Why is J. Lo here? Wait, is that Karen Walker dressed as a slutty nurse? J. Lo really does have an amazing ass, doesn't she?
As we ponder these questions, we realize we are no longer sitting poolside at P. Diddy's crib, engaging in our last Tuesday afternoon killing a case during a tarot card reading. Instead we are in a hospital, swaddled in sheets of merino wool backed with 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton (yeah, we fancy like that). That one really scary part of "Judas" is playing on repeat and it feels like we're both having a post-Gaga seizure panic attack. Fear arises as we think that we might be experiencing the divine retribution Gaga has been threatening lately. Oh wait, Gaga's not a thing. The music stops.
We attempt to look around for a doctor, but J. Lo's massive but fit backside blocks any chance of that. The door opens, and we catch a glimpse of Uranus are we in space? Did we die? Is this heaven? Is this Ohio? Will there be corn here? We black in and realize Dr. Frank-N-Furter is standing in front of us with a familiar Phi Delt, pool-Andre-diving Tri Delt by his side. He pulls out a clipboard and we both nod to each other in agreement that his Glee clipboard is awesome. He opens his mouth and out comes the voice of none other than Rachel Berry we are slightly confused but okay with it, since we are in space or Ohio or something. This Rachel Berry/Frank-N-Furter creature thing informs us of our liver health exam results. Pause what? We had a liver exam?
This glorious and terrifying creature thing flips through its many pages, whispering to his/her sidekick. We pause for a moment while it belts out "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" and everybody cries. Pause.
"Drunkest girls, you may be surprised by your results."
We both think, "Well, fuck yeah we'll be surprised. We still don't know where we are! Is this real life? Did we hit our heads against a car again? Are we being punished for losing a 27-game series? Is this purgatory? Wait are we graduating?"
The thing about graduation is that it's not a thing. It flutters in and out of thing-dom throughout your four years at Dartmouth, including every time you kill a case or cry in Mary's arms at Stinson's. But at about this point during senior Spring (praise be to the pong gods), graduation has simply been ejected from the world of thing-dom as aggressively as that pseudo-Christian faux pas Lady Gaga (we're mad, get over it). We've almost completed our language requirements and we both took our swim tests. We don't have jobs, but we've extensively researched the best places for homelessness within a 10-hour radius of Hanover.
Oh, ok. So now we know what's going on this is what happens when they try to kick your ass out of Hanover. And by "they," we mean some combination of the Registrar, the GGMM staff, your great aunt Mildred, Dumbledore and Mr. Schue (not necessarily in that order).
"You have cirrhosis of the liver, vitamin C deficiency and neither of you have lungs. According to our sources, you dared each other to sell them on the black market to townies for their last slice of cheeseburger pizza."
We tried to ask, "Who are your sources?" but we both were too busy laughing maniacally at some bitch whose skirt was caught in her underwear and inexplicably trying to GreenPrint in the background.
"We found the sources closest to you. We have been in cahoots [giggle, "cahoots"]with your slamteam, your slambaby, your slampiece and Jim." "Well what can we do??" we ask. Fuck man, we don't want to die like this we have a long life of avoiding our stepchildren ahead of us. And "Glee" is only in its second season. And we have to outlive Amy Winehouse. We just have to. "Leave. It'll all fix itself. And you'll still have plenty of whatever kind of memory items you've gathered throughout the last four years."
So we guess it's time. We can't say goodbye, but who the fuck can? We love you, we'll miss you, but you almost killed us. We wake up on a coach in Williamsburg, or D.C. or maybe San Francisco. Our friends are busy making coffee before their first day at their new jobs at [fill in the blank: consulting firm, law school, TFA or babysitting]. I guess it's time to go to work. Be good, kids don't do anything we wouldn't do.
XoXo,The Drunkest Girls.
