It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Dog Race
Our celebration of the riot in a bottle.
In addition to taking place before one of the semester's biggest parties that many of the race participants would be attending, this farewell race was especially eventful because it also preceded a sorority formal, to which I had the pleasure of being invited.
My pledge brother, and dear friend from freshman year, Doyle, was kind enough to volunteer his room on the frat hall for the site of the Mad Dog festivities because of its superb amenities (i.e., sound system, large TV, seating capacity, Steeley Dan CDs). Unfortunately, Doyle had headed to Duke to visit his girlfriend the evening before, so he would not be back to participate. Nevertheless, in the spirit of generosity that accompanies senior year and Mad Dog racing, Doyle gave us the keys to his room with the request only that we clean up after we finished. Now, before I go on, I might make mention of the fact that Doyle, generous as he was, was very anal about his room, often cleaning up after people even while they were still there.
The race was one for the ages, seasoned drinkers Bigglesworth and Marquis charging out to an early lead, but long shots like myself making it interesting later on. As the minutes ticked by, many spectators cheered us on and more than one participant found that the walk across the hall to the bathroom was too long under these competitive conditions, opting instead to empty our bladders in Doyle's wastebasket.
While the world record of 11minutes 34 seconds was not shattered, nearly everyone achieved a personal best. Rather than adjourn to our respective obligations after the race concluded, we decided to commemorate the event by consuming copious shots of vodka and whiskey (a delightful compliment to the Orange Jubilee, Banana-Strawberry, and Lightening Creek flavored Mad Dog).
Upon the conclusion of a movie, the title of which I understandably don't recall, we determined that knocking our Mad Dog bottles against the furniture, walls, and windows would be a rousing demonstration of the structural integrity of our empty Mad Dog bottles. This "demonstration" quickly evolved into a game of who could knock their bottle the hardest without breaking it. One by one, bottles shattered, as they met their untimely demise on objects like Doyle's bed frame, Doyle's dresser, and Doyle's wall. As Bigglesworth and I were the last to have unbroken bottles and had seemingly mastered the art of hitting bedroom objects without breaking the bottles, we resolved to test our luck by hitting the bottles against Doyle's window. As fate would have it, Bigglesworth lost out, shattering a sizable part of Doyle's window. I, for my part decided to finish the job by smashing out enough of the glass with my bottle so that Bigglesworth and I could go through the window frame, out onto the balcony that overlooked the fraternity courtyard.
When we miraculously got onto the balcony without serious laceration, I realized that again I had to urinate. Rather than risk injury by going back inside to use the bathroom (or Doyle's garbage can for that matter), I chose to whip it out and do some innocent urinating over the courtyard, much to the dismay of some early party-goers who had gathered there. Bigglesworth and I reveled at the sight of the urine-covered courtyard and then fixed our gaze on the "crystal city" that Doyle's room had become. Through the remaining chard in the window frame, we could see broken glass covering Doyle's room and an occasional brother making their way to the doorway to see the spectacle for themselves.
Deciding that we had caused enough mayhem for a Mad Dog race, we tried to go inside so that I might go to the aforementioned sorority formal and Bigglesworth to the party. I maneuvered successfully through the perilous broken window, however Bigglesworth was not so lucky. He sliced his hand, but rather than being concerned by the injury, showed it to me out of mutual amusement. Someone corralled him into going to the hospital while I proceeded to the formal, nearly two hours late.
I stumbled back to my room the next morning, realizing that Doyle probably did not find the humor in the events of the previous night. Those that saw me might as well have shouted "Dead man walking" as they whispered to one another and generally averted their gaze from mine. I was greeted by a series of dents in my door, products of Doyle's ire, as well as a profanity-laced tirade on my voice mail from Doyle. Bigglesworth, who had returned to the party after receiving no less than five stitches at the hospital, was not so lucky as I. A drunken Doyle had returned to his ruined room and embarked on a seek and destroy mission for Bigglesworth and myself. While I was safely at the sorority formal, Bigglesworth was accosted and nearly pummeled by Doyle at the party. Fortunately for the already-injured Bigglesworth, Doyle was restrained by a multitude of people and never got to go any more ballistic than screaming.
The happy conclusion to this story is that when Doyle's rage subsided some thirty-six hours later, we agreed to clean his room, take the heat for the broken window, and outfit him with over $100 in liquor as a sign of good sportsmanship. While Doyle is still a very close friend, Bigglesworth and I still refrain from suggesting a rekindling of Mad Dog races.
- Wake Forest University
