It was our last night together, so why not!?

Graduation day. The last day of college. The night before was the crazy night; the night we all stayed up, drank our faces off, all the good stuff. I personally passed out for about 45 minutes before we had to make our way to the quad and be seated. It was about 85 degrees in the North Carolina heat, and graduates showed their maturity by throwing up and passing out in their black gowns. After a day like this, one would think we would all take it easy the next night.

Well, that wasn't the case for Dylan.

Dylan was the drunk of our group of friends, the guy you could convince to finish a fifth any night of the week. He wore shorts every day, even in the winter. Freshman year, he tried to smoke 40 cigarettes at once. That same year, he showed up back at the dorm on his birthday having obviously pissed his pants. He claimed he made it outside to piss, but forgot to take his dick out of his shorts. If you thought Dylan was going to take the night of graduation off, you obviously didn't know Dylan.

The night of graduation, our friends Martin, Sandy, and Filipe (commonly known as "Fletch") threw a shitty little party. I stopped by, not really expecting to stay that long, but I knew many of the guys were leaving the next day, so I wanted to say one last goodbye. The basics of any college party were there; some lawn games, a keg, a bathtub full of punch. Some girls showed up and then left, leaving just the core group of our friends with a lot of alcohol to finish.

Wait, was this a challenge? Did we really need to finish all of this booze? Martin seemed to think so.

The beer pong table was set up in the carport outside. I played some games with Dylan, and we won about 5 in a row before he inexplicably disappeared. A few games later, I lost and retired to the couch. Naturally, the next logical step was to get together a bunch of empty beer bottles and throw them at the house. A funny thing about being drunk and tired is that you can do anything you want, but nothing is going to be as entertaining as watching beer bottles smash against brick. Nothing could take me away from my spot. Nothing, that is, except Dylan's retarded drunk ass.

I had heard some commotion behind me at the beer pong table, but it didn't seem out of the ordinary and I was perfectly content staring at the wet brick wall. Then I saw Dylan out of the corner of my eye, walking across the lawn, cigarette in hand, cursing to high heaven. I turned around just in time to see him stop, grit his teeth, and start a full on sprint toward the table. A deafening silence fell over the carport as he approached. No one moved. Some people's eyes shot wide open, others furrowed their brow in curiosity. When he was about 5 feet from the table, he performed the sloppiest, most contorted belly flop I have ever witnessed, right square into the table. The whole thing crashed to the ground, sending recent graduates fleeing from the area. Dylan lay completely still on the concrete, moaning in agony.

During this whole fiasco, Martin was sitting on the couch in the screened-in porch, calmly smoking his cigarette and watching. He may never know why he did it, but he claims that something struck him. There was Dylan, sprawled on the floor with a board of wood over him, on our last night together. He popped up, ran inside, and as though a divine spirit was leading him, headed straight for the kitchen. There, sitting on the counter, was the fire extinguisher. He grabbed it, pushed Fletch out of the way, and got outside just as Dylan arose from his concrete bed. A lot of things were probably going through Dylan's head at that point, but the last thing he ever expected was to stand up, turn around, and take a fire extinguisher to the chest. However, that is exactly what happened.

Now, if you've never seen a fire extinguisher go off before, it is un-fucking believable. It’s like the most powerful super soaker you could buy, only it shoots out white smoke for what seems like an eternity. I still hadn't moved, and my jaw dropped with amazement. People fled from the rising smoke. It took a minute to clear, but out of the smoke stood Dylan, completely covered in white powder. He looked like Bill fucking Cosby in ghost. Martin was doubled over in laughter, himself pretty well covered in dust. I picked up the hose and handed it over to Martin, who proceeded to blast Dylan in the face to remove the dust. Insult to injury, my friend.

Luckily Dylan finds himself in similar situations quite often, and within a minute or two was happy as could be, frolicking around in his new white suit. I left the party, and Martin went inside to get beers. He, Dylan, and their friend Reggie grabbed a couple each, and shotgunned them until they puked. After all, it was our last night of college, and they needed one more puke together as brothers.