Fast Times at Morgan State University Part I

So...yall know I didn't go to Morgan. This must be ANOTHER collabo. This here is my dude (No homo), Brian, he was at Morgan during the same time I was at Towson. Man...that Kappa Punch is EVIL. I know.

Fast Times at Morgan State University Part I

A Requiem for College Life in Baltimore

By Brian “My Friends call me B, You can call me Mr.” Cox


Now, of course I heard plenty of stories about the “Black College Experience” and coming from P.G. County entering a city as “unique” as Baltimore, which is unlike any part of Maryland that it might as well be considered apart from the state as a whole, I expected to this to meet my expectations. Like Biggie’s song that I was quite familiar with at the time I was “Dead Wrong.”

Despite the fact that Baltimore was nothing like I expected, the residents of this be-damned city were perplexing enough. Gold Fronts? T-Shirts like Dresses? “Dug” for dog” I thought I would have a long time at Morgan in the cafeteria asking for fries and “a hot dug.”

Other than the fact is was in Baltimore, Morgan circa 2000 was like any other college you could imagine: Packed student center, students lounging around, jumping Greek Life and PLENTY, PLENTY, (did I say PLENTY?) PLENTY of females at an alarming ratio of 11:1. Not as an impressive number as UMES which was about 90 minutes away, but good enough that once you got through the mud ducks, lesbians and feminists, that your chances of getting laid even if you were a lame were pretty good. Not only to mention that Morgan was part of the Baltimore Collegetown Network, which had plenty of colleges close by to scour the females populations there. Life was good.

Like most freshmen in college, I assembled myself with a crew that was part a bigger group of was dubbed simply as “The P.G./D.C. Crew”, this made up of folks who came from the Metro Area of the Nation’s Capital. To all of us, this city was a foreign land and it was up to us to stick together. That meant eating in “The Refec” (the cafeteria) together, chilling on the same spots together and all of us raising hell at the parties when they played go-go music. Inside of this crew was my roommate Kevin, my boys from Bowie, Joe, Bubba, Ricky and D. Creek, T.J., and some Jersey kid name Mike who we adopted into the crew. From the get-go, we all knew the whole spiel about “being in college to get a education” but in the words T.J.: “Fuck that for now, I’m tryna party and fuck wit some bitches!” Words spoken like a true scholar.

Now no one in my crew was really into the whole fraternity thing, but we did hear they threw some of the most off-the-hook parties at Morgan. As 18-year olds, horny and ready-to-munish college students, we wanted more and we all looked out for the first Greek party. Luckily, D. Creek came to O.C., our dorm with a red flyer with a Playboy Bunny symbol on it. It read: “Kappa Frat House Party, 10-Until. $5 all night for fellas…LADIES FREE!” Case closed, We were going.

On Morgan’s campus, it was rumored that Kappas threw the best parties. This was because they were the pretty frat niggas that females loved. They had a huge sweetheart court and plenty of groupies, so the Female-to-Male ratio at their parties was alarming in the favor for fellas. And since a couple of parties, we went to in the first couple of weeks were sausage-fests, we decided to give it a shot.

D. Creek’s cousin was a senior, therefore our gateway to alcohol purchases. The Saturday night of the party, D walked in with a fifth of Barcardi Limon. Niggas were siced and ready to explore frat party foolery. Mike was well off enough to have a car his first year, so him and one of his boys that he met that was from Jersey transported the rest of crew over to “The Kappa House”

Pulling up, with each nigga finishing a cup of Bacardi, should have given us an indication of how the night would turn out, a sight to behold: Scantily clad chicks loose wit alcohol and few drunk niggers! A smile crept across my face.

We all came up with the $5 at the door to the niggas in the red Kappa jackets and shirts with canes. As soon as we exited the foyer into the main party area, we were engulfed in heat, blasting music and the smell of alcohol. We were all astounded at what we saw: A plethora of females with 8, no 9 niggas not including the Kappas. It was heaven.

The Kappas did a party hop for the first 10 minutes we were there and almost like That! They were gone. After that, mayhem ensued. Kevin told us that there was something called Kappa Punch was available in the next room. We didn’t know what was it it, but everyone was drinking it and they seemed pretty fried. We all deliberately poured cups full of this Punch and added a spike of Bacardi. The crew then went back into the room and positioned themselves in point for attack.

By the end of my first cup, the temperature had begun to rise. I looked around the room and saw that Joe, Bubba and D were already pinned against the wall with three chicks freaking out of control. We all did the house party thing back home, this was even better than that.

Throughout the night, we all traveled back to punch bowl, including D pouring the rest of the Bacardi into it. An hour in, three cups and 6 dances later, alcohol had begun to envelope my mind, body and almost my soul and I begin to become quite belligerent and drunk. Instead of easing up behind females, I now grabbed them from behind and groped them profusely. Good thing that they were also intoxicated, so it didn’t matter. Things became fair game. Even Ricky, who was the church boy when he came to Morgan, became parallel to the ground while a female rode him to the music like she had the Holy Ghost. D. Creek was making out wit a chick not far from me and the rest of the crew had plenty of female patrons around them partaking in the environment. Here it was, everything we had wanted and dreamed for. Plenty of drinks, females and party that was a instant success.

Halfway through the night, people started hurling outside and passing out. I remember the body count getting larger the two times I stepped outside wit Kev to smoke a black. We were still going strong and frat house was so packed now you could barely pass by without squeezing in between chicks. The ratio widened with more females entering. At one point, D yelled to me, “Young, they’re STILL COMING!”

By the end of the night, I was 10 cups in, incredibly drunk, and I had 4 phone numbers and physically violated numerous females who cared none the less because of their blood alcohol level. Before you know it, it was 5 A.M. and the let out started. The crew, whoever that was somewhat coherent, started hollering at females with obscenities and vulgarities. The issue now rose about who would drive back to Morgan. Mike was so drunk he was drooling on himself, phucking up whatever rebound with a chick he would have had. So I volunteered to drive back, even though in hindsight I shouldn’t have because my head felt like a cinderblock.

The next morning was trouble. Everyone woke up with hangovers, and Kevin’s morning surprise was vomit rising to his throat that he ran to the bathroom to release. Obviously, Kev told me he saw Ricky passed out on the toilet set with hurl on his shirt. Guess he didn’t make it church. Welcome to college.

Partying at Morgan would become quite an event that we would replay many times over the years. This was only the beginning of drunken parties at clubs and house parties and late night carryout visits to the world famous Stokos and New York Fried Chicken.