This is a Mad dog and I have been on the hunt for them as a gag gift for my sorority sisters at our friends wedding this upcoming weekend. (Congrats Alicia!)
The word “Mad Dog” has been used as multiple parts of speech throughout my collegiate and young professional life.
As a noun, a Mad Dog is a low-end fortified wine, often used as an easy, cheap and quick way to get sufficiently drunk, extremely fast. As a verb, to Mad Dog means to suffer through one of these neon beasts with friends as fast as possible, fully knowing that you will be completely obligerant (please refer to my list of 2010 made-up words) after consuming the entire thing.
For the normal 20-something, a Mad Dog is something that is only consumed once, maybe twice, in your collegiate career and, no matter what part of speech it is used in, you usually remember more negative things about the next morning’s recovery than you do about anything that occurred the night before. Woops.
Needless to say, we weren’t planning on completely and fully Mad Dogging each other this weekend, but it certainly would have brought back some good memories and laughs.
Regardless, here I was in the middle of our hometown liquor store, staring at a 55 year old man, explaining to him why I needed Mad Dogs.
The conversation went something like this.
Me: “Hi there, you wouldn’t happen to carry Mad Dogs, would you?”
Man Behind Counter (lets call him Ralph- seems appropriate): “Mad Dogs?”
Me: “Yes, Mad Dogs, you know those neon-colored fortified wine bevys [insert nervous ramble because of how embarrassed I am to be standing in front of a man holding a $300 bottle of shiraz, ready for check out, and me asking for the food stamp equivalent of wine coolers.]
Ralph: “No, I know what they are- you are just the first person who has ever asked if we carry them. We don’t”
Me [still recovering from aforementioned nervous ramble, phasing into my polite, young professional banter]: “Ah, I see. Well, do you know where I can find any in the area?”
Ralph [removes glasses, leans in to offer me his wise, Mad Dog advice]: “I am going to be honest with you dear. The only places you will find Mad Dogs are in the dangerous parts of Dorchester [ghetto], Roxbury [yet another ghetto] or Mattapan [most recent location of a tragic mass murder, in yet another ghetto].” He continued on, just incase there was any chance I somehow thought it would have been a good idea to risk my life to buy 6 Bling Bling Mad Dogs, saying: “I owned a liquor store in Boston for 20 years and never carried the stuff. Further, I would strongly hope that you wouldn’t go into any stores that might sell Mad Dogs without some form of protection.”
Me [now wide eyed, and in some form of shell shock]: “Ah, understood. Thanks for the advice.”
As I got in my car, I locked the doors and just sat there listening to the rain hit my windshield. I proceeded to have a minor freak out.
Why is it that Mad Dogs were only sold in the ghetto here when they were placed in a pretty, lit display case in college? Did I go to school in an unsafe ghetto? Why did I feel such a false sense of security? Why didn’t I know that I lived in a ghetto? Shouldn’t I have known that the sale of Mad Dogs indicated that I was in an unsafe setting? Why did I feel confident enough to walk alone anywhere? Why was I never shot? How did this happen?
I proceed to text the bride, feeling extremely defeated, and got a comforting “bahahahah, basically what I was told,” which was a nice way of bringing myself back to the “you went to college with a bunch of pretty wasps, and never did get shot” reality.
I will see you Saturday, wedding, but alas, I will be Mad Dogless.
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