Opinion: Former Kappa Sigs Need to Get Over It
Born on a mountain top,
Raised by Dave Portnoy.
Our boys in Red and Green may have earned some pretty contentious reputations amongst students, parents, and Bylanders alike these past few semesters.
But, let’s take this time to recognize and cherish what we’ll miss most about the self-proclaimed “mean motherfuckers.”
Depending on what year your future alumni shirt claims, you may remember a few distinct castles where these men of honor once reigned.
The Chapter House.
A staple of this year’s graduating classes sophomore year.
They attempted to leave their mark on this campus, exemplifying just how fragile their masculinity is, by encouraging each other to draw blood by punching the drywall next to their sacred pong table and bitching out anyone who didn’t want to break their hand. That’ll teach the administration for exposing your inability to log out of library computers properly, not once but FUCKING TWICE, guys.
Also, the proud display of their freshly chopped Christmas Tree decorated with feminine undergarments belonging to the Ghosts of One-Night-Stands past was definitely never a point of controversy during the holiday season.
“A gift that truly kept on giving,” noted Justin Rush ‘19.
And though they claimed to own a mop, I’ll never be able to get the sound of my sneakers getting peeled off of the kitchen floor as I walked passed their perpetually vomit soaked bathroom, having an industrial sized sound system blasting “Sanctified” or whatever popular hip-hop song that would make them feel less bad for having only European heritage.
Living in sticky squalor was the new black to them.
And of course, we could never leave out the chilling late night texts from Brad Michael-Michaels ’19 that read “Come to chap,” which upon further investigation left suiters disappointed to find four brothers that didn’t live there silently drinking warm nattys left on the pong table, staring blankly at a flat screen playing The Office on repeat.
Gone, but not forgotten.
If walls could talk, those beer soaked slabs of concrete would be constantly screaming after the condition they left them in.
We shall not speak ill of the dead, but no one can get the stench of natty, sweat, and hormones raging to the tunes of "Closer" or "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" from their noses.
Many a fracket and dignity has been lost in those haunted halls from men and women alike.
Getting the nod to walk through those Civil War era double doors felt as good as graduating cum laude.
Also, the pervasive smell of shit was a nice touch for half the year. But fuck it right, just toss a plank over that obliterated septic tank.
Sure, it’s fun to joke at the expense of their sterling reputation as full-pay legacies who weren’t good enough to make the varsity lacrosse and soccer teams here, but hey, we have no idea what they went through to wear those letters.
Whatever your fondest memory, we’ll never forget, because they won’t let us.
But by God, we’re trying.