he’s a very well put together man by now, and we are still friends (according to facebook) but lest we forget, this all took place when I was 18 years old.  People move on.  I’m sure many a beer has been spilt upon other pants since then.  And if you really think about it, it’s a pretty inventive way of getting a girl’s attention.


Trackbacks & Pingbacks


  1. * Toups says:

    If it was me I would have used the Billy Madison excuse. Even (epsecially) if I actually peed my pants.

    | Reply Posted 7 years, 3 months ago
    • Wouldn’t have mentioned it if it hadn’t been an actual considered option. So I’m right there with you, Toups.

      | Reply Posted 7 years, 3 months ago

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