shirtless jocks

“How’s it going, boys? You two look like you could use a cold one,” said the shirtless meathead from the lawn of BΩΔ House. He had a cooler out in the open, loaded with Coors. He reached for two cans.

“Thanks, but we’re on our way to our own pledging ceremony. ΦME,” replied your fellow rushee, Jeff.

“Phi-Me? You guys are the ones that are all science majors and engineers, right?” the meathead stood up with a beer in each hand.

“Yeah, I’m civil, he’s nuclear.”

“Huhuh, no one in our frat’s that smart. We’re the swolest frat, tho. But really…” the meathead said as he walked towards you…

“… You guys seem way too hot in those jackets.” He was staring into your eyes and you couldn’t look away.

“Have a cold one.”

One or four or twelve beers later, in the basement of BΩΔ House, you and Jeff signed pledges to BΩΔ. And began your new lives of dumbing down, jocking up, and getting swole as fuck.

🍖😲🍖😲🍖😲🍖😲

It was a stupid dare, and you were a dumbass to go through with it…

A new tattoo removal clinic opened over the summer, and you guys were curious about it, even though no one in the group had any tats. So Jake, your obscenely wealthy roommate, convinced you to get some ink on your forehead, and keep it there for two weeks until you started getting laser treatments to get rid of it.

Jake would pay for the tattoo, and then for the removal. And if you went about your college life without covering up the tat or holing up in your room while you had it, you could choose any tattoo that would stay on Jake’s ass until graduation. Sure, you were in for a lot of pain, and the whole plan sounded like something straight out of Jackass, but college is the time to do stupid shit, and maybe these shenanigans could get you famous on Youtube or something.

While you sat in the chair, Jake showed the tattoo artist something from his phone. After a few hours wincing through the pain, you were handed a mirror and told to open your eyes. A meat emoji? You were surprised, but relieved that it wasn’t something obscene or embarassing.

The first few days, it unnerved you how everyone’s attention went straight to your forehead. You had to get used to telling everyone that yes, it’s a meat emoji, yes, it’s real. No, you weren’t that drunk when you got it. People started treating you different, too. In your classes, no one took you or what you had to say seriously.

Same thing in the quad: students tabling for clubs and causes might’ve chatted with you about the tattoo, but never gave you their spiel or their fliers. It was like they all assumed you were a dumbass who wouldn’t be interested in stuff like lit-zines, astronomy, or the environment, even though you were. Interested, that is. Not a dumbass. But if they’re all gonna be stuck-up pretentious assholes who think they’re so smart, did you really need to be in their org?

Good thing the rugby club captain was so cool to you, though. He said your tattoo showed you were the right kinda crazy he’d need in a rugby player. And he actually had been talking with Jake, who had played in prep school and was thinking about joining too.

Before you knew it you were showing up for practices and workouts, learning the basics, and bonding with the team and Jake. One day Jake called you MEATHEAD while poking your forehead, and the name stuck. That became the only thing the team called you, and even though it was the third week that you had the meat tat, you decided to put off removing it until the season was over.

Of course, now that you were known as MEATHEAD and were even getting a jersey with the nickname, you had to look the part. Meatheads need to be meaty, brah. With Jake as your workout partner, you chased gains 6 days a week. Jake made sure you had all the best sups and nutrition, too. And he kept calling you MEATHEAD and poking your tat. It made your mind go gooey. Meat on your forehead. Meathead. Nothing but muscle on your mind.

A year into becoming MEATHEAD, you remembered that Jake still had to fulfill his end of the deal, which was to get tatted on his ass. This time, the whole rugby club was there in the shop. You went to use the bathroom but couldn’t get it open. The tattoo artist pushed it open after a minute of you trying to pull.

“Wow, you really are a dumbass MEATHEAD” he said with a snicker.

“Is that supposed to be an insult, bro?” you said, puffing up your beefy chest.

Despite everyone telling you to calm down you couldn’t stop ranting about how you worked for all your muscle and you’re proud of your body and proud to be a MEATHEAD. In fact, you wanted the whole world to know, right then and there. So the plan to tat Jake’s ass was scrapped for a new one, and you sat back into the chair where you were marked with your identity a year ago. You are going to have a steak on your chest, with the words, “MEATHEAD PRIDE.” Because you are proud to be nothing but a dumbass walking slab of beef, with nothing but muscle on the mind.