As a house of 12 guys on oceanside DP, we’re frequently front and center as the helpless victims/neutral spectators/chronic instigators of the relentless debauchery that is DP. We knew what we were getting into when we signed the lease, and we haven’t been disappointed.
Like too many people, we are plagued by the worst kind of guests: randoms. They take our beer and scare our women. Most of the time, this is all they do. Once in a while, they’ll do something noteworthy, and this was the case last Saturday night.
Set the scene: the lights were out, the music was pumpin’ and the beer was kegerated. One of our roommates came downstairs, and while walking past this crowd, had his beer arm bumped by someone dancing with a girl. This “someone” is the target of our little episode today, but since no one involved knew who the hell he was, I shall refer to him as “Fluffy.” Our roommate politely pointed out Fluffy’s mistake, and cautioned him to be more careful in the future when flailing drunkenly about. Fluffy was to have none of it. He responded, letting our roommate know just where he could stick that thought. Our roommate ignored this and carried on. While Fluffy was distracted, however, someone else had pushed him aside and started dancing with “his” girl. His manhood was being assaulted on two fronts – three if you consider this ridiculous name I’ve given him – and he was not a happy camper.
With alcohol, adrenaline and poor genetics flowing in his veins, he decided the best course of action would be to pretend he lived in the house, and tried to kick his dancing competitor out of the party. Anyway, his plan to kick this third guy out of the house by posing as a roommate was going well – the only problem being that no one was listening to him. When we eventually heard someone was going around using our good name to kick people out, we confronted Fluffy. We told him it was time to leave and escorted him to the front. Thinking the situation had been resolved we went back to the party. But then, there he was – and in the backyard this time!
Fluffy wasn’t through with us yet.
A group of three or four of us gathered by the back door, getting ready to explain to him that we hadn’t shown him the door so he could admire our mailbox. One of our girlfriends came up and told us she would defuse the situation by asking him to leave again. She went up, told him he could finish his beer, but then he had to go. He looked at the house, saw four guys looking back at him, and must have concluded he was about to get his ass beaten.
So he hopped over the back fence.
A little history of our backyard: We used to have a fairly large backyard overlooking the ocean. In January, though, when God Himself tried to wipe I.V. off the face of the planet with nonstop rain, we lost probably half it, leaving us with a new, much closer fence and shaky, unstable dirt on the other side.
But back to the story at hand.
Fluffy is cornered, caught between a 60-plus foot drop to rocks and sand below, and four guys who just want him to leave the damn party already. He creeps along the bluffs, tries to slide down, sees that it’s not happening and… he fucking jumps. He could have walked 60 feet to the front door, but he instead preferred to make his exit vertically. Our roommates’ reaction who are watching this: “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck… we’re fucked.” We rush over to the edge, to see how he is. The mad jumper gets up and runs/limps away as fast as he can. He runs up the stairs at the beach access and we never see him again. The only evidence he was ever there was his hat and a shoe at the landing site. So, to that random, wasted, Evel Knievel wannabe, we want to know who you are and how your legs felt the next morning. I can’t even imagine the pain you must be in right now.
You are a dumbass.
But it was pretty cool to watch.
David Fuad is a junior law & society and psychology major.