The Drunkest Girls Have a Dream
Just dance? This is the topic? Seriously. We're so down. We're down like that random dude from your English class that just asked you to play one v. one before shutting down the basement at 4 a.m. We're more down than that one friend who never has cash yet still beasts on your ranch soaked late night munchies. So, just dance you say? Who else says the same? Well these drunk girls are down to dream up one of the best pong games with that inspiring singer.
The two of us are playing singles. We're alone. The lights are dim, we've broken all our paddles and are playing with a combination of our Frye boots and the leftover Keystone Ice from a white trash themed tails event with Tri-Delt. We're in the basement of Sig Ep. A bright light appears from above and we wait, mildly amused, to see what we presume will be the ghost of Rembert Browne. But no, this ghost is holding a thirty-rack and a carton of cigarettes. And, excuse me? Her hair is wrapped around empty keystone cans. Our boners grow.
She stomps up to us, flips up her Mickey Mouse shades and says the words feared by any happy one v. one game: "Canadian?" One of us starts to say no, presuming that this is an imposter and there is no circumstance in which you should say yes to the question. But then we realize: It's her. It's Gaga.
"Yes." (Breathing hard.)
She bows her head slightly, a gesture we recognize. It is a pong mating call originated at Phi Psi in 1947 in which an opponent kneels to offer a cigarette from their sunglasses. One of us gladly accepts, and pulls a Marlboro Red gently out of her hair as if the sword from the stone. We were chosen. We look down. Homegirl has no pants, just a thong made out of caution tape she stole of Giaccone. We back it.
We pull our gaze up to see triple stem tree racked on three sides of the now triangle table. The table is covered in glitter and polaroids of Beyonce, and it all appears to be smoking. We roll with it.
We fumble around in a gaggle of glee. Spectators from the Just Dance video (bunnies having orgies) are behind sequined glass watching us and golf-clapping at every half-cup sink. We pause to celebrate, and look over to see that Stef (we're on a first name basis now) is playing on a purple bedazzled pony. Its cool. It's really, aggressively cool. She proceeds to dismount and everyone goes silent (shocking). Ahem. A megaphone somewhere in the basement rings and we hear the familiar voice of Jim from Gusanoz: "Lady Gaga, you have a phone call." The dance party begins (thankfully we have uncomfortable amounts of practice with the choreography). She puts out a hand for us. Our cigarettes touch and we're suddenly in the Kill Bill Pussy Wagon driving to Foco. Turns out Lady Gaga loves late-night food runs, and ranch dressing soaked mozzarella sticks; we are down for a bad romance.
She takes one bite of a mozzarella stick dipped in ranch and vanishes. We open our eyes and look around to see the insides of the Port-a-Potty behind Zete. Deja-vu. We knew that last part about ranch was just unrealistic. It was all a dream. A beautiful, seriously messed up dream.
Adieu, Lady Gaga. Adieu.