Democratic Underground

Delirium At The Frat House
June 16, 2001
by Art Bushwald

New Haven, 1968. It was nearing the end of another school year and the boys of the Deke house were sitting around the lounge talking about the good times they had had, and their plans for the "bright future" that many of them were now preparing to embark upon.

"Hey, Lanny," said a rather obese brother named Rush, "what're you gonna be doin' once you get out of this dung hole?"

"Dunno. Maybe I'll get into journalism or somethin'," Lanny replied, rubbing the place on his back where his fellow Dekes had burned with a cigarette during his initiation. "Cover the war in Nam, maybe. Who the freak knows? How 'bout you, Rushbo? You gonna sign up for a stint in Nam?"

"Freak, no!" replied the hulking mass of a fraternity brat as he reached for a Busch. "I got a boil on my butt that's gonna keep me out of that rat hole. And anyway, I say let the spics and feminazis fight it - it ain't my war. I'll just stay on the sidelines and cheer them on. And then, some day after this freakin' war's long been over, I'm gonna start my own hate radio talk show. I'm gonna get me a loyal following of beer swillin' gun nuts and make them think that everything I say is straight from God. I'll even make up my own company - the Excrement in Broadcasting Network. Millions of fans'll be hangin' on my every word. I'll have the hottest freakin' radio show in the whole freakin' country."

Lanny spit out a mouthful of beer. "Damn, Rushbo, that's the funniest freakin' thing I've heard since I became a Deke. You actually think you can get even ten freakazoids to listen to your spew?"

"Don't laugh!" retorted the four hundred pound frat boy. "You remember that freak with the funny moustache named Adolph? If a pint-sized nitwit like him could wow 'em over in krautland, I sure as heck can dazzle 'em over here."

"Speaking of little Nazis," said another brother, "where the freak is Bushy Boy? I haven't seen his stinkin ' butt around for a while."

Just then a masked figure curiously reminiscent of the Devil's Little Helper sprang into the room. "Find the femur, neophyte!" he shrieked. "Lick my bumhole! Run, neophyte, run!"

"Well, speak of the Dubya," said Brother Betts, turning to the intruder. "Whatcha doin' with yourself these days? Graduation's comin' up. Got your future all planned out?"

"Sure do," replied the masked demon, as he removed his disguise and opened up a Lone Star. "I was makin' up a list just last night. I got my whole damn future worked out."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, Dubbie," implored another brother named Clark. "Let's see the freakin' list."

"It ain't a written list, it's a mental list," said Dubya as he guzzled his brew. "Anyways, the first thing I'm gonna do when I get outta here is join the National Guard."

"What?? You?? You mean you're actually gonna volunteer to go to Nam???" cried Dubya's college brothers in stunned unison.

"Freak no, what the freak ya think I am, a moron?" screamed the incensed Dubya as he reached for another beer. "Like any patriotic 'Murican, I support the war. But I ain't gettin my butt within 5000 miles of that stinkhole. My old man's gonna get me a slot in the Texas Air National Guard. I'll be flyin' a plane that won't have an ice cube's chance in hell of seein' combat. But hey, I can still say that I'm protectin' the skies of Texas from the godless Commies - that is, at least until I go AWOL."

"You're plannin' to go AWOL?" asked an incredulous Lanny.

"Yeah, ya wanna make somethin' of it?!" yelled Dubya with a tone of inebriated belligerence in his voice. "Anyways, I'm also gonna party after I get out of here. Party, party, party! Heck, I figure I got at least another 20 years of youthful indiscretion ahead of me. And then you know what I'm gonna do if I finally sober up?" smirked the future Seagrams poster boy as he knocked off a shot of bourbon. "I'm gonna have my old man set me up in some oil companies that are gonna lose their freakin' shirts, but I'm gonna make out like a freakin' bandit 'cause I'll have inside information and I'll dump my stock before the outsiders know what the freak happened!"

"Isn't that, like, illegal?" asked a somewhat sheepish brother.

"If it is, so what?!" shouted Dubya, reaching for a bottle of Scotch. "By that time, my old man is gonna be President, and I'll be able to do anythin' I damn well please. My kin, too. They're gonna get set up in savings and loans, and when they go belly up, Uncle Sugar's gonna bail 'em out. We'll get richer beyond our wildest dreams!"

"You actually think your goofy old man is gonna be president???" snarled the incredulous Lanny. "What the freak have YOU been smokin'?"

"I've had enough she-it from you!" bellowed the increasingly pugilistic Dubya as he leapt out of his chair, knocking over his bottle of Wild Turkey. "Come on, dekehead!" he screamed, brandishing his fists, "Let's settle this right now, mano-a-mano!"

"Settle down, Dubya," admonished a more level-headed Deker. "You've been swillin' too much monkey juice. You need ta lay off the booze for a while. Why don't you have some Coke instead?"

"Coke?!" exclaimed the suddenly placated graduate-to-be. "Hot damn! Hand it over." Dubya was given a bottle full of a dark liquid. "What the freak is this?!" he screeched.

"It's a bottle of Coke..."

"She-it, I thought ya meant coke!" snorted the indignant Dubya. "But, what the freak, as long as I got this crap, anyone got any rum?" After being handed a bottle of Bacardi, Dubya went on. "After I bomb in my oil business, I'm gonna get someone ta buy me a baseball team, then I'm gonna sell it an' make me some bi-i-ig bucks. Then I'm gonna run fer governor..."

"Governor? You?" exclaimed another frat brother. "You only had a freakin' C average, and that's only 'cause of your old man's dough. What state would be stupid enough to elect a drunk-as-a-skunk bum like YOU governor?"

"Texas!" snapped Dubya, as he downed a shot of cognac. "An' when I git elected, I'm gonna put ol' Hangin' Judge Parker ta shame. I'm gonna make more folks swing in the wind than any governor's ever done in the whole freakin' history of this freakin' country! I'll call it 'compassionate conservatavism'! An' I'm gonna give a big fat tax break to all my buddies that helped install me in the gov'nor's mansion, an' bleed the state dry in the process. An' after that, I'm gonna follow in my poppy's footsteps and become president myself...."

"Holy freeper, Dubya! Are you really gonna run for President?!" exclaimed a fellow Deker named Clay. "Who's gonna be your runnin' mate? Jack Daniels?"

"If he's a Deke or from Texas, I will consider him," slurred the intoxicated Texan. " I'm gonna run for president on a honor-and-integrity platform. And I'm gonna win, even if it means I have ta use every dirty trick in the book to do it!"

"Damn, Dubya, you're gettin' delirious!" exclaimed Brother Clark. "But if ya somehow do get ta be president, how about making me ambassador to China?"

"How 'bout settin' me up on a commission to trash Social Security?" suggested Betts.

"I'm gonna run on a honor and integrity platform," repeated the soused southerner, becoming oblivious to his surroundings. "And after I'm elected, I'm gonna build a missile umbrella in the sky. I'll smirk off the Europeans every chance I get, just ta show 'em what a macho SOB I can be. I'm gonna resurrect the old Confederacy in my Cabinet. I'm gonna..."

The Deke-in-Chief would likely have rambled on a lot longer, but the toxic witches' brew he had ingested was starting to take its effect. Succumbing to the power of Bacchus' potent elixirs, he collasped onto the floor in a drunken stupor.

"Geez, what a kook!" exclaimed one of the brothers after Dubya had safely passed out. "Who'd be dumb enough to vote for this nincompoop?"

Sadly, everyone raised their hands.

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