Seriously, this is, like, the third year in a row you’ve ruined Sigma Nu’s Coed Cornhole Olympics with your thoughtful commentary on toxic masculinity and the suppression of the matriarchy.
Look, we know your Women’s Studies minor is really important to you or whatever, but bro. Listening to you drone on about how a middle-aged woman can “harness her inner power through yoga and macramé” is kind of a buzzkill for the girls from Delta Delta Delta. The Tri-Dels do not want to hear about which brand of vaginal suppository will best alleviate the acute dryness they may experience in their 60s, Chad. The Tri-Dels just want to party.
Your suitemates — Travis, Tucker, and Thomas — are also pretty bummed out about the yellow wallpaper you put up in your room. They claim you stare at it all the time and mumble to yourself about identity politics. It’s weird, man. And that Frankenstein poster you hung next to the beer pong table in the basement, while sort of bitchin’, clashes with our University of Alabama memorabilia down there. While we’re on the subject, it’d be great if you stopped snorting and calling it a double entendre every time we shout “Roll Tide!” Dude, not everything is an attack on menstruation.
Travis, Tucker, and Thomas (high five T-Boooonezzz!) are also pretty upset that you bogarted all the shelf space at your end of the hallway. Your books are everywhere, and there’s no place to keep video games or porn. Last week one of the T-Bones tripped over your copy of The Beauty Myth and almost lost a toe. Is that what you want, Chad? Do you love Judith Butler more than you love Tucker’s feet? Which is more important: examining gender performativity, or traumatizing a potentially toeless T-Bone? We’re really asking.
Chad, it’s going to be Pledge Week soon. We, the brothers of Sigma Nu, are concerned that you will be a giant buzz kill during the rituals wherein we lightly haze young men in totally straight ways that have no gay subtext whatsoever. We don’t want another repeat of last year. Please don’t put PETA stickers on the pledge paddle again.
For the next month or so, can’t you just talk about football or your dad’s construction company? If you’re at a loss for appropriate conversational topics, you can simply point at your own dick and smirk. Random grunts and chest bumps are also acceptable, but only with other guys, and only if said guys are wearing baseball caps cocked jauntily to one side. You know the drill.
We recognize you have a feminine side — heck, we all do — but right now we need somebody to do keg runs, and you’re the only one who can drive a stick shift. Please just try to bury your shit and let it fester until you cry silently into your pillow every night, mourning your lost childhood vulnerability. You know, like all the other brothers do. Just until Fall Break.
Or maybe just, like, we don’t know. Maybe you could hold us for a little while and tell us what good boys we are. Not that we’re asking for that. We’re just saying. We could fire up Turner Classic Movies in the Nu lounge and you could make us another pot of that carrot bisque — the recipe you made last semester, but maybe with a dash more curry powder this time — and we could all feel really warm inside and sense a growing fullness in our bellies reminiscent of the all-powerful Womb, before we lose the feeling again and go back to wallowing in our desperate hunger, our unspoken empathy with our mothers, whose waning, doomed fecundity looms over us all and casts its shadow onto the six-foot inflatable penis Tucker stole from Battle of the ’Bama Bands.
That’d be kickass, too. Whatever you’re cool with, man. Either way, we need to decide on a game plan before the Greek Council meeting on Thursday. We don’t want our chapter’s event schedule to conflict with the Tau Kappa Epsilon quilting bee.