Last week, I’m lying on my back thinking, “I can’t believe I have Astronomy 1 at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning,” when I feel another one coming. Holy shit, not again! I’ve been in the toilet all night, and here we go again. I hit my head on the ceiling, and carefully step down the bunk. Then I basically fall and almost bust my ass. I hear my roommate:


Thanks a lot, dickhead. Usually, my roommate is compassionate or something, but last night he drank for the first time – ever. That’s right: Mr. I-don’t-do-jack-shit-even-if-a-beautiful-girl-tempts-me took five shots while watching “Pirates of the Caribbean” and, for the first time, room 1233 held two drunk fuckers at the same time.

I stumble down the hall. I see some tall kid and say, “Garrett. I’m finally drunk. Shit.”

“I’m Kellen.”

“Yeah. Later, Kellen. Crazy fuck.”

“Tony’s drunk.”

“Yeah… fuck you. Bitches everywhere. Shit.”

Then I take a right and ralph into the toilet. See, I’m a good kid. I never barf in anyone’s room. Just the bathroom. What a good little son of a bitch. Still, I hate barfing because: a) my eyes go bloodshot so when people stare at me, they gape in horror; b) my throat tastes like shit for the next two days; c) the commotion and the after-talk. (“Hey, it’s Tony! You and that toilet were getting it on last night.”)

So to quit throwing up every morning, I must do something. This requires a serious amount of thought. After much calculation, I can only come up with one solution:

No drinking = no ralphing.

That’s humorous. Let’s move on. Here’s where it gets interesting. Maybe, if hard liquor didn’t taste like laundry detergent, I wouldn’t feel the urge to expel its contents down a toilet every weekend. So obviously, I should only look for the other basic alcoholic substance: Diet Dr. Pepper.

Of course, I really mean beer. And as we all know at UCSB, beer flows like water in Isla Vista.

Beer = Del Playa.

Problem solved! So, hell, we troop out to DP. It’s a long, bitch of a walk. Every now and then we pass Drunk Drew or Fucked-up Freddie. Finally, we hit the road, and just by smelling we can detect the alcohol. Then I find a party and search out the keg.

I ask some huge kid, “Hey dude, where’s the keg?”

“Over there, bro.”

The hoard is thick, and the shoving begins. Finally, I’m at the keg, then Mr. I’m-a-senior-and-I-can-kick-all-your-asses-you-little-pieces-of-shit charges in with a gallon-sized mug and yells:

“House cup!”

That’s when I leave and spit on the ground. I wander back to the dorms and say the F-word a couple times. I need alcohol, because, of course:

No drinking = watching “Family Guy” with headphones on because my roommate is trying to sleep or jack off.

That’s when I consider what’s worse – “Family Guy” alone or the toilet? Hell, it’s a no-brainer. Where’s the bathroom?

Anthony Manganaro is an undeclared freshman.