Who am I? I’ll paint a picture.
Somewhere in the foothills of Vermont, a rusted Miller Lite can sways in a stream, caressed by a magnificent waterfall—that is the work of my genius.
At the highest pinnacle of the Pacific Crest, a handle of Fireball is baked by bright, mountain sun. I’m the virtuoso who placed it there.
Yes, the wilderness is my canvas and half chugged alcohol bottles my brush. And now… I will embark on my most ambitious creation yet.
“Remnants of a College Rager.”
To know my coming masterpiece, you must first know me. My father was a painter, mother an illegal dumper. From their loins, I burst forth to make my mark.
The art world studies my every move. I’ve been called a visionary, a hero, and an asshole who double-fists PBR in the woods all day—just like Van Gogh.
Some of my pieces have even gone for upwards of 5¢ at the bottle and can return.
Not that earthly wealth matters to me.
No, I’m driven by a higher purpose. I tell stories of humanity. Some about a guy getting drunk in the woods. Others about two guys getting drunk in the woods.
However, “College Rager” will be different. It will be sixteen guys getting drunk in the woods.
167 empty cans of Bud Light, three mysterious vomit piles. Two miles into pristine National Forest Land. It will be my magnum opus.
Future generations will look upon “College Rager” the same way we look upon the Sistine Chapel or an old heap of shattered glass.
My inspiration? I’ve always been attracted to classic tales of man vs. nature and squirrel vs. swallowing small pieces of metal. “College Rager” will bring that in spades.
A tour de force of revelry, of waste, of pissed-off hikers.
You know my previous work well. Whenever there’s a single Corona at the edge of a cliff, that’s my piece called “Life at the Precipice.” And when you see an entire 30 rack in a lake—that is one called “Fuck Fish.”
They will pale in comparison to “College Rager.” There will be tall boys in trees, Jager bombs spilled in the soil, and underwear strewn across the earth like a beautiful walkway of filth.
There’s a central question at the core of this piece. I want viewers to gaze upon my work, then look inward and ask themselves, “Why do this?”
For the last six months, I have been training to create “College Rager.” I must have the power of a cougar, the grace of a ballerina, and the empathy of a Shell Oil executive pouring chemicals into a lake.
I’ve scouted locations, studied footage of dump trucks, scattered 60 cans of Natty Light at the summit of Mt. Hood each day.
I am finally ready.
Before dawn breaks, I will begin my journey. With sweat glistening on my brow and several cases of the most lukewarm beer imaginable at my back, I will venture forth to achieve my purpose.
Like the old masters before me, I have spent decades perfecting my craft. No stroke will be out of place, no Bud Light amiss, no vomit pile dried. It will be impeccable.
Waltzing across the forest floor I will set each can as gently as a mother hen. When the golden hour casts its heavenly glow over my creation, I will know I can rest.
Sometimes, I wish I could experience what viewers will feel when they gaze upon my work. The raw emotion, the joy, the pure unbridled disgust.
Yet, like a thief in the night, I must disappear without a trace.
I can’t wait for you to experience it.