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Stephen, what would the Great Eagle Spirit do, man? HE'D DRINK THAT FUCKIN' BEER, THAT'S RIGHT.

Stephen Garcia sits in his dorm, alone except for the tiny, floating Matthew McConaughey on his shoulder.

SG: I’m fucking bored man.

Tiny, Floating Matthew McConaughey: Brah, stop the bitchin’ and get to itchin’. If it’s too quiet in the church, who’s gonna make some noise if you don’t ring some bells, man?

SG: I’m gonna set off the fire extinguisher. I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.

TFMM: RIGHT ON. Take your shirt off and make it happen. You’re like a primitive warrior ready to fight in mud with a loincloth naked, and the fire’s like some ancient sabretooth you’ve got to own. Just like I punched those dragons in Reign of Fire.

SG: Fuckin’ right. Sometimes I can hear it taunting me.

TFMM: It IS taunting you. Can’t you hear it now? I can because I’m Toll Housed.

SG: Ring ring, you little red bitch.

TFMM: You’re 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: I’m just gonna drink this beer right here. Fuck it. I don’t care.

TFMM: Fuckin-A, man. No way you should care. What are you doing?

SG: Lettin’ my dolphin swim man. No net’s catching me, man.

TFMM: (makes flipper noise: ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH ENH)

SG: Should? Will, man. We’re eating Chinese, tonight, too. I’m calling the Cindy Lee express.

TFMM: First course: Crab Ran-poon.

SG: Second: General Tso’s Dickin’.

TFMM: Nice, brah. Third course: Chicken Chow Mein.

SG: Dude: no effort at all there.

TFMM: No, seriously, I’m London Fogged here. Noodles gotta happen soon.

SG: Good point. We’ll 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 fuckin’ tail!

University of South Carolina policemen: Son, is that beer?

TFMM: Show your feathers, man. You can’t be anything but what the goddess made you baby.

SG: Totally my beer. You want one?


Police: You’re coming with us, son.

SG: You do what you have to do, man. You can’t cuff my soul.

TFMM: Jail! We’re gonna meet some people tonight, man! The movable feast just added a dish: some outlaw pasta here, man.

SG: Sweet. Let’s do this, brah.

Police: Who are you talking to, son?

SG: Maybe you should ask yourself, “Who aren’t I listening to, man?”

Police: This way please, son. You’re drinking underage.

TFMM: I hear the train a-comin’, man! It’s rollin’ round the bend!

SG: So.

TFMM: Stoked.

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.