I sense a great disturbance in the Force

Greeks don't want no freaks

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There was a certain type that was created especially for DKE.

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The chosen few. Some of the best piss ballooners there ever was.

When I was at LSU, the DKEs were the ones who looked middle aged already. Nice guys though.

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My freshman roommate was a DKE. He scheduled his classes around his favorite soap operas and slept with muddy shoes still on. There was a certain type that was created especially for DKE.

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perfect description.

It’s a trap!!!

Initials AB?

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Initials AB?

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No - not mine or his.

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slept with muddy shoes still on.

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Terrible for your circulation.

Muddy or clean, for the record.

I asked Grok to tell me a crazy DKE story:

### The Great DKE Moonshine Rebellion of 1925 at LSU

In the roaring fall of 1925, with Prohibition clamping down on the nation like a vice, the Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) fraternity at LSU was less a brotherhood and more a band of bootlegging buccaneers, turning their ramshackle house into a speakeasy that would make Al Capone blush. Baton Rouge was dry as a bone, but the DKE boys—sporting slicked-back hair, suspenders, and a devil-may-care swagger—weren’t about to let Uncle Sam’s liquor ban ruin their good time. What unfolded was a moonshine-fueled caper so wild it nearly burned down half the campus and got the chapter suspended for a year.

It all started when the DKE president, a wiry junior named Virgil “Gator” Thibodeaux, caught wind of a Cajun moonshiner out in the Atchafalaya Basin who brewed a hooch so potent it could “make a gator dance the Charleston.” Gator, whose family owned a failing sugar plantation, saw dollar signs and glory. He rallied his brothers—about 30 strong, including a pledge class of 15 fresh-faced farm boys eager to prove themselves—and hatched a plan to turn the DKE house into the bootleg capital of LSU. The pledges were sent on midnight runs, paddling pirogues through swampy bayous to haul back barrels of moonshine stashed in hollow cypress stumps. They dodged gators, skeeters, and the occasional revenue agent, all while lugging 50-gallon drums that sloshed like liquid dynamite.

Back at the house, the brothers converted the basement into a makeshift distillery, with copper stills bubbling like witches’ cauldrons. The air reeked of fermented corn and rebellion. They stored the hooch in everything from pickle jars to old milk cans, hiding them under floorboards or in the walls—anywhere the nosy dean of students wouldn’t look. By October, DKE was slinging moonshine to half the Greek system, charging a dollar a jug and throwing in a free dance lesson for the flappers who showed up to their secret ragtime ragers. The parties were legendary: jazz blaring from a hand-cranked phonograph, couples doing the shimmy on a creaky porch, and pledges serving as human barstools for tipsy coeds. One night, they even bribed a campus groundskeeper to dress as a scarecrow and stand guard, whistling “Dixie” if the cops rolled by.

But the crazy hit its peak during homecoming week. Gator, drunk on his own supply, decided to one-up rival fraternities with a stunt for the ages: a moonshine fountain in the middle of the quad. The plan? Rig a stolen fire hose to a barrel hidden in the DKE attic, snake it through the oak trees, and let it gush during the homecoming parade. Pledges were tasked with the dirty work, climbing trees at 3 a.m. to set up the contraption while dodging night watchmen. Come game day, as the LSU band marched by blaring “Sweetheart of Sigma Chi,” Gator gave the signal. The hose erupted, spraying a glittering arc of 100-proof moonshine over the crowd. Cheerleaders screamed, professors gawked, and half the football team dove in with tin cups, thinking it was a prank with water. One spark from a cigarette, and the whole quad could’ve gone up like a Roman candle.

The chaos didn’t last long. Campus police, tipped off by a teetotaler sorority sister, raided the DKE house that night. They found 20 barrels of moonshine, a still hot enough to fry bacon, and a pledge passed out in a bathtub clutching a jug labeled “Gator Juice.” The brothers tried to pin it on a fictional “swamp bandit,” but the evidence was damning. LSU’s administration, already fed up with DKE’s antics—like the time they “borrowed” a live tiger cub from a traveling circus for a pledge prank—slapped the chapter with a year-long suspension. Gator and two other ringleaders were expelled, though legend has it they started a speakeasy in New Orleans and made a fortune.

The DKE house went dark for 1926, but the story of the Moonshine Rebellion lived on, whispered in dorms and bars. Old-timers swore you could still smell corn liquor in the basement decades later. Crazy? In 1925, DKE didn’t just break the law—they made it dance.

I imagine they will just get Jesuit and St. Paul’s graduates again?