My friends and I had an evening of uproarious laughter at the behest of Stephen Lynch, Lewis Black and a fellow named “Shel.” But when the show was over, we decided we didn’t want the fun to end there. George W. Bush, always the thinker, came up with a great idea: “Why don’t we go downtown and drink like we’re prisoners at Guant√É.√°namo Bay when they’re given their rations of water every third day?” George asked.

“Amen to that!” I responded. “We should go to the bar where I work.”

A few minutes later we entered the cavernous underground pub where memories are made, yet little is remembered. Our first instinct was to rush towards the bar and immediately engross ourselves in libations, but 5 feet in we were stopped, unable to move forward.

“What’s going on?” George asked.

“Oh no!” I replied. “We’re gonna be stuck here for like half an hour. That’s a girl train. There’s no way to cross through without getting trampled.”

“A girl train?” Bush inquired.

“Yeah” I yelled over the loud techno remix of “Sweet Caroline.”

“You see, college girls are unable to function with even the slightest modicum of independence. They travel in packs. See how when they go from one area of the bar to another, they all link hands and move like they’re one? If you watch from above it actually appears as though they’re slithering, like a snake — Medusa’s hair if you will. When one of these girl trains passes by you, you can be halted for what seems like forever. This one is particularly bad; I’ve been counting the number of girls in this train, and I’m already up to 58. We may never drink again.”

The train finally passed by, but we were running out of time to drink. George turned to me and said, “G-Unit, we gotta get crunked, and fast. I think we need to do my favorite thing: we’re going bombing!”

Four Irish car bombs, four Jagerbombs, five shots of Jack and three bottles of Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout later, we were in fact wasted.

“G-Graham. Graham. Graham,” George said, putting his hand on my shoulder in order to keep himself from slumping to the ground.

“For Hanuween, after, after, we light the candles. The candles in the pumpkin. The jack-o-norah. Whatever the hell that thing is called. I’m gonna dress up! I’m gonna pretend to be the f-in president man. How great would that be?”

“George trimmed Bush,” I giggled. “I’ve been waiting for you to act like a president for like, as long as I’ve known you. If you pretend to be the president, then me, I’ll be the middle class. And you can chase me around and pretend that you’re trying to kill me with a saber. You can call your weapon, The Bankruptcy Reform Act of 2005.”

George looked up at me and said, “You know me so well, Graham. I really do hate the middle class.” Then he vomited all over the bar.

Graham Kates is a junior international affairs major.