The Real Animal House: The Awesomely Depraved Saga of the Fraternity That Inspired the Movie by Miller Chris

Author:Miller, Chris [Miller, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: BIO005000
ISBN: 9780316022415
Publisher: Hachette Book Group
Published: 2007-10-08T04:00:00+00:00

THE DARK SIDE of road trips was that they ended. Tired and hung over, mottled with odd bruises and abrasions, Dartmouth guys at Skidmore and Wellesley and Vassar and Endicott marshaled themselves on Sunday mornings to face the long schlep home. As for Pinto, he was awakened by the sound of his coffin lid slamming. He opened his eyes to find darkness.

“Hey! Get me the fuck out of here!”

The lid lifted. Alby smiled down. “You rang?”

Pinto did not think he was funny. If he hadn’t been supposed to not show his emotions, he really would have shown his emotions. Out he came, wrapped in a horrible leather shroud of hangover symptoms. Matters were not helped when the ADs, having pulled themselves together, went upstairs and found rain falling. The malevolence of the New England winter cannot be overstated, and it was a real pain in the ass faced five months a year by all local college students unable to teleport. Pinto sighed; he sure was going to enjoy driving through this shit.

After a nutritious breakfast of a Coke and a slice at the Boss Nova Pizzeria in Amherst, the ADs hit the road.

“Hey, why don’t we play Geography?” cried Moses. “Alabama!”

“Shut the fuck up!” yelled Scotty, Otter, Pinto, and Alby. It was weird. The beer would take you sooo high. And then, like the waters of Old Faithful, down you’d inevitably come. It dissuaded one of God’s existence. Ingmar Bergman was right.

They retraced Friday’s route, albeit with less exuberance. Alby was drunk for the occasion but no one else had bothered. They were thinking about Monday classes. Alby shrugged and took personal possession of the dwindling Adelphian beer supply. Pretty soon they were at the entrance to Route 5.

“Aw, look at that poor guy.” Moses meant the shit for brains in a Dartmouth jacket who’d stationed himself by the entrance. The stupid gork was huddled there, wet and miserable, sticking out his thumb.

“Should we pick him up?” Moses asked.

“Fuuuuuuck him!” said Scotty, Otter, and Alby.

Pinto wanted to seem generous spirited and a good guy, but really didn’t want the schmuck drenching his backseat. He said nothing.

“Come on, you dipwipes! Look at the poor guy! Pull the fuck over.”

Pinto sighed. As no one made major objections, he stopped, and the poor guy clambered gratefully into the back. Alby drew away from him in distaste.

He was a freshman from Richardson Hall. His name was Rick or Steve. Moses tried to start a conversation but couldn’t get much going.

“Come on, Scotty,” Pinto whispered. “Be nice. Maybe he’ll rush next year.”

Scotty snorked.

Seal, roaring through the rain, spotted the Ford and came in fast and at a tilt, throwing a great wave of water against the windshield. He laughed at Moses’s surprised face peering through the window.

Moses stuck his head out. “Hey, Seal! How’s your ass?”

“Moses,” said Seal, “this is your lucky day.”

Moses felt a quease of anxiety. “Why?”

No cars were about. Anyone with any sense was home with a fire in the fireplace.

“Because I’m giving you your first motorcycle lesson!”

“Me? I.

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