College Beer Fouls That Should Be Illegal
A college beer foul is the kind of crime that wouldn’t even make the local news.
That is exactly the problem.
The cops don’t care. The RA has spiritually retired. The campus liver donor list is being aggressively updated as we speak.
Society chose to look the other way. That is how an entire generation of young men came to believe it was acceptable to set a beer down on a textbook.
Below are the college beer fouls that should be illegal.
Most of them are committed weekly by a guy named Brendan.
The Backwash Bandit
The Backwash Bandit takes one sip of your beer and returns it as gumbo.
His mouth is not technically a mouth.
It is a wet ecosystem where small amphibians have started a community theater.
You hand him your Coors Light.
What he gives back is a soup. There is dip spit in there, the pulverized ghost of a mozzarella stick, and one single eyelash that was definitely not on him when he started drinking.
Backwash is the herpes of college parties.
It is contagious, eternal, and almost always your own fault for trusting a man who eats popcorn shrimp at a kegger.
The Five-Second Rule Apostle
The floor of a college house party is a Petri dish that scientists are not legally allowed to study.
It is a quilt of last week’s puke, this week’s puke, foot sweat, mystery liquid, and the spiritual residue of every regrettable hookup since 1998.
The Apostle drops his beer and watches it pool around someone’s discarded sock.
Then he drinks it.
He drinks it like a man who has personally negotiated peace with E. coli.
He calls the floor “a little dirty,” which is like calling the Pacific Ocean “a little wet.”
Anyone who picks up a floor beer waives the right to complain when his stomach gurgles like a haunted hot tub at three in the morning.
The Aux Cord Hostage Negotiator
The Aux Cord Hostage Negotiator approaches the speaker like he’s defusing a bomb.
The bomb is everyone else’s good time.
He plays Mr. Brightside three times in a row like he is summoning a demon, and the demon is everyone’s ex.
Then he queues up a forty-three-minute house remix that sounds like a washing machine seducing a chainsaw inside a wind tunnel.
You ask for one song.
He says “in a sec” with the calm confidence of a man who has never once in his life followed through on any sentence containing the word “sec.”
Anyone who plays Wagon Wheel at a college party should be required by federal law to wear an ankle monitor and a small bell.
The Beer Pong Cheating Cartel
The Beer Pong Cheating Cartel is not one man.
It is a crime family.
The Re-Rack Felon will demand a diamond, then a triangle, then “just one cup right there bro,” until your great-grandchildren give up on the bloodline entirely.
The Elbow Outlaw lets his elbow cross the table like it is hunting for warmer weather.
He treats the phrase “no elbows” as a quaint pre-war suggestion.
The Bouncer is the war criminal of beer pong.
He shoots from his chest like he is trying to assassinate your forehead, and his victories should not legally count as victories in any court of law or beer.
And then there is the Wet Ball Bandit.
He fishes the ball out of the water cup, rolls it across the table, and stares directly into your soul.
He is daring you to question physics, hygiene, and God Himself.
The water cup, by the way, has not been changed since the Obama administration.
There are now creatures living in it that have evolved opinions on tax policy.
Those creatures are more qualified to vote than the entire cartel combined.
And every member of the cartel still celebrates a three-cup comeback like he personally cured polio.
The Keg Killer
The Keg Killer pumps the tap with the cardio of a man inflating a life raft mid-shipwreck.
What pours out is ninety percent foam, eight percent regret, and two percent actual beer that has been mathematically beaten into submission.
He insists the keg “just needs to settle.”
That is the same thing he said about his last three relationships before the restraining orders.
The Couch Hookup Couple
The Couch Hookup Couple has decided that the only suitable real estate for their romantic encounter is the couch where six guys are quietly watching college football.
Their hands are inside each other’s pants.
Your team is up by three.
Both of these things should be illegal at the same time.
They moan, they mumble, they grind, and at no point does either of them consider the fact that you can hear the faint, wet sound of their tongues making poor decisions.
Eventually they retreat to a bedroom.
It is usually the one belonging to someone’s actual mother, where they proceed to do something that no Yankee Candle on Earth will ever fully erase.
The Half-Beer Hoarder
The Half-Beer Hoarder cracks a fresh beer every twelve minutes and abandons each one like a deadbeat dad in a Hallmark courtroom drama.
By 11 PM every flat surface in the apartment is wearing a Natty Light.
The windowsill. The bookshelf. The microwave. The dog.
Each can has exactly two sips out of it, which means he has personally wasted ninety-eight dollars, three years of midwestern agriculture, and the dreams of a Wisconsin barley farmer named Gary.
When asked which beer is his, he points at all of them, in order, like a deranged orchestra conductor.
None of them are his.
The Sink Vomiter Slash Quesadilla Chef
The Sink Vomiter Slash Quesadilla Chef empties his stomach into the kitchen sink at 11:47 PM.
He builds a four-cheese quesadilla in that same sink at 12:14 AM.
He claims he “got it all down the drain.”
That is a generous interpretation of physics, plumbing, and the moral arc of the universe.
The garbage disposal sounds like a small dog being fed into a paper shredder.
Brendan calls this dinner.
He stands above it eating melted Monterey Jack like a king watching his army march off to die.
Anyone who eats food prepared in a vomit sink is committing a felony against himself, the host, and the honest tradition of American cheese.
Final Verdict
A college beer foul is forgivable in the way a stain on a couch is forgivable.
Technically yes.
But also, that couch is haunted now, and the dog won’t sit on it anymore.
If any of these descriptions made you wince in recognition, congratulations.
You are the reason your group chat is named “Quarantine Roster.”
Drink responsibly. Return your empties. And for the love of everything holy, stop letting Brendan touch the aux cord.