To end the weak

BY CHRIS STEINKE | MAY 13, 2011 7:20 AM

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It's finally here, the weekend of all weekends. It's time.

You've suffered through three finals; you may or may not have been taking the wrong test in the wrong room for that last one. It's hard to tell. You didn't study. Good thing you're a badass.

It's time to be a beast. Should you go to the bars or a house party? It depends — would you rather wear your Affliction shirt or your tank top? You make a note in your phone to see if they make Affliction tank tops.

(This is a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure column. If you would like to wear your Affliction shirt and head to the bars, continue to paragraph five. If you would rather wear your tank top and go to a house party, jump to paragraph 10.)

(5) The bars. Great choice. One year since the 21-ordinance, you have grown to love all the regulations. There are fewer cops. You've discovered how easy it is to get away with getting in fights now that those pesky police officers aren't concentrated downtown.

You roll into the bar, five dudes deep, and notice a girl look at you maybe (she couldn't have been looking at your buddies, none of them can even bench 250). Game over, she's yours.

Having the cat in the bag, you throw down your debit card at the bar and think about how awesome it is to not need a personality to get laid. You don't think about how much money you spent the last time you did get laid.

Four Miller Lites in, you notice your girl talking to some scrawny-ass kid. You laugh and point with your friends. How does he think he can possibly get with that girl? Look at him. He's wearing a hippie shirt, and his Jordans are dirty! Then, the impossible happens: A scrawny kid heads to the dance floor with good-looking girl.

You follow them to the dance floor once "Teach Me How To Dougie" comes on. After you throw down a few lectures, you grab your girl by the waist. She pushes you away with both hands and says that's her boyfriend dancing with her. You know this can't be true — and even if it were, she still wants you. That much is clear. After you knock off his hat a few times, he gets angry. Perfect. You grab his hat one last time, and, right as he turns around, you land a haymaker on his temple. You turn and walk away, leaving him unconscious on the beer-soaked ground. Jump to paragraph 13.

(10) So you decided to go a house party. Solid choice, though it is a bit riskier since the 21-ordinance. Instead of taking an hour to respond to an assault, they usually take 45 minutes. You also keep in mind that, although you usually have to talk to girls to bring them home from a house party, it might be easier now that you can wear your tank top and get to show off your dope tribal tattoo.

You roll into the house party, five dudes deep, and shove your way to the front of the keg line. After you fill your cup, you see a football player and try to strike up a conversation. You ask him for some lifting advice, he asks you what you're trying to gain from lifting, and you say, "I don't know, I just want to get bigger." The conversation ends, and it pisses you off. "Whatever," you say to yourself. "He's not going anywhere in life."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your buddy getting pushed. You sprint across the room and get right in the middle. Apparently, your buddy grabbed some girl's ass and told her to lose some weight. A solid tactic, you think. Girls love guys that treat them like trash. Mr. Nice Guy over here must not have gotten the memo. You realize this is your chance: If there's one thing that girls love more than a jerk, it's a jerk who beats the crap out of some guy trying to be nice to them. You push him against the wall and get a few punches in before getting kicked out. The housemates don't want the cops showing up to their party. Continue to paragraph 13.

(13) You roll home, five dudes deep, laughing and yelling and waiting for someone to look at you the wrong way. You feel invincible, and you know that the girls who witnessed your night's triumphs will drop their panties on a dime the next time they see you, even though that's never been the case.

After a successful night of assaulting people, you go home and collapse in your own bed while someone else sleeps on the floor of a jail-house for a gram of marijuana. All of your problems are put to rest. You forget about your failing grades, your dwindling bank account, and that other thing you continue to overcompensate for.

Too bad all that testosterone doesn't translate to, well, you know.

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