A Tulip Blooms Triumphant
by L. Burrow
As a student at this very university many years ago, I hearken back to my times with the boys from the Mega Omega fraternity. Never mind for a minute that I am now the distinguished chair of the business department at our dear and benevolent institution. Forget for a second that I hold numerous doctorates in a wide variety of disciplines including intrapersonal ethics, neoconservative philosophy and molecular physics. Disregard that I have authored best-sellers, painted masterpieces, retraced the trade winds of Magellan, fornicated with famous actresses and served six months in the state senate until it came to light that I brokered arms deals with right wing rebels in banana republics. The seats you sit in may bear my name, as well as this auditorium and the adjoining parking garage, but all that is moot without the aid of my frat brothers, namely Steve Tulally, otherwise known as Tulip.
It has been thirty years since we were last together. The year was 1979, it was springtime and Foreigner was alive and well on the FM dial. Hot Blooded was a smash hit, and, as always, the boys and I were smashed as well. The swill flowed like flood waters. But that night in particular, we were in rare form because we were lamenting the loss of our beloved frat house; it was to be repossessed by the university due in part to our own botched act of roguery. Each of us had spent the entire day in reverie, hoping that a plan would advance itself and rectify the situation. We came up with nothing. This being the final evening within the house’s friendly confines, we resolved to get thoroughly polluted and hold a high-stakes arm wrestling tournament.
The first match was between little T.J. Socash and the fondly remembered Tulip. I missed the put down, but it was painfully apparent that Tulip had won. Little T.J., who now heads a major investing firm which boasts an average expense ratio of one percent, never stood a chance, and the loss meant that T.J. would be performing a Cincinnati cakewalk. The penalty was a combination of an atomic wedgie and a full nelson. The offender would don women’s undergarments which were then raised to shoulder height and his arms forcibly tangled in the leg holes. With the transformation complete, the victim would then perform a burlesque dance routine for the members of the house. Some insinuate that this indicates latent homosexuality; however nothing is straighter and narrower than manly amusement involving consensual cross dressing. Tulip threw his arms up in vainglorious triumph and stomped around the lounge looking for a high-five. No one raised their hand to reciprocate.
Tulip had been on the outs with the group because of a prank that we played upon the Dean. It was simple monkeyshines. We snuck into Dean Wainscot’s driveway in the suburbs of town, snapped off the emblem from his prized Mercedes and replaced it with a large prosthetic phallus attached with industrial strength epoxy. We then filled the front seat with inflated prophylactics, the back seat with horse manure and, to top it all off, we placed a fully pregnant and insanely rabid skunk in the trunk. A harmless and anonymous gesture, until Tulip etched ‘Mega Omega Rulez,” into the tangerine paint job on the hood. From that point on, it was inevitable that repercussions were coming.
Tulip’s addendum to our novel antics cost us the house. I think he sensed that we all blamed him, which we did, not only for the self-incrimination that cost us so dearly, but also because he was such a profane fellow. He referred to himself as Daddy and was known to flush a frat brother’s boxer shorts down the toilet and then piss in your sock drawer for good measure. He would stand over your bed while you slept, then emit a high-pitched howl and when you shot up in a state of extreme panic, he would blast you in the eyes with a concoction of lemon juice and cayenne pepper. ‘Crybaby,’ he muttered as you writhed in pain. If he saw you walking across campus unawares, he would sneak up on you and kick you square in the crotch. His sense of humor was ahead of his time.
"Come on, guys," Tulip cried. "Don’t let the Dean win. We can’t give up the house. I have an idea! I’m going to pull off the greatest stunt this school has ever seen."
Tulip stormed off into his room and returned with a bottle of Yukon Jack in one hand and a magic marker in the other.
"Follow me!" he yelled.
We all wandered into the courtyard to witness the ensuing spectacle. Tulip removed his shirt, and across his chest he scribed: ‘Dean Wainscot is dead. Long live the Dean.’ Opening the bottle of hard liquor, he took a long pull, draining nearly half down his throat, and then proceeded to dump the rest over his head. He sat on the grass, crossed his legs, removed a cigarette from his pack and lit it. In an instant, the flames consumed him.
The great educator Horace Mann once said, "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." I urge you, my young students, to become fine citizens by taking time to effect change through extraordinary means. Understand the significance of Tulip’s statement. It was both an effigy burning and an efficacious act of civil disobedience. Two weeks later, the Dean resigned amidst a storm of controversy and the boys of Mega Omega kept the house. Without Tulip, I would not be where I am today.
I miss him; he was so bright and warm.
L. Burrow went to college in a one-room schoolhouse in New England. His work has recently appeared in The Big Jewel, Grumble, and here at Dog Oil Press. He has work forthcoming in Ruthless Peoples Magazine, Underground Voices and Struggle.
Mr. Burrow's work can be found in editions 1 (LOVE)and 4 (MAGIC LAS VEGAS) of Ruthless Peoples Magazine, available free of cost at:
http://ruthlesspeoples.com/node/5
Posted by: RPM Editor | 06/04/2009 at 06:15 AM