I’d like to preface this article by stating that I, as a responsible and productive member of society, am rarely prone to the sort of excess described in the following piece. But sometimes, duty calls. And called it did on one dark Saturday eve.

I had heard rumors of the so-called “drinking culture” and its prevalence at Whitman, and I, being the dedicated journalist that I am, decided to investigate. However, such an endeavor would surely prove to be hazardous to both my health and outstanding moral compass. That is why I enlisted the help of my good friend and world-renowned Voodoo priest Reid “Leopard Skull” Watson to navigate the perils of Whitman’s drinking scene with me. We met in Reid’s modest Coho mud hut at quarter to 10.

Reid, an aspiring comedic actor with the misfortune of having acquired a taste for pre-med classes, had just returned from play practice and was in one hell of a mood. We began our foray into Whitman drinking culture by imbibing several beers which claimed to be both natural and light but in actuality were neither. After a respectable amount of the heavy and unnatural beer had been consumed, Reid and I felt a drunken restlessness descend upon us. So we decided to go where all regrettable evenings at Whitman eventually lead: the TKE basement.

We soon found ourselves in a strange netherworld fueled by teenage hormones and Busch Light. Suddenly without warning we were approached by some sort of horrible cow demon. And worse yet, the thing seemed to know Reid. I later realized that we were at an animal-themed party and that the woman in the cow costume was a close friend of Reid’s. However, in that moment, I sensed horrible inescapable danger. And so, to save Reid and me from becoming cud for this terrifying beast, I did the only thing I could.

First, I began making cattle noises to lull the creature into a false sense of security. Then, surmising that the strangely feminine minotaur had an aversion to water, I reached for the closest thing I could find (it happened to be a solo cup full of lukewarm mixed drink) and poured it all over the beast’s head. This did not have the desired effect. Instead of melting into a puddle of demon goo or retreating into the shadows, the lipstick-wearing minotaur became enraged and strangely indignant. At this point I decided that it would be best for me to abandon my companion and seek refuge in the upper reaches of TKE. I made my way up to a friend’s room and valiantly passed out on his couch.

If I have one piece of advice to give from my experience with Whitman drinking culture it is this: Excess often leads to regret, and beware of the minotaur wearing high heels in the TKE basement.