Dartmouth is not a respectable academic institution.
Tuck is a respectable academic institution. Thayer is a respectable academic institution. The other Ivies (except you, Brown, let’s not get too cocky) are respectable academic institutions. JYK is anything he wants to be, including, but not limited to, a respectable academic institution. Dartmouth, on the other hand, is a party school.
Still in denial? True life: we go to a school where peeing your bed is a thing.
An excusable thing. And it doesn’t even have to be your own bed. Unlike when you were five, it’s totally okay to “have an accident” in someone else’s clean, dry sheets. In fact, according to an ’08 KDE, you are a “prude” if you have not experienced the phenomenon by your freshman Winter, whatever that means. Hygenic? Debatable. Liberating? Definitely.
Unlike our fellow institutions of higher education, Dartmouth is a school of do-ers. Defecation, fornication, regurgitation, urination, even masturbation you name it, we do it. All over the place. Outside, AD’s basement, foreign clubs (more on that later), study rooms, hallways, the bathroom outside of class, in class, your roommate’s drawer, fourth floor Berry, the statue outside of McNutt and that weird, dismal seating space above FoCo are all considered acceptable places to mark your territory.
And we’re big into making our mark. We’re a school known for Robert Frost, Dr. Seuss, the D-Plan, top-ranked academics, high-paid alums and our legendary Keystone consumption.
We don’t confine our uncouth behavior to Hanover either. We send our students to the most highly-populated corners of the globe: Paris, Rome, Madrid, Tokyo, Beijing, Berlin and the Little Cayman Research Center. Once there, Dartmouth students have been known to narrowly escape deportation by the local police (hi Madrid-Po), boot in ritzy clubs, convert locals to the sacred sport/religion of pong and pregame museum tours. Pretend you can stand all 60,000 sq. meters of the Louvre without the help of the finest French Zhenka available. Yeah, knew you couldn’t.
Pregaming, as Dartmouth students have discovered, is a way of life. Bad prof? Jack before class. Suck at Fifa? Blame it on Johnny. Third-term senior? Start your Colt binge at 6! Meetings getting kind of dull? Put in some alone time with Jos he’s tall, dark and, if you’re drunk enough, handsome. But remember: always keep your pregaming under control. You don’t really want B@B trolls dishing about what you did after beerlympics especially if it involves you and your “friend” getting impaled by the fence on the football field while engaging in some questionable nude activities.
On the plus side, that wouldn’t be the most embarrassing story any of us has heard, or that anyone has heard about us. We go to a school where it’s okay to be a drunken mess on a regular basis Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays to be exact and where getting Good Sammed is a rite of passage among certain circles.
So we’re a party school. Who cares? We’re still one of the highest ranked “universities” in the country. With our “at or below” 10 percent acceptance rate, your respectable-academic-institution types still probably couldn’t get in. Our alums are still better paid than yours.
So you lost your $1500 dollar Moncler jacket in SAE. If you bought one, you can buy another. So you threw your computer out the window on Magic Monday. Your final paper was shit anyway. All our shenanigans will work out eventually, and, once we hit real life, we might even lose our Keystone fetish and turn into adults. So rejoice, fellow Dartmouth students (damn, we need a mascot), and join in my dream that Dartmouth will always be a place where frats are judged by the hardness of their guyz rather than the content of their character.