Like most college stereotypes, my recreational life consists of beer, pizza, and occasionally class. I was kicking it at my friend's house down the street from my own apartment when someone got the great idea to get a keg for the night's festivities. Of course, none of us had a whole lot of money, so we had to resort to a Pabst keg. And Pabst has a very distinctive way of making you pay for a night of heavy drinking.

We went ahead and got the keg. We began drinking around 11 PM and did so until about 1 AM when we all were dying of hunger. Living in a small town like we do, there were only two choices: Denny's or Roberto's, a 24-hour burrito shop. Nobody wanted to drive all the way to Dennys, so we all hiked it to the closer and cheaper Roberto's. We scarfed down our food -- I had two large chicken burritos and three taquitos. We returned back to the house, killed the keg with a multitude of different drinking games, and eventually passed out.

When I arose in the morning, still spinning from that last game of King's Cup, I felt a large pain in my side. Being a 290 lb 19-year-old, I thought I might be in for some real medical trouble. I mentioned it to my friends, but they were too hungover to do anything about it. We all stayed laying there in an eerie silence, paying for our fun times last night, and just as my pains got even worse, one of my friends decided it would be funny to tickle the fat kid. Me. Out of nowhere, a little runty 120 lb bastard comes flying at me with a pillow and begins tickling me.

With all the laughing and the constant pain I felt in my side, I began a symphony of large sloppy farts. Everyone knew what my poor boxers were going through and there was no stopping it. I threw the little shithead that was tickling me to the ground and waddled off to the only bathroom in the entire house to assess the damage. There was just one problem: some piece of shit was in there taking a shower.

The pain in my side was getting worse by the minute, and I finally figured out what it was. There were two medical terms for my condition: PSS (Pabst Shit Syndrome) and RBR (Roberto's Burrito Riah). Both combined in me for the panic attack of a lifetime. As the fate of my anus flashed before my eyes, I clenched my soggy underwear in my hand and ran downstairs towards the front door, attempting to run my big ass all the way home and jump into the shower.

I knew the grim truth: there was no way I was going to make it outta there alive. I cleared the remaining seven steps to my door and slammed it open, finding a large green yard debris canister right off to my left. With the quickness of a cheetah, I grabbed the makeshift porta-potty, ripped down my soggy pants, and let it all fly. After a ghoulish 15-minute battle for existence, I pulled off my shit-stained boxers and wiped with what clean space was left on them.

Then, as a move of retaliation, I went back and hung the now completely greenish-yellow boxers across my friend's doorknob. I have never been allowed back inside since.