What the fuck. What. The. Hell. We walked into the clubhouse on the morning of October 29th fully expecting to see Juan Arenas, and only him, reclining on our big moose head wearing nothing but his Delphic acceptance letter and tie, beckoning us to give him pecks on his man-bun. What did we find instead? A very drunk Kevin Murphy asking us to dome him up.
Listen: we know you Delphic guys don’t like us, and you think we’re girl-ing up your clubhouse, and you think we suck at dartmouth pong, and you all hold your breath and wait for us to leave when we enter a room, and you nut in our drinks when we’re not looking, and you purposely aim for the toilet seat every time, and you dunk all our menstrual products in Rubinoff, and you dressed up as girls and infiltrated our punch and got us to elect you all into the Bee, and you stole all of our boyfriends and gave them the clap, and you sneak into our rooms every night and pour water on our socks, and you sing the dirty words to “thank u, next” when we’re trying to listen to the clean version, and you swing really hard at us when we walk by, and you make us cook for every Thursday dinner but only feed us the scraps you toss from the top of the club. But you crossed a line when you blackballed Juan Arenas.
Juan Arenas is both a savage, a legend, and hot. He escaped from Colombia as a kid specifically so he could come smash some beers with the boys in the Ment, and what did he get? Into the Spee. He deserved so much more than that. He deserved to be in a final club. He deserved to be up there throwing champagne bottles with the rest of the boys. And you monsters took that from him.
So help us God, if Juan isn’t senior punched we’re going to make vomit soup for the next dinner and we won’t even eat the scraps this time probably and we’ll burn down the whole club and then the squash court. Fuck all of you, without exception. Dan is cool though.