Karma is a Bitch
William, Ranger Up Fan
From 1996-2000, I went to school at this little college about an hour north of San Francisco…I know what you’re going to say – yes it was douche-heavy – but hey it’s not like I was in France. Anyway I was part of this fraternity, TKE, a real great bunch of normal guys, not like those ass stuffed pricks you see all over the place. Zack, or Mr. ROTC as we called him, was a cadet down at San Francisco State. It was getting to the end of 2000 and Zack, a few dudes in my frat and I were getting ready for graduation and decided we needed to blow it out. So we went into the city, hit the best restaurant we could find, and started our trek through Broadway – a 5 mile long stretch of bars, clubs, strip clubs, porno theatres and every sexual perversion you can think of – essentially a red light district. Andy, who can’t drink due to the kick in the nuts known as diabetes and is therefore the most experienced designated driver ever, led the way and rented one of those big 15 person Econo vans. We decided that Zak needed to be in uniform to celebrate his journey into the Army and then piled into our classy mode of transportation. Our intent: hit the city hard and run like hell over to Broadway for a night of harmless drunken debauchery. At the time, I had no idea that I had set into motion a cataclysmic series of events that would bring my world to a screeching halt.
Never Underestimate the Power of the Uniform
So Zack is totally pimped out in his duds – badges, polished shoes – the works. We start, as every night should, at this hole in the wall club called Deja Vu. Drinks are water, the girls are uglier than Star Jones – I am talking double coyote ugly – and the place is a pit. Immediately Zacko is the life of the party. All the girls want to sit on him, do dances, and take him home. It hit me like a thunderbolt – we could use him to our benefit! This might seem a little underhanded but…ummm…that’s all I’ve got.
We immediately bail and start working our way through the better clubs, using Zack as our frontman. It was magic. We start getting in places without paying covers, the girls are aplenty, and most important – the drinks are getting better.
Important note: Before the story continues, you need to know that Zack is the nicest guy you would ever meet. He’ll drop everything to help someone out; he’s trustworthy beyond reproach – really just a stand up guy. The only time I’ve seen him to anything on the “mean” side was when he kicked the shit out of a bouncer who was inappropriately hitting on the date of a guy we knew – and trust me, the guy deserved it.
Zak is not a drinker. Therefore we had no choice but to get him hammered beyond comprehension, using the girls’ coaxing as our weapon of mass destruction. When Zack began referring to the night as “Zack’s Night”, we knew he was toast. As we drove back to Sonoma State University at 4 AM, our hero was passed out across the floor of the van with a shit-eating grin on his face. We began planning.
We are AWFUL Friends.
Sonoma University was a great place to go to school. Located about an hour or so north of San Francisco, the school has a total population of about 6000 students and about 85% are women. Overwhelmingly HOT women. Ridiculously hot women. Even the quasi-women are hot…I think we all know where this is going…
Back in the van, we are about 20 minutes out and I call up this girl in my dorm and ask her to do me a favor. I ask her if I can borrow a pair of panties and bra. After about 15 minutes of her laughing and making fun of me, and about 10 minutes of mumbling profanity on my part, she agrees and meets us at Zack’s dorm. I make one other phone call and gigling like a school girl, tell the others that “it’s on”.
We haul a dead drunk, passed out, will-wake-up-with-the-hangover-of-a-lifetime, Zack up to his room, and dump him, unceremoniously in his bed. We then promptly place the newly acquired underwear in his pockets and head to the common area. Everyone else is passed out except for Andy, who was watching bad country music videos at a decibel level equivalent to putting your head in a speaker at a Rolling Stones concert (1970-1980’s not the 90’s shit). About a minute later this attractive woman comes down the hall. I point to Zack’s open door, and she grins and heads inside. Now all we have to do is wait…for about 15 minutes.
We sneak back into the room and there is Zack still passed out, nekkid, and this chick curled up around him in a sheet. Scottie dumps a glass of water on Zack who sputters and falls out of bed. We yell surprise, notice that what is left of his brains are oozing out the his ears, and point to the girl. Obviously Zack is confused. I tell him that she is our gift to him for making it through ROTC and a “good luck in the Army” present. Smiles, laughs and sexual innuendo follow, ending with us leaving…to stand just outside the door. We give it about 10 minutes, because, hey, he’s drunk, and then we hear a very surprised and alarmed “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!!!???”. We burst back in to see a very surprised and naked Zack standing at the foot of the bed, with a very naked and laughing almost woman (with one NOTABLE exception) in bed with her/his clothes everywhere. One of my friends whips out this disposable camera and starts snapping pictures of Zack.
Maybe we didn’t think this one all the way through…
You might as well as waved a red flag in front of a bull.
I swear I heard something snap and Zack turns on us with a look that can only be described as demonic. He just lets out a primal scream and charges. We bail – faster than any of us had ever bailed before.
I never thought you could have gotten 8 grown men through one doorway at the same time, but you can. The other guys book left to the common room, which leads to the stairs, the front door and relative safety of the campus. I, Captain Roadmap, book right…to the end of the hall…and the fire door. Fuck.
I’ve got three choices:
1) Stop and take a well deserved beating the likes of which the world has never known from an Army trained maniac.
2) Turn around and try to make my out, probably ending up in a well deserved beating the likes of which the world has never known from an Army-trained maniac.
3) Hit the fire door, awake the whole building, draw the fire department, campus security and local cops, risk a large fine, community service and possibly school expulsion, or at least censure.
To this day I wish chose option 3.
Somebody has to be the slowest gazelle…
Back then, I was a pretty fast, featherweight type guy, (6 foot, 130 pounds). Conversely, Zack was 5 foot 8 inches, 185 pounds – all muscle. I thought I could get past him or at least keep moving until I got past. I turn, head fake left and run right and see nothing but empty hallway. I think, “I’m home free, sucka!”
Then my head was heading towards the wall.
My next thought when I came to was: I’m dead. I forgot, Zack played high school football and read me like a book. I did not play high school football…I was the book. I hurt all over and I couldn’t move. I started screaming I was paralyzed and “why, GOD, WHY!!!” and I’m pretty sure I called for my mommy.
Finally, I opened my eyes, and found that I was in the middle of the dorm quad trussed up like a Christmas goose, dressed in the exact underwear I planted on Zack and nothing else, surrounded by my fraternity, including that loyal team of compatriots who assisted in my prank of Zack, who wasted no time in turning sides; half the people in my dorm building and more sorority girls than I had ever seen; who descended upon me like the banshees of hell screaming “MAKE OVER!”
In college, I was nicknamed George, due in part to my love of history which resulted in many summers spent at Mount Vernon and my final thesis on George Washington from a social theory perspective…conclusion, guy was fucking brilliant in more ways than I can count.
At graduation, they announced my name “William ‘Georgia’ Shea”. Apparently our faculty advisor showed the picture to the chairman of my department who had a great laugh at my expense and exclaimed that I looked “rather smashing” as a girl. Fucking Brit. To this day, my parents and wife have regularly asked me why I am nicknamed Georgia…and all I can do is grimace and shake my head sadly. Fucking Karma.
Note from Ranger Up: William, who has hidden his shame for seven years, left his computer on with this story open. His wife read this precisely ten minutes after he sent it to us. She knocked him out and dressed him like a woman. William claims he liked it.