After a couple of party-heavy weeks, we may be the definition of permanently hung over. Team Party Crash craved a night off, fueled by visions of TIVO backups, generic canned soup, a little beer chased with some illegally acquired sleeping pills. Unfortunately, around lunchtime yesterday we got wind of some rush party over at the College Humor loft and, well, we figured our alcoholism isn't going anywhere unless we keep drinking, and frankly, who knows how to binge drink better than fratboys? Beer Pong? Beer BONGS? Ice Luge? A bunch of uber-wealthy internet kids pretending they're still in college? Hello. Apparently they're celebrating some new funding by spending a shitload of money. Awesome. We sent the overachieving Intern Heather, beer bong champion/shutterfly Kate and jailbait videographer Richard Blakeley back to school for a refresher. Enjoy a truly humbling gallery of photos, or speculate on what could possible motivate Kate to post even more. After the jump, Heather deals with her hangover as best as her private Catholic high-school education will allow.

Most people are surprised to find out I didn't go to college. I have a feeling it has nothing to do with my intelligence level and everything to do with my alcohol tolerance levels, and the fact I casually explain my bastardized Australian-Canadian-Southern-Californian accent by saying "Oh, I went to school in Canada". Well, I did. I went to HIGH SCHOOL in Canada so really, it's not that much of a lie ... I also lost my virginity to a University of Alberta computer science major, so that has to count for something, right? As a result, I missed out on the whole "college experience". The bingeing, the date rape, the mountain of student debt, the thankless entry-level job at some internet company that will take forever to bust out of. To quench my curiosity, I decided to forego my evening of sleep to check out this whole "rush" thing. I ran home to Brooklyn, showered, changed, came back to SoHo and walked downtown with what seemed like most of the Gawker office. We descended like vultures upon the College Humor loft. Upon entering, my thoughts were as follows:

a) Holy shit, I thought Denton's apartment was amazing.
b) Holy fuck, I've never seen so many dudes in my life.

Seriously, it was a festival of sausages. With beer. And beer pong. And beer bongs. And sick views and a ... what? A fucking grand piano? Are you fucking KIDDING me? These kids are ridiculous. I managed to shelve my self-loathing, find the bar, grab my notebook, and start talking to people. I'm not that good at this part without Kate. She's the opener, I'm the closer. Actually, no, she's both of those things, but somewhere in the middle I make an inappropriate/embarrassing comment, and then she cleans up my mess. Kate's not here, she's stuck in a cab uptown. I finish that beer and start another one and realize a few more things:

a) Hey, I actually know a lot of people here.
b) Most Some of the girls that are here who aren't my friends are surprisingly bland-looking.
c) Jesus CHRIST, there are a lot of dudes here, a lot of whom are surprisingly attractive.

You'd think that those hoochy girls you hear about who hang out at clubs in Murray Hill and in Chelsea would be all over this shit. Before I got here, I was ready to blend in to the wall with my beige pants, unwilling to deal with the hoards of IJCs getting naked and dancing on couches but no-o-o-o-o-o-o, there are maybe seven guys for every girl here and given that equation, my chances are AWESOME, right?

Then I remember I'm here to "work", not pick up guys. So, in true Heather fashion, I put on my invisible self-cockblocking armor, locate the recently-arrived Kate, and talk to some fucking people. I have no idea what the party was for, something about a book or some funding these kids got because clearly, they need more fucking money. These guys are B-R-O-K-E.

At some point, Richard's battery dies, and Kate puts down her camera long enough for us to lose at beer pong. She's not shooting photos anymore, she's doing ice luge and beer bongs. I make Ben Lerer from Thrillist buy me pretzels, which I don't eat. The College Humor boys are pouring beer all over themselves and each other. Someone is drawing on someone else's face. And I am, well, drunk. My pool of friends thin out little by little, until we're the only ones left. The boys that live there are changing, at the fridge, drinking juice straight out of the bottle. 11 p.m. has somehow became 2 a.m. and we are THOSE FUCKING PEOPLE. We leave, amusing our cab driver all the way up to the UES because clearly, we are too drunk to function. Or talk.

This morning, I woke up and cried for what I think I've missed out on by not going to college — perhaps the best parties, the worst drunk hookups, the nonexistence of hangovers. Maybe the tears were for the fact that I'd woken up in my underwear, next to Kate, both of us wearing matching College Humor Rush 2007 t-shirts, but most likely they were because my head, it fucking hurts.

PS: Nick, who wrote such dirty things in my notebook: call me. For serious.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.

College Humor Rush 2007 [Photos]