Iron-fisted Sentinels of West Dorm
They told us we couldn’t get in without an ID, and they were right. Gone were the days of simply hopping over the six-odd-foot fence and landing with a soft thump in a human puddle of pleasure-seekers-gone-too-far-to-care, of slipping through an unattended gap in the garrison, of flipping your hair and promising sweetly not to cause any trouble if they just allowed you this “teensy-weensy one little favor”; the security at Trick or Drink had their list, and they were checking it twice. So far as they were concerned, if the name on their sheet didn’t match what was printed on your ID, you were out on your sorry non-Scripps/Mudd behind, no questions asked. More business than the front of Joe Dirt’s head and less likely to crack a smile than a Grenadier Guard, these brave protectors of the Bacchic spoils we now commend for their noble efforts in stalwartly warding off the riffraff and rapscallions (those who weren’t on the list, at least).
With their eyes wide and their arms outstretched, they were like kids in a candy shop, if that candy shop were a liquor store and all the kids in it were affected by some tragic disorder of the pituitary gland that gave them the appearance of 18- to 22-year-olds. From door to door they roamed in a frenzied, sweaty herd, seeking in true dandyish fashion to cure the soul by means of the senses and the senses by means of the soul. ‘Twas magic elixir that they clamored for, along with it the promise respite and nepenthe from the haunting memory of midterms just past. Many were rewarded—some, in their excess, found complete oblivion and were promptly escorted off the premises—and those whose cups ran dry from age (theirs, lack of legality thereof) or unsportsmanlike comportment at least got a classically crazy dance party out of it, in true HMC tradition.
High Priests of the Libations
It goes without saying that it takes a certain type of person to freely open his door—and his liquor cabinet—to the huddled masses. Exactly what type of person this is we don’t know (nor would we particularly care to ask), but we’re not complaining. The all-time good sports of Halloweekend, they had Dixie cups shoved in their faces, Grenadine sloshed on their carpets, incessant demands hurled at them from every direction. Yet they kept their hands steady, and in their moments of greatest despair, made wine out of water (the Grenadine helped a lot on this one) until the cups floweth’d over.
Halloween has long served as an excuse for the she-persons of the world to unleash their inner hoydens, and this year was no exception to the eye-catching trend. Given his pick of luscious young 5C ladies, Buffalo Bill could probably have fashioned an entire woman suit from the exposed skin alone. Offerings this year ranged from the traditional—e.g., sexy nurses, sexy policewomen, about ten litters’ worth of sexy kittens—to the more creative (sexy Donald Trump, anyone?). In asking oneself why such little fabric tends to be employed in the construction of girls’ costumes, one need only direct oneself to the dance floor at Harwood Halloween, where one can observe the 360-degree undulation capabilities such small garments afford. After all, what is Halloween about if not aggressively rubbing your backside against the frontside of a stranger? Great Pumpkin, my sore posterior!
Shadowy Denizens of the Night
The male counterparts of the above, these fellows are a breed apart from your typical drunken lout by virtue of their sheer cunning in matters of the hunt. Even those lads who regularly find their advances spurned on all other nights are given a chance, aided by the customary identity-obscuring Halloween finery, to prove their prowess at dance-floor stalking: the meticulous crowd surveillance (cleverly disguised as a fruitless search for a nonexistent specific person), the testing of the waters through seemingly accidental subjection of physical proximity, the accidental “nudge” of a chosen lady target, and eventually the gradual application of the aforementioned bodily region. Unfortunately for these dark figures, the shielding effect of the seasonal garb works both ways, and more often than not he may come to regret his choice of specimen. But, ah!—c’est la vie. With that in mind, he quickly stalks off to look for a girl in a sexy French maid costume.
Parents (Here by Accident)
If you had to pick a weekend whose activities, objectives, and accompanying attitudes run directly antithetical to those of Parents’ Weekend, the obvious choice would be Halloweekend. I won’t go too far into why this is, but the image of Mama and Papa Kelly Wainwright wading through a sea of empty candy wrappers, red solo cups, and safe-sex literature should be enough for you to pick up what I’m putting down. Nothing like a good old-fashioned holiday spent with the family to put you back in your place!