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Trashcan Punch and Trumpet Players: a night with the Green Brigade

Pigeon writer Alex Hayfield investigates stereotypes at a party thrown by music students.

Before I begin I want to say that I consider myself a friend to all groups of UNT. Having said this, I realize there is a large portion of the student body that I know nothing about. This, my friends, is the tale of the night I almost lost my fucking mind with the low-key party monsters you refer to as "music students."

Most of us UNT students know the Green Brigade as the metaphorical interruption to any sexual encounter in relation to a football game, yet most people don't know her other side. I’ve met the dual personality of sexually repressed music students who can barely masturbate due to sore hands from practicing, and collegiate scholars who can handle their liquor better than professional golfers.

Being totally honest, I really fucking enjoyed the latter.

So the plans of this alcoholic endeavor began after bumping into an old friend who is pretty well known within the Brigade crowd, and his mentioning of a “little party” happening on the approaching friday. Thinking very little of this it slipped my mind until friday afternoon, having finished my poor excuse for a workout, when I suddenly craved shitty beer and a steady string of cigarettes. After a quick phone call, it was on.

PART ONE: A PUNCH IN THE FACE I tried going into this with an open mind but I assumed it was going to be a boring party so I planned on hitting the two 40’s of Old English I’d brought to the party fast, acting like I’d text the people who’s numbers I’d took, and using the term faggot just to make people uncomfortable because I’m totally allowed to use it. But I was so fucking wrong. I walked into some stranger pouring the last few drops of a handle, yes a fucking handle, of Everclear into a clear bucket, then followed by an array of tequila, gin, vodka, rum, gatorade, fruit juice, and colored liquids that didn't have a label. From the point the solo cups started flying into the hands of both experienced and inexperienced drinkers, the night was on its way to a weird and unforgettable occurrence. For the first 30 minutes the party remains within the realm of socially acceptable actions but that’s the boring part. Everyone is pouring into a smallish house filling up largish drinks. Suddenly the next thing I know, I’m almost done with damn near 4 servings of trashcan punch and am talking about the effects of 2pac’s career on modern hip-hop music. And yes, I’m blowing all of it out of my asshole.

PART TWO: ASS GRABBING AND SHOW TUNES Now on this night, I got lucky. And this wasn't “getting fucked in a broom closet” lucky, it was better than that. I stood up from a drinking game I pretended to understand at the precise moment to see the party mentality change from “The movies were right! We can drink and party in college!” to “FUCK YUHHH. LET’S TAKE SHOTS AND GET FUCKEDDDDDDD UPPPPPPPPP!” and it was a glorious moment. Suddenly all the more adventurous party-goers pulled out their musical instruments and started blasting everything from these generic music books and they wouldn't fucking stop. It’s a solid 75 minutes into the party, yelling is acceptable, I emptied a bottle of Old English into me, and I was now being, what could legally be considered, sexually harassed by some skank who, after I asked around, no one know. Oh and the music wouldn't fucking stop. “We stop after the neighbors threaten to call the police,” my former high school friend exclaimed, and I pretended that it sounded like the best choice to do.

PART THREE: FREE CIGARETTES, POT BROWNIES, AND DOG SHIT Now it was at this point in the night, roughly 120-150 minutes in, that I suddenly felt my massive nicotine craving. I felt my pocket tracing the edges of the camel crushes within my literal and metaphorical grasp, but suddenly had an idea. “Does anyone have an extra cigarette?” I sputtered out in a drunken stooper, and right then a poor drunk freshman came up to me and loosely barked out that he was trying to quit and that I can have whats left of his pack of american spirits. I obviously take both the cigarettes and advantage of this awkward looking music performance major. I was not phased by this, and yes it was a shitty thing to do. Slipping through the rapidly deteriorating atmosphere of the party, I was given a browie to which I instantly knew “what was up.” At this point I had a reverse R. Kelly moment to which my body was telling me no, but my mind was basically asking why the fuck not.

I ate the brownie then stepped in what I assume was either a massive dog shit, or a human shit.

Lets not talk about that. I'm trying to forget that.

PART FOUR: SLEEPY TIME AND SOME DRUNK BITCH NEXT TO ME The brownies had kicked in and I was done with all of this shit. I was “major tom-ing” and analyzing everything around me. I couldn't believe what was happening: these people are fucking insane. If everyone needs a release, these crazy-motha-fuckas’ release was loosing there got-damn minds.


  1. these fuckers drank me under the table and I knew it

  2. they piped me full THC and felt like i had crawled out of Bob Marley’s ass hole

  3. some drunk, basic, and shambly ass bitch laying up next to me. Like I'm not the most obvious gay person alive, but I was obviously not interested into that double-wide snatch.

That’s all folks! Moral of the story? Don't underestimate the fucking music students. They know their shit.

Disclaimer: NOT EVERYONE IN THE GREEN BRIGADE DOES THIS. THIS WAS FEW OF THE MANY. I love the musics students here, they just go too hard for me sometimes

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