The Debate Team Deserves a Party!

By Clare Roth

OH HELL YES we gon’ party. (Like it’s our birthdays, gonna sip Barcardi like it’s our—wait, hold up those are the lyrics right? Yes? No? That shit was my jam back at the 7^th grade parties)

As you will see by the end of this debate, the answer is clear that we, the winning Northwestern Debate Team, should have a party.

I’ll break it down for you. We never have anything to celebrate.  When is another opportunity like this gonna come up again? After our fifth consecutive weekend away from anything remotely resembling social interaction? Let’s face it, our lives are the reification of what the nerd protagonists in shitty teen movies worry will occur if they don’t lose their V-cards by graduation. We don’t get life-wins often. Let’s not let it slip away.

And do you know what else?  Guess what I got us? Fuckin’ Peppermint Schnapps! A whole half-fifth of it! Do you know what that means? WE’RE GOING TO GET MARGINALLY TIPSY. And Holmes has got that weird DJ set up with the tiny disco ball and light set. It’ll be just like the frat parties. Conditions are perfect.

Now think of the impacts: touching girls’ butts and yelling uncontrollably. 1. You can (accidently) brush right past them in a party setting. It’s so awesome. 2. We can shout and make sense whatsoever. I mean, that’s pretty much what we do in round anyways… but this time we can say shit like “fuckweasel” and “bitchtits” with NO repercussions.

I rest my case. Peppermint schnapps + a couple of double-X chromosomes in the room + old school Usher and R. Kelly =  bitchin’-est time ever.

Resolved: No.

By Andrew Schneider

Okay, this has gone on long enough, assholes. See this right here? Robert’s Rules of Order, bitches, and I’ve got the chair. Now what’s this I’ve been hearing about a party? Oh, sure, it’s not every day that you win a national championship, and it’s certainly not every day that you win a national championship for the fourteenth time, but may I remind you all that we did not become national debate champions by going out on weekends! Now cut the crap, get back to Slivka, and work on your arguments! Make me believe that Governor Walker is a fascist!

What’s that, you say? Just a tiny party? An itty-bitty shindig? What could possibly go wrong? Discounting the fact that our last BYOB party was derailed when fifteen kids brought battle-axes, do any of you even know where to get alcohol? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t!

Oh, listen to this, everybody! Charles “knows a guy”, do you? Too bad the chair didn’t recognize your ass, Charlie. But my foot’s about to, so you’ll shut the hell up if you know what’s good for you. (Oh, and strike Charles from the minutes, would you? Thanks, Eric, you’re a lifesaver.)

Oh, ‘fer Christ’s sake, James, not you too! Yes, I know you’re 21, but need I remind you that the last time you got buzzed, you came to practice and presented a stirring, passionate defense of Muammar Gaddafi? Too bad we were debating J. Michael Bailey!

Okay, okay, tell you what; I’ll meet you halfway. Wednesday night, no alcohol, and an Adam Sandler movie. Not enough?!? Fine, Fine, FINE!

I’ll bring the kettle corn too.

What can I say? You make a pretty convincing argument.