When the frats kill – or destroy – a particularly young one, I post this variant I wrote of Randall Jarrell’s The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.
From my mother’s sleep I fell into State U.
And I drank in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Miles from home, loosed from my parents’ love,
I woke to black vodka and the nightmare brothers.
When I died I was 0.486 booze.
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Don’t read how they destroyed him if you lack a strong stomach.
As with extreme gun enthusiasts, frat killers consider the death or almost-death of teenagers to be a perfectly okay price to pay for their pleasure.
June 8th, 2022 at 3:28PM
The incident is appalling, but I cannot refrain from wondering why the Daily Mail had to refer to the large bottle of vodka as “family-sized”?
June 8th, 2022 at 3:57PM
Louis: Have to admit I missed that. I guess in the context of fentanyl-mad America, something like vodka begins to look wholesome. Like milk.