I'm The Douchebag

Sometime last year, I remember a normal, average night hanging out at a bar with some friends, when all of a sudden the bar became swarmed with business students wearing dress shirts, ties, blazers, and boxer shorts.

I like to imagine this event began with second-year MBA students telling first-year MBA students "Yeah!  We do this every year.  You go out in your boxers and we do a bar crawl.  It's awesome."  And then when the first-year MBA students show up in their boxers to bars with fully-clothed second-year MBA students, they realize that "Yes, we're being hazed!  This is awesome!"  Welcome to the world's most obnoxious bar crawl, where attire is described as "business on the top, party on the bottom."  Indeed, it's the mullet of outfits, and is just as charming as a mullet itself.

There I stood last year thinking, "Psssh.  I will never participate in this event.  What a bunch of tools."

I remembered this as I pulled on my skull and bones boxers on Saturday and watched Derrick iron my white button-down shirt.  (That's right.  I can't iron.  I don't even know how to turn the iron on.  You got a problem with that?) 

I remembered it as I walked across the park as quickly as I have ever walked in search of other reluctant douchebags like myself, dressed like idiots. 

I remembered it as I kept drinking and then forgot what I was supposed to remember because it was, in fact, awesome and a lot of fun.

When in Rome, you have to drink the Kool-Aid.  Or something like that.



"Kourtney, do these match my ascot?"