Listen up, betches. I’m Stefon. Is that my real name? Absolutely not. But the witness protection people say I can’t go by my real name anymore. Don’t ask questions. Got it? Good.
Don’t get me wrong, being in a fraternity was uhMAZING. Fraternities are much nicer, friendlier places than that haggard bitch Nancy Grace would have you believe. I mean, all the guys wear pastels, nice shirts, short shorts, and sensible shoes. It’s like guys finally figured out the secret to manhood–if you dress nicely and take two seconds to care about your appearance, WOMEN WILL SLEEP WITH YOU. Rocket science, right?
For me, once my brothers found out I was the only person in our house who could talk to girls, I was golden. Legit, I had low-fat macchiatos with half of Panhel every damn day. If I liked vagina, I’d be rolling in it. So who do you think got them all these mixers? ME. And every time we had a mixer, naturally, we had the best decorations and themes. All me, thank you very much.
I think my talents were wasted in the frat castle, though, and the one true place for me is the pristine, perfect, pastelled, and pinteresting world known as sorority life. I think I should have definitely been in a sorority, so here’s my formal, 100 percent legiterally legit application for a retroactive bid to the sorority of my dreams.
1. Crafting: I’m, like, the freaking Carmelo Anthony of crafting–I’m an all-star with the shittiest team of lazy, effing slobs backing me up. (Yes, I know sports, you ignorant morons. Try to hold back your shock.) You name it, I was on top of it: mixer themes, date functions, philanthropy shirts, best Homecoming float three years running. Three-peat, bitches. Imagine the things I could do if I had an actual team of sassy, crafty bitches behind me. Together, we could change the effing school’s colors or redesign their janky football uniforms. I’m thinking something with chiffon?
2. Boys: Who better to give advice on men than an actual, real life man? I’m a real boy! Pinocchio’s got nothing on me. I’ve already warned the TSM world about the evils of frat guys, so why not have me in real life to talk about your boy troubles? I’ll always say something sassy, guaranteed, like, “Ugh, sister, that boy is trouble with a capital T,” or “Girl, there’s plenty of other cock in the sea, let’s go bag you a great white whale.” We’ll follow our chat with a Chipotle, Oreo, and fro-yo binge, and, of course, we’ll hit the elliptical right after that. No boy’s looking for cottage cheese, nah’mean? We’ll be up in the gym just working on our fitness, he’s my witness.
3. Spoiling My Little: Seriously, this is easily half the reason I want to be in a sorority. When I finished pledging, my big gave me a warm beer and a tattered fraternity shirt WITH ONE OF THE LETTERS MISSING. And it smelled like ass. It was awful. He couldn’t even be bothered to order a new one for me. (Before you call me a snob, his parents manage a hedge fund and own at least one sports team in the northeastern United States. Don’t you judge me.) I tried proposing a big-little reveal in my fraternity, but I got shot down, because, frankly, nobody gave a shit. My little didn’t seem to appreciate the baskets I made him, either. I think he was embarrassed. Maybe, in retrospect, that’s why he dropped, but fuck me for crocheting the kid a monogrammed pillowcase with his initials and our letters on it, right? Fuck me for knitting that scarf, too. What a waste of yarn. Future sorority little, I would spoil the SHIT out of you.
4. Recruitment: I know that rush is a drag for the sisters, but shit, what could be more fun than clapping, cheering, singing, and meeting girls who we can later call bitches and trash behind their backs when they choose another house. Grotsky bitches, you get what you deserve. I was the captain of my high school’s cheer squad for two years, won most spirited, and ran my high school’s all-male barbershop group, “The New Directions,” so if it’s spirited singing, clapping, and carefully mapped out choreo you want, I’m your guy. And this bitch don’t stop. This bitch DO. NOT. STOP. I will keep going and going and going like the Energizer Bunny on crack. Speaking of which…
5. Parties: I am a blast in a motherfucking glass. I get up, dress up, show up, and never give up. I’ll roll up looking fierce as fuck, clearly LIVING for whatever theme we choose. I’ll start mixing Skinnygirl margs and mojitos, and I will literally dance my fucking ass off. Seriously, I burn about 750 calories a party just from dancing. I do more than break even with my alcohol consumption, I work off more than I drink. This is great, because I am literally always down for late night Jimmy John’s. There’s nothing like sobbing into a Beach Club because I’m way too drunk and coming down from a major dance-induced adrenaline rush. But I’m classy, too–I never dress trashy (unless the moment calls for it, naturally), I would never throw up in public, and I would only tear out a betch’s weave if she got on my last damn nerve, know what I’m saying? Or if she came at one of my sisters. Ain’t nobody fucking with MY clique.
So what do you think, ladies of TSM? I throw myself at your perfectly manicured feet, on the mercy of this court of ferocity, sass, and sex appeal. Is there any place in the hallowed halls of your sorority houses and in the loving arms of your sisterhoods for Stefon? You let this bitch know. You bring the letters, I’ll bring the Fierce.