We Rule
A Short Story by Jeremy Benjamin
Written using the suggestion "Prejudice"
Originally featured on 03-04-2009
As part of our series "Bursting Into '09"

Tony was drunk. Not just slurring his speech drunk, but, like, putting a pirate head on a medieval knight body drunk. Another shot of Jager and he’ll probably try and connect internal gears to external gears— Tony’s crazy. No, seriously, you should see the shit this dude builds when he’s plastered. I remember this one time, we had a formal with the sisters of Delta Sigma, after things started winding down he took this chick up to his room, thinking he was about to get some action, like a guy would naturally think, but really she just wanted to see his constructions, because she’d like heard about him. My boy Tony’s a virtuoso. And the craziest part? When he had his pants half off—he told me this; Tony doesn’t embellish, Tony tells it like it happens—and she said “What are you doing? No, I didn’t come here for that,” he wasn’t even disappointed. Didn’t flinch. He was honestly ecstatic that this hot chick wanted to see his Legos. You believe that shit? The dork is prouder of his Legos than of his Johnson. That’s why Tony’s my hero.

So anyway, like I was saying, Tony was blitzed. Trashed. Annihilated. Baptized. Bar Mitzvah’d. (I can’t remember why we use terminology of religious rites of passage as metaphors for states of extreme intoxication, but it cracks my shit up to this day—I think it was Ross who started that, you remember Ross, the guy who built the life-sized naked lady sculpture out of Duplos that we featured on the front lawn during Rush Week; man, that was awesome, and the best part is, typical of a frat-house to espouse pornography and all, but it didn’t look like something out of Playboy, it looked more like a Greek statue or something, and Ross never told anyone who it was modeled after, it was like this mysterious secret, took me a whole bottle of Tequila to get him to admit it was made in the likeness of his mother, creepy bastard, but we still love Ross, ‘cause Ross is the man.) Drunk like zombie drunk. Three tits to the wind. Shit faced. Plowed. Yeah, so anyway.

It’s no joke. It’s not just a rumor. Our house really is made entirely out of Lego’s, both stories. It’s not just a façade. T. E. Helschman, the dude who founded Lambda Gamma Omega back in ’85, it was like his Civil Engineering masters thesis project—his emphasis was architecture, I think—he designed it to hold up like a real house, with plumbing and everything. If you demolished the house with a crane and wrecking ball and went inspecting, you wouldn’t find an ounce of concrete anywhere—even the foundation is all Lego’s. I mean, it’s reinforced with rebar and stuff, a steel beam under the bathroom, and we got carpets and a regular porcelain sink, but that’s about it.

Sometimes, if we have the budget, we rent out the machine shop in the Tilly Hall basement and make custom parts out of sheet metal, like if we need to replace a door hinge or something—it’s not like you can walk into Home Depot and find cast aluminum appliances with molded in spikes for Lego’s to attach to. But that’s only if the place is falling apart, like if the roof is about to cave in, otherwise our budget is devoted to replenishing our stock so we can keep building new shit without taking apart old shit. Like those tall, psychedelic barber-shop pole things at the front of the walkway with the anatomically correct gargoyles on top? Some rich alumni came by last spring and gave us a grant, commissioned us to build that, gave us detailed sketches and all, it was like-

Fuck, dude, I can’t keep my mind straight. I was telling you about the night Tony-

Oh, wait, it’s time for the chant: “Lambda Gamma Omega, Lambda Gamma Omega, Lambda Gamma…” [dissolve into “fuck yeah”s, then it gets silent, we sort of huddle, like we’re all converging to murder someone or something, all serious and shit, and once we get in synch, we got rhythm like it’s nobody’s business] “We’re Legomaniacs. We’re Legomaniacs. All you other white-boy greaser sons-of-lawyers corporate-monkeys-walking circle-jerk-conformists sexist homophobic sycophantic pontificating date-rapists are a buncha lame-dicked quacks. We’re Legomaniacs. We’re Legomaniacs. Put your GPA’s back in your pants, when a Lambda’s on the prowl your sorry well-groomed ass don’t stand a chance. We build palaces of plastic from imagination to earn our brotherhood. You ain’t got nothing on us.” Yeah, that’s our official chant.

Tony…shit, I forget.

No, dude, I already told you, you don’t have to be an art major or mechie to pledge. Anyone can pledge. You just have to be mad fucking genius insane with what you build. And if it’s cliché, pirate ships, sci-fi knockoffs, castles, commercial crap…you know how sorority houses have their walls of shame where they post photographs of sisters drunk and being stupid? Our wall of shame is three-dimensional. And if you build something really super lame, and the rest of the brothers vote in agreement, the punishment is you have to go through an entire day of classes wearing The Helmet. I can’t tell you what The Helmet looks like, but trust me, it ain’t comfortable. The guy who came up with The Helmet—Brad—was a sociopath, he built perversions of religious icons, that was his thing. Whatever floats your boat, I guess—I like to create Lego sculptures of food that actually looks lifelike from a distance, like I did this one, if you look at the photograph you’d swear it was a plate of meatloaf with a bite taken out. The Helmet is kind of like a Lego crown of thorns, but with- shut up, I’m not supposed to talk about The Helmet.

Dude, we have the best parties on campus, I swear. We drink rum and just build shit all night. We got tubs of the gears, motors, if you’re into that stuff. We also got a tub devoted to those magnetic spaceshiplike parts that were popular in the early nineties. Anything goes. While the other houses blast excruciating hip-hop music and dance in each other’s puke while rudely attempting to deflower anything with a pulse, we…we create.

Read More By Jeremy Benjamin

COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Archives Archives
Advertise