A typical Whitman weekend night consists of the following: hitting up the Taqueria with pals, deciding whether or not to go out for 40 minutes, getting ready and drinking cement mixers, staying out from 10 to midnight and then going to bed immediately. The Whitman population spends half of the next day complaining about a hangover that they incurred from the four-to-five drinks 35 percent of us had.

Let’s be honest, we only see the “party-going” population of Whitman for two hours each weekend night, and that’s only if you go out twice (which is a rarity).  Whenever someone claims “Whitman goes hard,” they’re probably talking about Beta or making a joke about Phi. But now more than just the need for a “good night’s sleep” has gotten in the way of the general social midnight curfew: the Walla Walla Police Department.

For years, the WWPD has been paid off through a sneaky budget trick designed by President Jorge Ponts that sends $40,000 Turkish lira their way each year (the department organizes semi-annual trips to Istanbul). This agreement allows Whitman students to drink, urinate and fornicate wherever they please and only be given a mild warning by Whitman security (the adults, not the students who are just glorified light-switchers).

But thanks to Ponts’ imminent departure, the Walla Walla Police Department has begun cracking down on Whitman’s party scene (or joke of one) as a warning to the next president to continue the PD’s getaways to the Blue Mosque and Mavi flagship store (WWPD was voted “most stylish Police Department in Eastern Washington” for the last 10 years).

Last weekend the fashionable fuzz showed up at a party at a house known around campus only as “The Best Western 69.” As to why the residents decided to call it that, I have no idea. After a knock on the door, the entire house, which was hosting a women’s fraternity post-initiative event, immediately hushed. One person who was over 21 muttered next to me, “Does being caught drinking in a private residence automatically go on my LinkedIn profile?” I answered in the affirmative and moved in closer to investigate.

The residents of the house were talking to the police on the porch. They agreed that one student needed to get a MIP (Minor in Possession –– of alcohol in this case), which would be expunged from his record in 30 days after never testing his urine. Why? To frighten the kids into running away from the party at 10:40 p.m. and to show the new president of Whitman that the WWPD means business.

The police and residents chose Trevor Hueis, a theatre major, who blew a .02 after he had been acting smashed the entire night as an excuse to hit on sophomore Kappas.

I talked to one officer before the staged MIP and breathalyzing took place.

“Sure, we have real work to do, but it’s so funny to see you guys try and party. Whitman parties –– where smart kids go to get stupid, and stupid kids try and sound smart. Some guy was making a mess of Sartre’s philosophy when I walked in. I almost tased him on the spot, but then I thought about the deals at the Grand Bazaar. You’re lucky I can haggle like a boss,” said the officer, who preferred to remain anonymous.

After the MIP was issued, kids bolted away from the party liked scared rabbits infected with scary juice. The deed was done, except for a few hangers-on. One resident of the house, Dick Dessmind, went around benignly shouting at people to leave, offering them candy and trinkets if they did. The WWPD had made its mark.