LOOFAHED

I've hinted. I've beckoned. I've teased. Most importantly, I've also asked permission to tell you finally, after much anticipation, The Loofah Story.

Stories like this are why sororities have historians. These are the things they should write down, paying attention to every detail so that tales like this one live on forever. It makes me so sad to think that recruitment went by last month and no one told this story for old times' sake while the girls popped frozen grapes in between parties.

So, the duty falls on my shoulders. It is a brunt I will bear.

Part of living on "the hall" is that you have a roommate and/or suitemates. In some cases, you get to pick and in other cases, you don't. It's just mathematics. Such was the case when the Plaintiff* found herself with great suitemates but no roommate, hence she agreed to live with the Defendant.

Now, me being innocent in my ways and living on a different floor altogether, I was oblivious to what was apparently a well-worn path from the football locker room to the Defendant's bed. But I have it from multiple sources, including from the Plaintiff herself, that many a man spent the night under the zebra-patterned covers (perhaps the only thing the Defendant enjoyed more than the offensive line was animal print).

So, as the housing handbook and basic ethics would suggest, Plaintiff asked Defendant to ix-nay the overnight ompany-cay. This was the final dollop of icing on what was a very, very frosty cake/living situation, at least we assume (hopefully that request was not all it took for the following series of events to transpire, but previous altercations were never formally documented so we may never know).

Maybe she was brushing her teeth.
Maybe she was washing her hands.
Maybe she just had to use the restroom.

Regardless of the occasion, imagine the horror which fell upon our Plaintiff, upon whence she walked into the bathroom to find this:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen - Defendant Shat on Plaintiff's Loofah.

Seething with outrage, the Plaintiff placed the evidence (Exhibit A) into a ziploc bag and sealed it. She marched down the hall, on fire with the anger of a thousand gods. She arrived at the door of the Sorority Standards Chair* and pounded on it angrily.

"SHE SHAT ON MY LOOFAH!" Plaintiff exclaimed with fury, prompting neighboring doors to crack open so curious minds could observe what sounded like history in the making.

After brief counsel, it was determined that nowhere in the Sorority Code of Morals (or the 15th Psalm, either one) did it say Defendant could be punished for such a crime. Unless she did it while dancing on a cooler or drinking beer from a can, Plaintiff was (no pun intended) S.O.L. While the housing board might have more authority to lay down the law, there was nothing the sorority could do.

"Sorry," said Sorority Standards Chair, with a shrug of her shoulders.

"EVERYONE IS SORRY!!!!!" shouted Plaintiff as she retreated back to the scene of the crime.

What happened next, I do not know. Does it really matter? The story ends there - she pooped on her loofah. I just can't imagine being so angry at someone that the best revenge I could think of involved defecating on your personal property. Eventually, Defendant moved out and quit the sorority as well (or it quit her, however you choose to look at it). One thing is for sure: Defendant might be long gone, but her story lives on forever.

So what is the moral of the story? Even the best parties have a pooper. And if her older sister is already at the party, odds are she'll be invited to join, too.

*Denotes a regular reader of this blog.