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Randy and Ray take Eagle Row

Randy and Ray approached the frat house Thursday night, strategically dodging the Vineyard Vines tags and oversized condoms left on the lawn over the last few weeks. Randy’s 13 chambered heart was beating faster than usual, and his exoskeletal brow was perspiring more than he ever thought possible. Ray saw this and, after letting out a hearty laugh that shook the blades of grass around them, said, “There’s nothing to worry about, friend. What’s got you sweating so?”


randy-and-ray-go-to-fratsRandy shyly replied, “I heard you need girls to get into these kinds of parties and let’s just say I haven’t been really barking up the same trees as all the other cockroaches.” Ray gave him a confused look, and then explained, “Not the case at all. I’ve been to my fair share of Beta frat parties at Clairmont, and let me tell you, I’ve never even seen a girl at a single one of those parties, let alone need one to get in. I think it might be because—”


By this time, the roach pair reached the front of Gamma Delta Iota, and Ray was abruptly interrupted with the stinging words, “Sorry, max capacity. Can’t let you in,” coming from the pledge assigned to watch the door. Ray’s head jolted up, his thoughts shattered by sheer disbelief. “We take up less space than a can of beer how can we possibly—.” He was interrupted once more with the opposite line, “Come on in.” This time, the directive was given to a group of girls dressed in matching shirts, pants, lingerie, and shoes, but different lipstick.


Randy sunk to the cracked cement block serving as a welcome mat, discouraged. Ray turned to him and said, “Don’t worry, pal. I know that these kinds of houses ought to have a back entrance for the walk of shame’ers tomorrow morning. Let’s go find it.” Sure enough, after dodging a brother watching his roommate having sex through the window and masturbating, there was an old screen door, holding on to its frame with one and a half hinges. They worked their way into the house, only to be greeted a floor bouncing to a remix of Drake’s “Controlla.”


“Geez, I’m a roach and even to me this place feels slimy. I need a drink. You want anything?” Ray asked. “No, I think I’m going to go to the dance floor and see what’s happening there,” Randy replied. “Suit yourself,” Ray shouted as the pair split.


Ray navigated between the stomping columns of Converses and Sperrys to reach the bar. He scurried up the side, set himself on the countertop and called out to the pledge bartender, “Hey lemme get a beer.” “Who do you know?” replied the bartender. “What the fuck does it matter just give me a drink.”  “Can’t. Who’s next?” The bartender dismissed Ray, and, at this point, Ray had just about as much as he could take. He could feel all six of his legs tense up. If he didn’t get a drink soon, he would move from Clairmont to the frat house, and have all his friends and family infest the house with him. As he descended onto the floor, a liquid meteor landed and popped in front of him. The splash coated his face in a taste of cinnamon. Ray quietly whispered, “Fireball.” His black eyes twinkled ever so slightly at the thought. This was how he would get drunk that night. Although he couldn’t choose what he would drink, he wasn’t picky. His only term was that he wouldn’t touch Pabst Blue Ribbon. He then spent the next two hours tracking the spilled drinks amidst the bar commotion, and judging the intended recipients accordingly for their taste in alcohol.


Randy spent this time trying to make friends of the female variety on the dance floor. Most of the girls just screamed when they saw him. He racked his brain trying to figure out what the problem was. There were so many guys grinding on girls. What were they doing that he wasn’t? The only way to figure this out was to observe. He waited for a minute, when a boy with a backwards hat and a half-buttoned salmon pink shirt walked onto the dance floor and took his place behind a girl to start dancing. In this moment, Randy knew that the problem was clearly that he was talking too much.


Randy quickly scouted out an unpaired girl dancing and quickly made his way up her back and onto her shoulder, without saying anything this time. She saw him and, like the rest, screamed. Randy panicked and quickly shouted, “I’m sorry!” The girl stopped screaming and her jaw dropped. “Did you just talk?” Randy thought it was a strange question considering the circumstances, but replied, “Yeah?” The girl relaxed and said, “Wow, so did I get drugged?” Randy, confused and impatient, replied “You might be high but I’m real. Anyway, want to dance?” The girl shrugged, admitting to Randy, “Eh sure I’ve done more with guys worse than you.” So they danced as best as a male cockroach and human female could for about a song and a half. When Randy was crawling back down her calf, she quickly scooped him up and held him close to her chest. “I know what I can do with you. Let’s go back to my place.” Randy didn’t know what to do and panicked. He tried squirming out of her grip, but to no avail. Luckily, some ironic force of nature granted him aid; right before they made it out of the frat house front door, the girl tasted all of the alcohol she had that night again as she puked directly into Randy’s face. Instinctively, the girl threw the vomit-drenched cockroach aside. Randy flew across the floor into a wall and, due to a combination of the impact and the alcohol, passed out.


He was shaken awake by an unsteady Ray the following morning. The two left the house and looked out over the lawn, littered with beer cans and passed-out students. Both were silent, but were thinking the same questions every college cockroach asks himself at least once in life: what actually happened last night, why do I feel so sick afterwards, and why did it smell like that?

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