The Kegger

**This story contains profanity, sexual innuendo, debauchery, and leftist perspective**

“Bro, that’s Jayson Arnold!”

“Who?”

The two stood at one of the three kegs. Bob Smith had assumed control of the tap even though it wasn’t their party. Nobody yet seemed to mind, so long as it was a good pour.

“Jayson Arnold!”

“The ‘who?’ implied I don’t know who Jayson Arnold is.”

“You don’t know who Jayson Arnold is?”

John Williams surveyed the room, looking past the one called Jayson Arnold at the line that was beginning to form at the door. The rugby team’s captain, a hygienically-questionable prop nicknamed Swamp, now manned a stool and was checking ID’s. (Responsible, one might think, though the team was already on probation for “Behavior Suggesting Moral Looseness” (Article III.iv.e. in the college’s handbook) so the bouncer-look was merely a prophylactic.)

“Good thing we got here when we did. They’re checking ID’s at the door.” John looked over at Bob. “You gonna tell me who Jayson Arnold is?”

But Bob was now filling a blue plastic party cup for a cute blonde in stunningly short velvet fleece shorts with Juicy written across her too-voluptuous ass, and coincidentally, Bob was wearing a stunningly cringy mesh snapback baseball cap with I Love Juicy Butts spoken by a smiling sun. This provided a very convenient segue for Bob, who ignored John’s question.

“Seems we have something in common,” he said to the cute girl as he expertly tilted back her cup to avoid a foamy head.

“What’s that?” she asked politely, but only because she wanted her beer.

“Our accessories.” He pointed to his hat and smiled with a wink. He deliberately handed her the full, foamless beer in hopes of some sexy, come hither response in the delay, and topped it off with, “Hope you don’t like a foamy head.”

Juicy took the beer carefully, briefly contemplating throwing it on this lech but thinking twice about abusing the alcohol. Exercising terrific restraint, all she said was creeper and flirtingly sashayed towards the ruggers, who would soon be looking for both a Rugby Queen and a Spoons Champion.

“Dude, that was so cringe,” said John.

“A girl knows what she wants,” replied Bob. “We’ll meet again.”

****

“I like your shirt, mate.”

John Williams was wearing his KMA DJT I’m a Naturalized Beaner shirt with a pinto bean in a sombrero happily dancing with his maracas. John’s parents had legally moved to the United States from Guatemala when John was six, twelve years ago, not “for a better life” (though they weren’t in pursuit of worse) but because his father was recruited by Cargill, Inc. for his genius in agro exporting. John Williams, obviously, was a moniker; his birth name was Esly Lopez, though he’d assumed a “new identity” in 2017 when his middle school classmates began chanting “Build that Wall!” when Esly was called upon to solve a quadratic equation, or when he was asked what kind of milk he wanted, white or chocolate.

“I don’t think Beaners drink white milk,” Carter had giggled behind him. Esly Lopez gave Carter a practiced karate chop to the throat, and though the naturalized lunch ladies applauded, Esly was sent home for ten days.

The irony of wearing the shirt to the party was not lost on John Williams, nee Esly Lopez, though tonight he was feeling particularly saucy and full of internal rage at the current administration, the immigration detention center in the Everglades, and Laura Loomer’s public declaration that “Alligator Lives Matter.” John knew the shirt was probably not a great way to make friends, which he needed (Bob Smith, nee Bob Smith, being a Grade-A fuckhead but was John’s dormie so there’s that), and he knew that rugby parties tended to verge on the “morally loose” side and the shirt might be an invitation, and he also knew that this deportation shit was getting, like, really real. But tonight he was going to be proud of his heritage and was even beginning to think he’d drop the John Williams shtick.

ICE can kick down his door and deport him, whatever, time to stop living in fear.

Bold words. Might just be the alcohol talking.

Esly looked down at his shirt at the guy’s compliment, hoping it was just that and that he hadn’t made a mistake, being so bold.

“Bro, are you Jayson Arnold?” This was Bob Smith. Everyone was “bro” to him.

Bro looked at Bob’s hat, down to his white tank top that revealed fledgling-gym musculature, and further down to his Hawaiian shorts and lime-green Crocs with socks. He looked back at John, and held out his hand. “I’m Jayson, mate.”

“Esly.” Whether it was the introductory “I like your shirt” line or the alcohol, it didn’t matter: “John Williams” was temporarily on hold for the first time in public since, since whenever. It felt freeing, all clichés aside. He shook the proffered hand.

“Esly? Who’n the fuck is Esly? Ha! Jayson, this is John, and I’m Bob,” interrupted our resident fuckhead, insinuating himself between the two. “Damn, Jayson fucking Arnold. John, any clue who this is? Only one of the most popular entertainers on the planet.” He pried apart their mature greeting and proceeded with some gansta-hand jive that left our entertainer unaccustomedly speechless. “Right up there with Mr. Beast. Am I right though?”

“No, not quite, but the compliment is really flattering.” Jayson Arnold managed to extricate his hand and snapped his fingers to punctuate an end the shadow-puppet shake and hid his hand in his pocket. “You’re too kind, Bob.”

“Are you here filming for a show?” Bob now turned to Esly. “Jayson’s niche is real-time collegiate life.” Bob turned back to Jayson. “Am I right, Jayson? Your niche, right?” Back to Esly: “I am a proud member of his target audience.” To Jayson: “Do I sound like a YouTuber? I would love to be part of whatever it is you’re focusing on, bro. Make me go viral, like that Hawk Tuah girl?” Bob was now shaking and patting and rubbing Jayson’s shoulder as though to see if he were real. “Damn, Jayson Arnold. You got some pipes, bro.” (Feeling his arms.) “It really is you. Here, lemme pour you a beer, bro. Beer for the bro. My bro, Jayson Arnold. I pour the best beer.”

This monologue was dizzying for Esly and Jayson.

Over in the far corner — this was a pretty big house — the ruggers had gathered and were “tuning their voices” by tugging at their larynxes and saying “la la la la” in various pitches, led by Swamp, who had abandoned his post at the door and was standing on a chair. The great many party goers formed a circle around them. It was apparently time for Song, one of several spectacles that converted lore to fact; for this one, indeed, a botched line would result in “shooting the boot,” or even the anal boot depending upon the level of raunch. The songs were typically borrowed from the obscene John Valby (“Dr. Dirty”) and included such family favorites as The S&M Man (from Willy Wonka’s The Candyman Can), Yank my Doodle, and Thank God I’m a Pubic Hair. Bob Smith was now very excited.

“Jayson, bro, I’m gonna go contribute a verse, man, but only if you catch me live. Be sure to catch me live? Especially if I have to shoot the boot? That’ll definitely be a crowd pleaser for The Arnold Show. You got me? You got me, bro?”

“I got you, bro.” Jayson held up his hand-held video camera. “Go be a crowd pleaser.”

****

Esly looked at the expensive piece of equipment in Jayson hand. “That looks pretty expensive.”

“It is, not gonna lie.”

He finished his beer and gave himself another healthy, foamless pour. (There is really no art to it.) He held out the tap for Jayson, though he’d set his full cup on a table and was watching the show. The little Juicy girl was now riding someone’s shoulders. “Show us your titties,” someone yelled. She proudly did just that, screaming “woooo!” like a Girl Gone Wild.

Jayson turned to Esly and finally broke the ice. “So listen, man.” He had to talk a bit louder, closer to his ear, to be heard above the din; Esly was glad for this as, while he did want to make friends, he wasn’t certain of this guy’s…intent, like, why this celeb (according to Bob) was just hanging around this nobody. “I’m curious, and when I saw your shirt I got an idea for a show. You mind giving me some time?”

To be honest, Esly was more a stand-by-the-keg-and-drink guy than a sing-and-drink-from-a-boot sycophant, which was precisely what John was about to do right now: Oooh, ah, shoot the boot; Oooh, ah, shoot the boot! the party goers chanted — the boot being Swamp’s size thirteen Timberland, which had been passed through the crowd for beer (and other, use your imagination) contributions — and John feverishly waved his arms to get Jayson Arnold’s attention for Viral Fame.

“Man, I’ll be happy to talk with you about, whatever, but would you please go and at least pretend to video him? I mean, I’m pretty sure he messed up a verse intentionally, just for air time.”

“Let’s just hold on a sec, see if he’s able to ‘redeem himself’ after the boot. Now that is more film worthy.”

“Redeem himself?”

“Sing another verse. If he messes up, one of the ruggers, probably Sloth because he’s the dirtiest, drops trou, and the beer is poured down his ass crack into the boot. It’s quite lovely.”

****

Bob had indeed chugged an anal boot, which (in his mind) earned him “mad cred” (his words) and after which he paraded about in someone’s jester’s cap and with Sloth’s old and weathered boot as his trophy, and Jayson made certain Bob knew he was getting it all on video. Bob did appear to be the center of attention; the ruggers had included him in Elephant, which was more a slow parade than a game, and which involved removing trou and, reaching between the legs, grasping the male appendage in front of you, as though it were a tail, and your arm were the trunk. Even though Bob had pleaded with Jayson to shoot another video, Jayson had boundaries.

“I’m not going to do it if you don’t film me, bro.”

“Then don’t do it.” (Just, don’t stay here.)

“So look, Esly, my show is gaining pretty significant traction especially among the Zoomers, and after doing a demographic, 2/3 of them will be eligible to vote in the midterms, and close to 80% in the ’28 election. I can start being a huge influencer here.”

Esly just listened, drinking his beer. It was Molson Canadian, a damn good beer for a kegger. Going to school close to the border had its benefits.

“I have deliberately avoided asking the ‘who will you vote for’ question, a) because I do not — yet — want to directly talk politics because it is so slippery; but more, b) because it doesn’t matter: the content is the same for everyone, right or left. I am a mid-range YouTuber with over one-hundred thousand subscribers and millions of viewers, not nearly a Mr. Beast, if you even know who that is, but still a prominent voice. Bob is correct: my content is broad, from college parties to scandals to legalities, and I have found a unique niche among Gen Z. It’s time now, though, to exercise my privilege and to take a subtle turn to the persecuted and increasingly marginalized. That’s you,” and he pointed at Esly’s t-shirt. “Given the times, I might think your name is really John Williams and you purposefully introduced yourself as Latino, and you purposefully wore the shirt, just to be an asshole, like our vice president calling a senator ‘Jose’.’ But your complexion and, please forgive me here, your height, would say otherwise.”

Jayson paused, allowing this introduction to sink in, and Bob came over wearing only, now, his white tank-top and Crocs with socks. He was wasted, mostly-naked from Elephant, and demonstrably, obnoxiously vibrant. “Jay, bro, they want me to be their new Spoons champion. You’ve gotta get this, man. Not gonna do it if you don’t get this.”

“Bob, are you familiar with Spoons?” Jayson was (finally) drinking his beer. Esly topped him off.

“Just what they told me, bro, that I face some other dude, and he bows his head, and I hit him on the back of the head with a spoon.”

“But you hold that spoon in your mouth, right? It’s all neck action, ‘bro,’ like this,” and Jayson pantomimed the proper Spoons technique. “And, the kicker: he gets to hit you back. You think you got what it takes? I’ll definitely get you some brief international fame, but you can’t let me down.”

“Oh, so sweet, bro. I’ll make you proud.” He gave Jayson an unwelcome, sloppy hug.

“But, Bob? Big guy? Please put your shorts back on.”

****

“You know anything about rugby, Esly? You’d make a great hooker.”

“I’ve been called many things; a ‘hooker’ has never been one of them,” Esly said, laughing. “A bit…well, short, as you pointed out, doncha think?”

“See that guy over there?” Jayson pointed with his plastic cup to a White stocky guy. “That’s Barney Rubble, their hooker. Same exact build as you, only shorter. Tough game but fun, and great guys outside of this depravity. At least, they used to be. That Swamp guy was a freshman when I was a senior. He was just Ted back then. I don’t know; think about it.” The cute blonde with the Juicy butt had been crowned Rugby Queen. Nugget had her flung over his broad shoulder like a sack of beer-drenched meal; her Dollar Store tiara dangled from strands of knotted hair.

“Anyhow, about you. Tell me about you.” And, Esly did, freely: with the loquacity the beer provided, he told Jayson in greater detail what you already know, throwing in choice quotes that Jayson actually wrote in a pocket notebook, “I never was frightened until hate became normalized,” “my silence would equate with acceptance or complicity,” and “it’s a rough time being attracted to intelligence right now” being three eyebrow raisers.

“Damn, bro. That’s some deep shit right there.”

“Please don’t call me bro.”

Jayson laughed, and the two tapped their nearing-empty plastic cups. “Time to fill ‘em up, maestro. I feel really, really good about where this has the potential to go. Are you okay with being a part of its inception?”

“I mean, I guess? Will it be just me?”

“You, video I get of you responsibly interacting at this party, which I need to get on given the hour, and a talk in my studio maybe Monday or Tuesday? I need this to air really soon.”

“And it’ll be, like, mega viral?”

“Here, let me show you something.” Jayson went to the Arnold Show on his phone and pulled up his recent ten-minute episode, captioned The Things They Do For Love, posted only seven hours ago but with already 53k likes and who knows how many comments. “And this was about hedgehogs, Esly. Fucking hedgehogs.”

“Oi, Arnold!” Walrus was calling from across the room. “Gilbert says you’re to come video him, mate. The only way he’ll do Spoons is if you put him on your fucking show.”

“Gilbert?” Esly asked Jayson.

“Guess they’ve given our boy a nickname. C’mon, Esly, I’ll get some video of him, and of you and your fantastic shirt telling the president to kiss your ass, but without Gilbert and the criminality you’re about to witness. Preserve your integrity. Just stand apart and cheer when everyone else does. Or, don’t. Whatever, just look interested.”

“It’s just spoons, Jayson. What harm can a spoon do?”

****

So there they were, sitting across from each other at a sturdy wooden table, Gilbert versus a fly-half named Sparky. Behind Gilbert was Juicy, Rugby Queen, massaging his shoulders and whispering wanton words into his ear. Gilbert, full of arousal and excitement over Jayson’s rolling camera in front of him, was the first to go: with handle in mouth, he struck with full force the bowed head of Sparky. Sparky made like it was excruciating, standing up and announcing “fuck this, the guy’s too good!” and massaging his crown.

Cheers all around for Gilbert! Encouragement for Sparky!

Gilbert now bowed his head and closed his eyes, preparing for the return fire. But unbeknownst to our resident fuckhead, lurking behind Juicy was Swamp with a sturdy, industrial-strength metallic slotted spoon. Sha-WAP went the spoon, into the crowd melted Swamp, and up looked Gilbert, astonished, at his nemesis across the table, rinky-dink soup spoon still in teeth’s grip. The crowd hushed, Juicy whispered are you okay, baby? and Gilbert, on the verge of not knowing who he was anymore, shook his fist in the air.

“Gladiators!” he shouted. And everyone cheered him on, “Gil-BERT, Gil-BERT! Gil-BERT!”

Even Esly, watching the hazing of his dormie, was chanting, quietly sending a message through his shirt that millions would soon see.

Back-and-forth went the volley, Sparky getting quite the lumping, it would appear through his pained theatrics; Gilbert beginning to bleed, as indicated through the trickle down his temple, but still maintaining his Semper Fi mentality, oorah!; back and forth, four times now, Juicy now rubbing his nethers, the serious Emeril spoon having been switched out with a frying pan, still our Spoons Champion was oblivious.

And oblivious Bob Smith would remain, from the moment the shovel cracked his occipital and his frontal bone connected with the sturdy wooden table, creating an immediate cerebellar contusion that would shackle him in a persistent vegetative state.

“Arnold, CAMERA. NOW!” demanded Swamp.

And Esly was, ironically, relieved. and that was not the beer talking.