Princeton eating clubs under siege

Of the big three Ivies—Harvard, Princeton, and Yale—Yale is the only one without exclusive finals clubs or eating clubs. At Princeton, there are 11 eating clubs, five of which are selective, or "bicker" clubs. (And in case you were wondering, the word "bicker" is eating club-speak for rush. However, you can't call it a rush, at least at Princeton. We at Yale call it a rush, because it is a rush. We wonder what these kids do when they "bicker." We don't have the slightest idea. Nor do we care to find out.)

What we—and all those Princetonians—do know is that eating clubs are usually the only nightlife in town if you don't feel like hanging out with Thunderball Joe at the only bar near campus, the Ivy Inn, which somehow manages to be more South Jersey than Princeton University. At 3 p.m., we stopped there for a piss and found a swarm of 50-year-old drunks shouting about angel dust and NASCAR.

Anyway, the wannabes (mostly from Princeton) who desperately try to get into eating club parties become victims of a perpetual cycle of exclusivity, as the members make up for the humiliation endured during their bicker by turning entrance into a Studio 54-style ordeal.

.Guests are hand-selected from the masses in front of the eating clubs—if you're lucky, you can get your hands on a pass. If you aren't so lucky, you better hope you scored some booze earlier in the day, because if you don't get in, you don't drink. This cold reality—and the fact that New Haven has Booty Cam—were decisive elements in our search for higher education. Exclusive is the last thing you'd call Yale parties, where even Country Ray has been known to make appearances.

Granted, Yale has its tombs. But what do you expect? Our nation's leaders need to learn how to run the country somewhere. Maybe if Princeton's Cap and Gown had succeeded in getting Bill Bradley into office, Princeton would have the right to keep their Sam Adams-filled crystal glasses to themselves. But today, Bradley is taking jumpers in his driveway, and George W. Bush, DC '68, is in the White House. Eating clubs have about as much right to be exclusive as the fine state of New Jersey has to charge $6 to cross the George Washington Bridge.

COURTESY THE YALE PARTY BUMRUSHERS Much cleaner than the restroom at the Ivy Inn.

That's where we come in. The Yale Party Bumrushers. This may be confused with bumrushing a Yale party, but that's an oxymoron—there's no need to bumrush a Yale party. To paraphrase Method Man, "I'm the Yale party bumrusher/ If you don't like a dick up in ya fuck ya." Our inspiration comes from this line and a visit to Princeton two years ago after the Yale-Princeton game. At their meager tailgate, we were subjected to a barrage of orange and black preppiness. After becoming accustomed to Yale tailgates, which have involved such de-baucherous events as two arrests for disorderly operation of a golf cart at this year's Dartmouth game, we were severely disappointed. This disappointment paled in comparison to what we experienced that night. Though we had managed to procure one pass to the esteemed Ivy eating club, the remainder of the bumrushers were left out in the cold. Given this arrogance, it is obvious that Princeton cannot hold a candle to Yale's superior social ambiance, but this is irrelevant. What is important is that the Yale Party Bumrushers ultimately ended up in a Princeton parking lot with five Princeton kegs, wasted off their asses. Such is the ultimate goal of bum-rushing.

You too can be a Yale Party Bumrusher if you follow these simple steps. Always bring your own beer supply. For us it included a vast array of 30-packs, economically priced at under $7.99. If you do this, you're off to a better start than the competition. Second, be prepared to drive a golf cart, as they abound in the backyards of Princeton's eating clubs. If you succeed in piloting one of these vehicles, you will be forever revered as a god by the Yale Party Bumrushers. Third, know your way around the place—we recommend the Ivy Club.

While Ivy is far-and-away the most prestigious, snooty, and exclusive of the eating clubs, it isn't that tough to enjoy the privileges experienced by generations of Princetonians. You have three options: the front door, the back door by the bar, and the service entrance. The first two definitely require a high-profile means of entrance. For the front door, it is necessary to know a member or possess the aforementioned pass. Getting in the back door is slightly easier: walk in you like you own the place. It helps if you can drag along a member of the opposite sex, preferably with grass stains on her ass—tell the guys behind the bar it's just like hitting it on the greens at Winged Foot. Even if you don't know what Winged Foot is, they most certainly will.

That leaves the service entrance, by far the most devious way to gain entrance to the bowels of Ivy. It can also be the most rewarding. The strategy works because Princeton's weak spot lies in its inability to cook, buy food, or wipe their own asses, for that matter. What better way to ruthlessly exploit the country-club atmosphere of a Princeton eating club than by entering under the guise of one of its ubiquitous servants? Follow the driveway to the left of the house until you come to a door in the wooden fence surrounding the backyard. Upon entering the pool table flat yard, you will notice a door to your right, which leads to Ivy's kitchen. Make sure your disguise is in accord with the night's agenda; you don't want to be underdressed for a formal evening. Wear a bulky, delivery-person-like coat that can be removed upon entrance. Be certain to have a substantial piece of bovine flesh to complement your disguise. Once inside, cast off your jacket and set aside the food. When the person who opens the door asks where the delivery guy just went, feign indifference and challenge him to a game of snooker. You are now in, and it is up to you to maintain your presence as a Yale Party Bumrusher.

If your attempts to enter Ivy are hapless, there's more than one game in town. In our opinion, The Cottage Club, located directly to the left of Ivy and to the right of Cap and Gown, has the nicest backyard, but you will never know unless you test your skill. It's straight out of The Great Gatsby, fountain and all. These three, plus the Tower Club and The Tiger Inn, are Princeton's five bicker clubs. The other six choose their members by lottery, and are thus less exclusive and far less rewarding to bumrush. Faced again with the mysterious "bicker" process, we balked. The Yale Party Bumrushers have their limits, and we didn't feel like testing them by finding out. "Bickering" would probably violate a lot of our ethical codes, most likely the ones pertaining to sheep and anal retentiveness.

COURTESY THE YALE PARTY BUMRUSHERS Impersonating the servants makes getting into Ivy's back door easy.

Our finely tuned sense of ethics does not, however, prevent us from taking the hurt to the remainder of the Ivy League. We've got one thing to say to Harvard's finals clubs: watch your backs, and your fronts, because you never know where or under what disguise the YPB will appear next.

Back to A&E...