Don't mess with the best, cuz the best don't mess

There are two rules to going on a hayride:

1) Don’t expect actual bales of hay.
2) Bring your own keg.

On Friday night, the nerdy Collegian kids ventured out into the real world and took a hayride to the middle of nowhere. Really nowhere. Like, “I’m going to kill you in the woods with a chainsaw” kind of nowhere.

Now, by hayride, I actually mean a tractor pulling a wooden cart, lined with hay pieces. It took us on a five-minute ride to a campsite where banjo-picking music played over the loudspeakers. The campsite was well set up, with three fire pits, plenty of room to roam and burgers that tasted like a juicy piece of heaven.

However, because of the poor weather lately, the site was double booked, and after about two hours of alone-in-the-woods time, we were forced to share our hidden-haven with a group wearing strange letters. I don’t know who exactly they were — I don’t read greek.

Apparently, they didn’t have the same foresight as we did and only brought a few six-packs. Their eyes turned to slits as they eyed our two kegs; they were like animals circling their prey. Though Penn State normally operates on a “the more, the merrier” policy, all rules are different in the wild.

The battle had begun.

We immediately assumed our battle positions. We were on the defense, backs to the kegs, someone on all sides. The intruders began to circle, eyes darting, searching for an opening, a weakness that would lead them to victory.

They wanted our beer.

Some wandered over to our campfire pretending to look for friends.

“Oh, I was just looking for so-and-so”

Or, “Oh wait, this isn’t my group?”

When that didn’t work, some lashed out with incredibly whitty insults.

“You guys are fat and dorks.”

We retorted by calling a white-shirted girl a “cow” and telling a fur-collared guy he stepped right out of “Growing up Gotti.”

Good one.

But in the end, we prevailed. We left with two kegs, no beer lost, no casualties.

Maybe we are dorks — but we’re dorks with beer.