The Zoo, in your very own home

As an obnoxious thirteen-year-old once sang, “It’s Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday,” but how far down are you willing to go? For most college students, the answer is usually one flight of stairs, into the darkest, dankest of places — a college basement. The usual scene may include a keg or two, some mystery punch that will give you a hangover you will never forget and, of course, the smell of sweat and desperation. But what happens when you come up for air? Suddenly there are actual lights, there is furniture not coated in beer. There might even be paintings on the walls and dishes in the cupboards. Yet, somehow, there can be no way humans live here. There are more than twenty people in this house, so it is now public domain! Go ahead, throw your wounded soldier in the corner, shotgun a Keystone in the living room. Dance on the table! No one actually has to clean up after this rager, do they? Of course not. What is it about a house party that completely strips everyone of their civility? It seems that the collective mind just takes over. If that guy can pop his whole bag of Franzia and walk away without a second thought, why would you ever worry about breaking that lamp? Ultimately, college parties need to be studied by scientists and philosophers. They are the only place in society where normal people revert back to the state of nature on a weekly basis. If someone’s coat is stolen, it is perfectly acceptable to steal another coat to replace it. If there is drank in the fridge it is automatically up for grabs. It is simply survival of the fittest. One could blame these social disasters on cheap alcohol, bad manners and a total lack of respect, but that does not explain why decent and even sober people still can wreak havoc in a stranger’s, or even a friend’s house. All one can do is sit back and marvel at the animalistic and brutal society that exists inside these microcosms of college life. So, put yourselves in the soggy, beer-filled shoes of the dude who lives there. Think about how it may feel to have to wash your tub with bleach because people have done unspeakable things to it and how you have to hunt under sofas and chairs to find where that horrid smell is coming from. And maybe next time you will not fall victim to the collective, animal mind. Unless of course the last beer is up for grabs and you have to hip-check a biddie to get it.