Streaking the Belltower

College was a lot of fun. I must say that being in a fraternity made it even more so. The shenanigans landed me in more than one backseat of a police car, usually to make out with the lady cops. Not really, but it sounded good. That being said, the rest is absolutely true.

There was a time when I didn’t live in the fraternity house. Because of this lapse in judgement, I usually had to drive over when I wanted to hang out or go to a meeting or party or snake some brother’s new girlfriend. On one such night, I showed up at a very inopportune moment. A party was forming on the second floor of our attached apartments. I had a hard time
partying with my bros because alcohol has an invisible line. Once crossed, I would forget my own name, take my clothes off in public, embarrass girls I didn’t know by asking questions about their college experience thus far, such as “How many other girls have you made out with since starting school?” I tended to cross that invisible line with some consistency.

However, before I could make it upstairs, Chad had seen me driving up and came out to meet me. Chad: “Hey bro, we have to take the pledges streaking.” Me: “Thank god, I would hate to have gone upstairs and had a few drinks and get naked for no reason.” Chad: “You know the rules.”

For those who don’t know, my fraternity had passed a rule that we would not haze a pledge unless there were at least two brothers performing the same activities. Chad was proud of his manliness and liked to show it off to the other brothers about as frequently as I did, which was a lot (with enough alcohol).

Now, if you’ve read some of the other stories, you know I am a happily married straight man. But a little known statistic is that 1 in 5 fraternity members is homosexual. Chad knew this and liked being a tease. So, Chad drags me into the party room of our house, where I find no less than 10 pledges and 3 brothers all undressing, slapping hi fives, low fives, actually, I don’t want to think of all the things slapping in that room that evening (but I do it for you, the reader). As we greased each other up to prepare for the sprint to the bell tower on campus, I couldn’t help but feel . . . sober. I was really about to do this without any aid from alcohol whatsoever.

Now, if you really have an urge to run naked through city streets, probably a best practice not to scream so as not to be arrested. However, we were a bunch of drunken (except me . . . still wondering why) frat boys, running down the street, crossing Hillsborough Street to reach the campus, up the long hill to touch the bell tower to then turn and run back.

It happened to be drizzling that evening, which only added to the glistening buffet of young naked men. Most of the pledges were doing well making the sprint despite their inebriation. But, wouldn’t you know it, by the time we reached the bell tower, it was a down pour. And of course, the only sober person on this trek happened to slip on the grass on the way back, so I was left behind. Again, I still don’t know why I was sober.

Now, one detail I failed to mention is that there is a traffic light at the corner of Hillsborough St and Maiden Lane. I got up from the fall and saw that my frat brothers don’t believe in “no man left behind,” so what’s a sweaty, naked, strapping, dripping from rain water, shaking my wet hair in slow motion, boy to do? I got up, and ran as fast as I could. But to no avail, the light had turned red. There I am, standing on the corner, naked as the day my mom dropped her placenta. On the corner. Friday night on the busiest street in Raleigh.

Cars drove by and honked, swerved, or just plain stopped to gaze. I am sure I ended a few marriages that evening, and I still feel bad for any feelings those drivers may have had regarding their inadequacy. But at this point, there was nothing I could do but stand there. Two minutes went by, and finally the light changed.

At this point, I had nothing to be embarrassed about, so I just casually walked up the street to the house. No remorse, no regrets. There I was in my fullness. Take it in frat boys (and their girlfriends). I walked up the stairs to the apartments, where the party was still going on, grabbed a beer and sat on the couch, exhausted. Chad came up and we had a good laugh. I told him about slipping and the light change. We had a few good laughs, I got drunk (finally) and the night continued. About an hour went by, the party seemed to be going well, and our chapter president comes up the stairs.

Gravy (our chapter president):”Dude, y’all go streaking again?” Me:”Yeah, I got stuck at the light. How did you hear?” Gravy:”You’re still naked, bro.” Me:”So?” Gravy:”Uhh, nevermind. Can I get a beer?”

I miss college. Can’t wait to start grad school.

The PooPoo Prank

Being that Chad and I were best friends, it was a requirement, nay, an honor. . . to destroy his property, desecrate his workspace, allow him no sleep, and give him rides across town when he needed the latest Star Wars action figure. Now, Chad was an all around great guy, and truly didn’t deserve half of what I put him through, and being the great guy I have always been, I didn’t deserve any of what he did to me. However, it’s hard to resist the kind of opportunity presented when your best friend goes off to Nat’l Guard weekend duty. Wackiness ensues. . . (not for the weak of stomach)

The story begins when I went over to my old roommate’s house to pick up some stuff I was too lazy to move previously. Now, it must be said that my former roommate Ronnie was an excellent chef who also owned his own catering company. Being as good as he was, I was shocked to find an entire flourless chocolate cake sitting on his counter apparently left over from an event he had catered the night before. He offered me a piece, and it was delicious. But, it was extremely rich, and I could see why it wasn’t a big hit with 6,000 calories a slice. Long story short, he offered me the rest and I took it with me.

Story seems pretty normal so far, right? Guy goes to old place, picks up forgotten stuff, caterer / former roommate offers flourless chocolate cake. . .  Well you forget that I have a perverted sense of humor. Don’t worry, babies. . . daddy’s gonna feed you. Some of you probably even see where this is going. And if you think you know how this ends, you’re wrong. It’s much worse.

So Chad and I are hanging out before he has to go away for the weekend and he sees me eating a piece of cake and says “Hey, I want some cake.” Me:”Sure, go get yerself some.” Chad:”Dude, this is thick, it looks like a turd.” Me:”Yeah, but it tastes like brilliance.” Chad:”You’re gay, don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

So we eat cake and dring beer for a couple hours until he leaves to go to his unit, I continue to drink until I pass out. A day goes by, and I spend it hanging with my other friends, get drunk, eat more cake, pass out and wake up on top of a piece I forgot I was eating when the beer put me down. As I wake up, I look down at my shirt, wipe off the larger clumps with my hand and eat them. They are still delicious even with the lint and food crumbs from the couch stuck to them. I go into the bathroom and as I wash my hands I can’t help but notice the mirror and the reflection of my shirt. It looks like I had been in the woods and couldn’t find any leaves. I mean, it looks like I’m wearing toilet paper. Just disgusting, but still tasted great. And that’s when it hits me.

I cut three pieces of cake, roll them in my hands into oblong, cylindrical shapes, and proceed to Chad’s bathroom. I drop the first piece directly into the bowl. The second piece I carefully lay on the porcelain above the water and make sure it smears at a downward angle. The third piece I lay ever so carefully so that it hangs off the rim into the bowl. I proceed to clean my hands with toilet paper and rest that in the bowl and throw the last piece of paper on the floor for good measure. Looking at my creation I realize it is art, but a work in progress. It’s missing something. What could it be? Oh yeah. . . piss. So I put on some shoes, run down to the corner store, and buy some bottled lemonade.

Again, I look at my master work and am still critical. It just doesn’t look, well, shitty enough. I can’t think of what else I can do, so I decide to look in Chad’s room for inspiration. And boy do I find it! On his desk is a pot of . . . pudding! I’m serious, I couldn’t have made it up if I were trying. There is a pot of pudding Chad had made from his military MRE (he loved to eat those things). And it’s got a fork sticking out of it. So gues what I do? If you guessed I ate some of it, you’re not smart enough to read the rest of this. But if you guessed that I took said pot into the bathroom and used to fork to dab and splatter pudding randomly, you’re exactly right.

Now my masterpiece was done. Well, no, there was still something else missing. Something didn’t feel right. No, something didn’t. . . SMELL right. That’s it, I hadn’t gotten the smell. What to do? I mean I couldn’t just fart and close the door, not for something so visually stunning. I had to finish strong. Back to the corner store. I aske the guy if he had any stink bombs. I wanted the kind in the glass vial, but I was actually amazed he had anything close to it in the first place. Again, I’m not making this up, the store guy actually had stink bombs. The only other place I could think to get them were the novelty stores at South of the Border in S. Carolina. But the fates were smiling and wanted me to pull this prank off.

The stink bombs the guy sold me were duds, though. Oh, they stank, but the smell was like wet cat and lasted about 3 minutes. He had enough to sell me three and I wanted to test the first one. Now that I knew the effect, I had two left and I wanted to use one for a test run. So I went and got Karl from one of the other apartments. Poor Karl, he never saw it coming. But to his credit, he did the most wonderful thing I could have never thought of.

Me:”Karl, I think we had som bums break in!! (this really happened a few times) Hurry, man, you gotta see this. All I know is I’m not cleaning it up.” Karl:”What? What are you talking about?” Me:”Dude, you just gotta see for yourself. Oh man, I think I’m gonna be sick.” Karl:”Just tell me, and quit. . . ” Me:”NO! You need to see this.”

So Karl, who obviously doesn’t trust me, follows anyway. Again, he never saw this coming. One word: Priceless. As we make it upstairs and walk towardds Chad’s bathroom, I can smell the wet cat. In my mind, I am laughing hysterically, but my face is one of disgust and horror. I push open the door, but have placed myself in his line of sight of the carnage. I say “Karl, I can’t believe this.” I move out of the way, Karl looks down, immediately takes a step back and heaves. “Look at this Karl, can you believe this?” And as the last word comes out of my mouth, I reach down and point at the “poo,” but oops, I got some on my finger. Karl looks at my stained fingertip and a light sweat breaks out on his forehead. I look disgusted as I hold the finger up between us. I let out a small shriek. Our eyes meet. I put my finger in my mouth. Karl throws up on the bathroom floor.

There it is. The “Piece De Resistance.” Actual, real, painful, acidic, putrid. Vomit. I have outdone myself. Karl flees. I laugh like it’s the last time. I go downstairs and watch TV. Over the next few hours, Karl comes back and I explain what had just happened. He was upset at first, until he realised the genius of his upchuck. We relax and settle down so we don’t look guilty when Chad gets home. I heard his ride drop him off and ran to his bathroom to set off the final wet cat bomb. Chad came into the TV room and hung out for a few minutes. We chat about the weekend, mostly idle talk. Then he went upstairs.

Chad:”Mike, get the hell up here.” Me:”What is it Chad. . .Oh My God!!” Chad:”Call the police.” Me:”Chad, they can’t do anything now.” Chad:”No man, there’s some bum out there that’s severely dehydrated and we need to find him.” Me:”My god, I’m going to be sick.” Chad:”Suck it up, we have to go helpthat guy. Now, go call the police.”

I agree and turn to walk down the stairs. I take two steps and feel a punch to the back of the head. Only it wasn’t a punch. It was a wad of chocolate cake. I look at Chad. He calls me an asshole and tells me to clean up the mess. Then he asks me, “What the hell smells like wet cat? Did you buy a stink bomb from the beer store? I already tried those and they suck.”

I hate you, Chad.

The Day Chad And I Almost Died: Or Un-Intended Consequences Of Foreign Substances

I have to start by saying that Chad was one of the most influential friends in my young adult life. I say this because I have more memories of drunken debauchery and foolish shenanigans with this one individual than anyone else. That being said, the following is absolutely a true story:

Tuesdays were the easiest days of the semester because I only had one class, so I wound up getting drunk on Mondays because I could, and blowing off said class because I only had to study for the tests. It was one of those courses where the prof didn’t really care because he had better things to do and usually sent a grad student to teach for him. I often wondered how many students actually attended. Anyway, I digress.

Chad had found me and since he didn’t have a car, I immediately assumed he needed a ride. Chad:”I need a ride.” Me:”So what? I needa blowjob.” Chad:”Dude, do you know what Androstenodione is?” Me:”Does it involve lips around my manhood?” Chad:”No, it’s like the next best thing to steriods, only it’s legal.” Me:”That’s great, Chad. When do this become you giving me head?” Chad:”I’m not gay, you know that.”

All the witty banter aside, Chad eventually convinced me I needed to drive to Cary to the Gold’s Gym to get this wonder drug. I mean, I liked to work out, and sure I wanted to get bigger (’cause chicks dig muscle dudes), so why not? So we jump into the Batmobile that is my Subaru Loyale and head off int the direction of Highway 440. When you’re in college and have a car, you have instant sex appeal, everyone is your friend, and your ride gets a cool name which makes you feel more manly (my buddy Jason’s white 1983 station wagon was affectionately known as the space shuttle).

Things are as you would expect on a short half hour drive to the next town over to get “legal” steriods from some personal trainer you don’t know at a gym because you can’t buy them at a real store. But Chad has the overwhelming urge to provide entertainment. Entertainment being him straddling himself in the passenger seat and contorting in such a way as to allow himself to keep the seatbelt on (for saftey), whilst allowing the flexibility to hold a lighter to his anal area as to ignite the methane he is about to spew into our shared air supply. Seriously, though, I am laughing my ass off while Chad sends a blue flame into the glove compartment. He loses his self control and starts to laugh as if he’s at a Don Rickles concert as well. Eventually, the tears drain from our eyes and we settle down, only because we weren’t aware of the consequences of fire in an encapsulated space.

Chad must not have noticed, and neither had I, for I don’t make it a habit of looking at another man’s crotch, but he had a hole in his pants, and in that area the frizzies from said hole had somehow managed to catch fire. We had been laughing so hard that neither had noticed the smoke that remained after the blue flame.

Chad began to scream like a 6 year old while I stopped paying attention to the road so that I could slap him in the balls to extinguish said flame in my car. Chad, not taking kindly to my help, begins punching me in my arm. Me, not taking kindly to being punched in the arm, decide to punch Chad in the arm while he slaps his own balls to extinguish what at this point is merely ash in his crotch (because of my superior Smoky The Bear fire preventing skills). While all of this is going on, I had somehow done a U-turn and was descending onto the highway via the off ramp, meaning I was going the wrong way heading into 70 mph traffic. I begin to scream, Chad looks up from putting out the remaining embers, suddenly caring more for his life than his proginy, and begins to scream, as we are heading straight into oncoming traffic.

Now, the next moment was a frantic blur of me turning the wheel hard to the left, Chad grabbing the wheel pulling it right, me covering my face in fear, Chad and I embracing in a manly hug whilst crying, a jump over a curb while crossing over a four lane road leading to the highway, jumping yet another curb, and somehow landing in the parking lot of Gold’s Gym. . . parked perfectly between two white stripes of a parking space with the only casualty being a bush along the road. 

We had come to a complete stop and I could tell by the rearview mirror that I was white as a ghost. I looked at Chad who looked equally flushed and we both sat there motionless for a full 3 minutes. Finally I said “I don’t know why or how, but we made it here.”

Chad, who finally calmed down, reverted to the Chad I knew and pulled out his wallet. He said:”Hey, man, do you mind going in there and asking for Tony? He’s got the pills we need.” Me:”Why don’t you go? You were the one who wanted to come here in the first place.” Chad:”Yeah, but, well, I shit myself.”

And that was what I told my mom when she asked how I got that stain on my passenger seat when seh flew up to drive back to Texas with me. I love you, mom!