Fubar by Ron Carpol Page A

sunny, pot was everywhere, the beer never stopped flowing, and the girls radiated sex.
    A couple hundred people were at the party, with different people coming and going all night long. Other fraternity guys were there, a lot of sorority girls, and a bunch of neighborhood Venice sluts who thought that fucking college guys would give them a step up out of the gutter.
    Instead of the pledges providing the entertainment like we were told to do, me and the other pledges hired Tiffany and Amber to perform their lesbian act. For more money, guys oil-wrestled the girls. Later upstairs in the pledge dorm, the girls gave blowjobs for fifty bucks. Funny though, even for all the hundred dollar offers, neither girl would let a guy fuck them. That’s where the Venice sluts came in handy.
    Doc, the usual DJ was there, wearing his one-piece, black vinyl, body stocking that made him look a nigger’s dick. People were wall-to-wall, sweating, dancing, getting high from pot, booze, meth, X, and probably coke even though I didn’t see anybody using it. The noise and the music was getting louder andlouder as the night wore on. Even the back yard was jammed with drunks. It was really a great party. What proved it was that nobody there could pass a field sobriety test if their life depended on it.
    Richie LeRoy, with his 35mm camera constantly flashing, was snapping shots of everybody for the house scrapbook.
    But a little after twelve-thirty, five uninvited guests showed up, all dressed alike.
    â€œShit,” Vysell mumbled between his teeth to me and Batman, “Porky and the Pigs.”
    The clothes on all three of us stunk so bad of pot that somebody would’ve thought that a marijuana field was on fire and the wind blew in our direction for hours.
    â€œParty’s over!” a short, butch-looking cop who might’ve been a transsexual, yelled in an unusually deep voice for a female.
    Her four dumb male helpers all gave us the evil-eye, trying to look mean.
    Doc hurriedly changed songs, this time playing the theme song from Cops, with all of us joining in on the chorus.
    The dyke bitch, wearing sergeant stripes, flicked the living room light switch up and down continually for about thirty seconds, like at a Pink Floyd concert, until Doc finally stopped the music.
    â€œID everybody!” this questionable woman ordered. “Party’s over!” When she turned around, she had thick, stringy, brown hair that looked like the ends of a wet mop and an ass as broad as a bus.
    In the next hour the five cops must’ve gotten wrist cramps writing a citation to most of the people there for chickenshit crimes like false ID, minor in possession of alcohol, under the influence, possession of under an ounce of pot. Unfortunately for the out-of-state people without California ID, they got taken into custody and had to bail out of jail. No doubt serious violent street crime in Venice must’ve drastically dropped that night during the time the cops raided the party.
    Luckily for Tiffany and Amber, who swallowed enough sperm to float a battleship, when the cops went upstairs, theywere between customers, pressed against each other’s naked body. But when the cops checked their ID through the station’s computer, both of their fake licenses were revealed; Tiffany was seventeen and Amber was sixteen. Both girls were taken into custody for curfew violations.
    My souvenir from the cunt cop was a citation for under an ounce of pot when three joints fell out of my wallet when I showed her my ID that was probably the only legitimate one there. Unfortunately Lyman, Headlights, and Frizzhead left about fifteen minutes before the cops arrived. Me and everybody else had to appear in West L.A. Court on January 14.
    The next day, even though I wasn’t there, some cops served a search warrant on the fraternity house, kicking everybody off the second floor. They said they were looking for evidence of a rape. I just laughed,