290 - M.I.P.


You're 19, you're an Alpha, and you're knee deep in hot Chi-O's at the homecoming mixer. Life doesn't get much better than this.

The 600 milliliters of vodka in your system tell you the world is your playground and that you should jump upon the stage and sing into the microphone with the band.

The six-foot-eight bouncer has a counterpoint and says you should "get the fuck off the stage" before he "breaks your little ass."

Although he didn't say the word "no" specifically, you don't particularly care for his negative tone and implication that you can't do whatever you want. You take your buck-fifty butt off the stage and approach him. You dress your face in what the vodka tells you is a terrifyingly intimidating look and square up.


The bouncer, addressing you as "J. Crew JV" tells you to put your tongue back in your mouth before "the little gold buttons on your blazer go flying and knock out a light bulb." He then suggests that you go find a fat girl to jerk you off in the bathroom.

The vodka tells you that's a great idea. You turn three hundred and ten degrees and walk away, but you run into a sticky wall. You wonder for a moment why they make the walls look just like the floor and black out.