Five months ago, when I moved into a beach house with three close girlfriends, I was sure the next year would be one big party. We gave our new home a name (“the Coors Light Sorority Beach House”) and stocked its fridge with as many silver bullets as would fit. We even created “House Rules,” each worded in a way the legendary Kenny Powers would appreciate: “Rule #68: If you bring sand into the house, you’re fucking out,” “Rule #84: If you drink Bud in the house, you’re fucking out,” “Rule #99: If you don’t look sexy while you puke, you’re fucking out.” And of course, the final and most important rule: “If you get pregnant, you’re fucking out.”
It didn’t take long for us to develop a name for ourselves at our beach. Four bikini-wearing Coors Light Girls and two dogs living in one small house apparently sparks people’s interest. We learned this when we first walked into a neighborhood bar and the bartender’s first words were “*Gasp* Are you the bunnies?? Everyone has been talking about you girls.”
So armed with our new nickname, the “bunnies,” we partied the rest of the summer away. But who would’ve guessed that, as the summer cottages began to empty out and the ocean breeze turned from refreshing to harsh, one of the bunnies would break the biggest Coors Light Sorority Beach House rule??
Okay, to the general public, maybe it’s not that shocking that a reckless, sex-crazed party girl got knocked up… but to me, it came as a huge surprise.
The “House Rules” sign still hangs on our porch, blowing in the cold Autumn winds, but with one new adjustment: The final rule is crossed out in black ink.
How very nice of you to allow her to stay. If it was I living with three "bunnies", that knocked up chic would have been sleeping on the sand. Pregnant chicks cramp my style.
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