Stephen Garcia sits in his dorm, alone except for the tiny, floating Matthew McConaughey on his shoulder.
SG: Iím fucking bored man.
Tiny, Floating Matthew McConaughey: Brah, stop the bitchiní and get to itchiní. If itís too quiet in the church, whoís gonna make some noise if you donít ring some bells, man?
SG: Iím gonna set off the fire extinguisher. Iíve been wanting to do that for weeks.
TFMM: RIGHT ON. Take your shirt off and make it happen. Youíre like a primitive warrior ready to fight in mud with a loincloth naked, and the fire extinguisher....itís like some ancient sabretooth youíve got to own. Just like I punched those dragons in Reign of Fire.
SG: Fuckiní right. Sometimes I can hear it taunting me.
TFMM: It IS taunting you. Canít you hear it now? I can because Iím Toll Housed.
SG: Ring ring, you little red bitch.
TFMM: Youíre a dolphin in a sea of purple freedom, baby YEAH.
Stephen Garcia sets off the fire extinguisher, and goes to get beer.
Three hours later, Steven and TFMM tote a cooler full of beer down the stairs to a doorway of the dorm.
TFMM: Those dragons were real. You know that, right?
SG: Iím just gonna drink this beer right here. Fuck it. I donít care.
TFMM: Fuckin-A, man. No way you should care. What are you doing?
SG: Lettiní my dolphin swim man. No netís catching me, man.
TFMM: (makes flipper noise: ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH)
SG: Should? Will, man. Weíre eating Chinese, tonight, too. Iím calling the Cindy Lee express.
TFMM: First course: Crab Ran-poon.
SG: Second: General Tsoís Dickiní.
TFMM: Nice, brah. Third course: Chicken Chow Mein.
SG: Dude: no effort at all there.
TFMM: No, seriously, Iím London Fogged here. Noodles gotta happen soon.
SG: Good point. Weíll call it in and get it by our fourth course: Dong-olian Beef, applied in hot slices.
TFMM: With extra sauce, you freaky-deaky peacock of love.
SG: (strutting like a peacock:) cccoooooo-CAAAAAWWWWWW!!!!!
TFMM: Show your tail, daddy! Show your fuckiní tail!
University of South Carolina policemen: Son, is that beer?
TFMM: Show your feathers, man. You canít be anything but what the goddess made you baby.
SG: Totally my beer. You want one?
Police: Youíre coming with us, son.
SG: You do what you have to do, man. You canít cuff my soul.
TFMM: Jail! Weíre gonna meet some people tonight, man! The movable feast just added a dish: some outlaw pasta here, man.
SG: Sweet. Letís do this, brah.
Police: Who are you talking to, son?
SG: Maybe you should ask yourself, ďWho arenít I listening to, man?Ē
Police: This way please, son. Youíre drinking underage.
TFMM: I hear the train a-cominí, man! Itís rolliní round the bend!
They pound fists, and TFMM fires up a joint, takes off all his clothes, and begins to play a bongo drum only he can see. Garcia grooves, and earns two points for South Carolina in the Fulmer Cup thanks to his arrest for underage drinking. He's not mad at ya, brah.