My FIJI Rush Experience

Let me tell you the tragic tale of how I rushed the fruitiest fraternity on campus—FIJI—a brotherhood so moist with homoerotic energy it made Magic Mike look like Little House on the Prairie. I thought FIJI stood for something classy, maybe “Phi Gamma Delta” or even “Frat In Joyful Integrity.” Turns out it stood for Fellas Initiating Juicy Intimacy.
The first few days were chill: a few push-ups, some light hazing, the usual “chug this mystery fluid and call me Daddy.” But then came Hell Night, or as the brothers called it, Creamsgiving.
They shoved us in an upstairs room. There was soft jazz playing. And the air… the air was thick with whipped cream and secrets.
We were lined up, shirtless, facing a folding table with ten cans of Reddi-Wip and one lone tub of Vaseline. Then came the instruction: Each pledge will recite the Greek alphabet from Alpha to Omega, while licking whipped cream off the buttocks of the pledge in front of him. If you mess up, you start over… deeper.
At first, I thought they were joking. I laughed. That was mistake number one. The Whipmaster—yes, that was a real position—looked me dead in the eyes and said, “This is sacred, bro.”
The guy in front of me had “Sigma” written in whipped cream across both cheeks. He was shaking. Either from nerves or anticipation—I didn’t ask. I got as far as “Zeta” before I cracked. I couldn’t do it. I tapped out. I said, “Respectfully, I’m not licking another man’s frosted ass for brotherhood.”
Dead silence. One brother dropped his vape. Another started crying. And just like that, I was balled—kicked out of FIJI with nothing but a sticky shirt and a story that haunts me every time I walk past Pots.