I don’t get angry very often. In fact, I’ve probably only been angry twice in the last two years. I have a strict policy regarding anger: if it won’t affect me a month from now, it’s not important enough to get angry about.

But I am angry right now. Piping mad, in fact.

You see, on Friday night there was a party at my house. It was really successful. Lots of people came, and for once, none of them were cops. Everything was going completely smoothly, until a little after 1 a.m., when some assholes stole two of our taps. Those taps were expensive. I used them often. I want them back. They were precious to me.

We will find you, and revenge will be had.

Vigilante justice, bitches. Chuck Norris style.

Last week I wrote about “douchebags,” the guys who did this redefined the word. Readers of this column, I call on you to help me in recovering these taps. If you’re reading this, and you have information about the crime that would be useful to me, you may be wondering why exactly you should relay it to me. I can explain why it’s important that you do.

When those ruffians stole the taps from my party, they were actually making an attack on what we know as the “house party.” The house party is the single most sacred and revered institution in America. It’s the only way to party without worrying that the money you gave for your red cup will be going to the Greek God Amphetamine Fund. Indeed, without taps, one cannot have a house party, and without house parties, no one will ever get to relax and enjoy themselves. The people who stole those taps were doing their best to prevent good, hard-working students from getting their drink on. They are good-for-nothing scoundrels, and they want you and me and everyone else in Binghamton to be completely party-free, so we can feel as bad about ourselves as they do about themselves.

They probably smell.

This is what we know: one of them was called “P.J.” or something like that; they drove away in a red four-door pick-up truck.

If anyone who reads this can provide any help based on that information, contact me, perhaps via Facebook.

When we find these guys, this is what I’m going to do after we take back our taps:

I’m going to sneak into their home and remove the seats from their toilets. It doesn’t sound like much, but when they awake and attempt to make their morning glory, they will find nothing but the piss-stained rim of their toilet bowl. I will defecate in their refrigerator, R. Kelly style. I will sneak into that red four-door pick-up truck, pop the hood and steal the battery. I will also siphon all the gas they have in that truck, Gwen Stefani style. I am going to stick Beef Bouillon in their shower heads and cream cheese in their deodorant sticks. We have a cat in our home: I’m going to empty the contents of its litter box on one of their beds, Scott Baio style. I will glue their DVDs together. I will also go to one of their televisions and pay-per-view absolutely everything that’s available, Rick Santorum style.

Dickwads who took our taps, if you happen to read this, and think that I’m either joking, or not capable of doing all of the aforementioned things, you are dead wrong. You stole my taps. If college has a cardinal sin, taking another man’s tap is it. You deserve to be miserable, and my housemates and I will see to it that you are.

Hell hath no fury like that of a parched drunk.

I’m thirsty.

Graham Kates is a junior political science major.