“The Goats Turned Plaid”

A Stratum XIII Friday brings the furley frosh of Reid III out from under their textbooks to the minigolf facility on Exlington Pike. Standard hijinks ensue, abetted by the syrupy tang of amaretto-psilocibina cocktails.
  The competitive concentration of the fellows is continually interrupted by bleating and petarade punctuating nigh their every proper attempt at an accurate putt upon the plastic green.
  Whence comes this foul intrusion?
  The culprits lay within eyesight: Caprine cavorting about the adjacent paddock.
  The absurdities of sight and sound amplified with chemical enhancement result in abderian fits incapacitating some of the men to prostrate howls of mirth. The outing thus forfeited, the furley crew sequestered themselves back in the darkened chambers of Reid to finish out the lingering effects of the spectacle.
  But one thing all can attest to: the goats turned plaid.