The frat had a party one night my sophomore year. The party was some variation on the "pimps and hoes" theme, and I was thoroughly liquored up. Chris was driving Rob and I home from the party, and when we got back to campus, I had the brilliant idea to do a little post-party drinking in my dorm room.
We get there, and though there was plenty of liquor, the only mixer I had was this gallon jug of snow cone syrup left over from this campus function the frat put on (long story). So we mixed the vodka in with the blood red cherry syrup and drank up. The syrup sure did mask the alcohol, so it was my job to make sure everyone added a bit more vodka to their drinks. It was time for some mischief.
Out we wander, into the parking lot in front of my dorm. We brainstormed (it was more of a drizzle than a storm, really). Finally, we all looked up and saw the athletic center in the distance. I knew from doing work-study there that there was a golf cart by the entrance that was never chained up. I had my pocket knife on me, so my MacGyver side knew it could get that bitch started.
We creep quick like ninjas through the blackness, up the stairs of the athletic center, triumphant like Rocky. We three stick to the shadows and make our way to the golf cart. Sure enough, no chain. I slip the knife blade in the key slot, give it a bit of a jiggle, then a thrust, faster and faster and OH!...it starts up. We were bound by no limits; we could have cruised all over the campus in our destructionmobile, but instead, we decided to do donuts on the baseball field.
The athletic center is right next to the baseball field, and a narrow set of about 8 steps leads down to field level. A sharp left turn at the bottom of the steps would lead us onto the field. I figured I would get comfortable, since I was driving. I stuck my cup of red liquory goodness in the cupholder. Rob and Chris were a little more sober than I, so they nervously decided to keep a lookout for the campus safety patrol.
I drove the cart slowly at first, because I could not see in the dark. Then I found the light switch, and I was able to drive faster with more confidence. I rounded the corner and headed for the steps. I very slowly inched my way to the edge of the top of the stairs, knowing one slip of the gas pedal would send me careening down the stairs and smack into the chainlink fence. I ease up to the ledge and look to Chris and Rob for the final go-ahead. As I reach for the brake, I miss and hit the gas pedal full force.
In a flash, I was flying down these eight steps, bumping violently all the way down. I knew I had messed up; I knew death was near. Then, suddenly, at the bottom of the steps, I crash head on at full speed into the chainlink fence, without taking the sharp left I knew I had to take at the foot of the stairs. My beverage, once resting securely in the golf cart's cupholder had splashed all on the windshield of the cart. I lift my bruised head up from the steering wheel and see the blood red drink running down the windshield.
I had died, I thought. I had gone out in a blaze of glory, my insides spewed on the hazy plastic windows of a golf cart. It took a good minute before I figured out what had happened. Chris and Rob were rolling on the ground laughing at my death. Without skipping a beat, I look up at them in seriousness, and the alcohol speaks for me: "I must ride on."
With that, I began an Austin Powers 83 point turn in the cramped space between the bottom stair and the fence. Finally, I was free. I turned on the field and a world of possibility lay before me. I laid on the gas and did donuts (low-speed donuts, but donuts all the same) on the dirt between 1st and 2nd base. I then went full speed to the pitching mound and went soaring--at least in my mind--over the hump, BMX-style. Quite some time had passed, and Chris and Rob, my drunk ass voices of reason, urged me to wrap up the Bacchan orgy of golf carting.
I stopped on home plate and decided to tip the cart over. One thing I did not realize is that golf carts have all their weight at the bottom, so tipping it over was nearly impossible. So, we leaned it over at a 45 degree angle, on two wheels, and left it for dead. Take that, bitch!
The next morning, the first thing I remembered was how I had died in the crash, with all of my juices sprayed on the windshield. In looking back, I could have easily been expelled from school for that adventure. Until now, only my fraternity knew of the ordeal.
So I leave you with a parting moral: Don't Drink and Drive, kids.
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