By DAVID ZHA
There once was a nerd-bro hipster named Ignatius Tipster. But before he became a nerd-bro hipster, he was just a nerdy hipster.
In high school, he played bass and eroded his vocal cords in a punk band named “Don’t Go.” He dabbled in the Edgecore scene and unabashedly rode the Kinsella-inspired band wagon of the twinkle rock movement. He enjoyed Star Wars graphic tees, Settlers of Catan, discussing cannabis science, old kung-fu movies and spending hours on Wikipedia researching the lives of obscure hip-hop artists.
Iggy loved his band. He loved those long drives to shady venues where he sang about positivity, Dungeons and Dragons and emo girls to vacant rooms populated only by other bands and bitter sound engineers.
But he couldn’t lie to himself. It was all just a way of dealing with his secret, cliché and curious insecurity over being undesirable to certain women — chiefly those of the eight, nine and 10 variety. No slough of gauged girls with sparrow tattoos on their hips could ever fill the black hole Hot Hannah (that dazzling beaut) had left gaping in his chest after she read the love poem he slipped into her locker to the entire sixth grade class.
Eventually, being blue and singing about it just wasn’t enough for Ignatius. Graduating from high school with three kisses, half a dry handjob and two blue balls had left him insecure, worried and dissatisfied.
But if there’s one thing about Iggy, it’s that his inner nerd loves a quest. He understands the consequences of so shallow a goal, but nevertheless makes a solemn vow to enter that fiery Crack of Doom and slip the fateful Ring of Power onto his member — he vows solemnly to bang at least one hot betch before he dies.
College is Iggy’s chance to reinvent himself. He puts down his guitar, cuts his WoW subscription, joins a gym and decides to pledge a fraternity. He joins the Zeta house at a peculiar time in its history:
After a heinous hazing incident involving a mock stage, cross-dressed pledges, public urination and playing R. Kelly music far too loudly on the house lawn, much of the Zeta old guard were either suspended or expelled. This left the brotherhood undermanned, demoralized and in ill repute. Iggy easily infiltrates a house desperate for new members. After an expedited pledging period our geeky punk rocker emerges as the label-transcendent-being we know as Ignatius Tipster, Nerd Bro Hipster.
Now it’s O-Week of the new semester, and the party rages. Iggy is eager to use his new-found title of “Brother” to finally slay the elusive pussycat. His strategy is to exhibit signs of orthodox frattitude, couple it with an alternative style, while suppressing the fact that he’s really just a very confused Nice Guy.
There’s a target in vision. Iggy cools down his angst and prepares to initiate. Brunette. Level 7. Drinking. Probably willing to give verbal consent. Written contract at the ready just in case, he analyzes.
Suddenly, the house door swings open with a bang. A man wearing a Vineyard Vines shirt, lobster shorts, Sperry’s, a backwards Patriots cap and a smug smile struts inside. He throws the two overstuffed duffle bags he’s carrying on the ground and then raises his hands above his head.
“Y’all forgot about Dre!” he shouts victoriously.
The eights, nines and 10s are in hysterics and rush the man. Looks of awe, relief and admiration appear on the faces of the older brothers. Realizing his target is too distracted to notice him, Iggy angrily strides up to the new-comer.
“Hey!” he screams.
The man holds up a finger, telling him to wait. He then proceeds to do a hefty line of cocaine off the breast of his nearest female admirer at a speed Iggy was unaware the human nose possessed. He cracks a beer that is tossed to him and lights a cigarette.
“Yes?”
“You can’t just bust our door in like this, man! Wait outside like everyone else. Who the hell do you think you are?”
The stranger takes a long drag on his smoke before flashing Iggy a grin.
“I’m Fratman.”