You Can't Spell "Bum Wine" Without "Numb"

I hate when you have an awkward run-in with someone akin to something you would see in an indie movie or a multi-camera sitcom. That's how I felt the other day. Sitting in one of my favorite cafés, a (presumably) homeless man came and sat at my table, and you know, I don't even like it when a not-totally-distant acquaintance does that. So he starts talking to me and I feel the pangs of lower-middle-class collegiate guilt when I don't have anything more than $0.23 to give him. He mumbles a lot, and there is a lot of silence and staring at each other. Finally when I make a motion to leave he breaks the silence, saying something about my mom and me being a punk. Then he slurs that "[he's] never hurt anyone before" and reaches inside his coat pocket. My heart rate goes up thricefold at this point, not knowing what sharpened or possibly blunt objet trouvé he plans to beat my punky self with. I see a glimmer of light, and he pulls out...



Oh, Mad Dog. I wish this was the first time I was afraid of you. And to the guy's (non?)credit, he actually was in posession of the green colored variety of Mad Dog, whose actual flavor escapes me. (Kiwi? Wasabi?) The green colored MD is by far the worst tasting. The best would have to be Blue, which even has the "Bling Bling" design on the front of the bottle for added class.

Mad Dog. I was introduced to MD last summer after previously sticking to the high road of bum wines known as Boone's Farm. The appeal of MD to me was in its doubled amount of alcohol and myriad of colors. The downside comes when one actually drinks the stuff. Whew. Yeech. But I could stomach the stuff for a good blitzing, especially when it involves putting on plastic jewelry or yelling expletives at Stacy London while having a What Not To Wear pre-party.

As of late, however, MD has been difficult to enjoy. One memorable experience came late last semester when I thought it would be fun to enjoy my Thursday night solitude by watching Food Network and sipping a styrofoam cup of red-flavored MD. Well, considering I only had eight-ounce cups, refills happened often. And then the drunk Facebooking started. And then I think I managed to roll under my futon. And then it was 9:45 A.M. and I was dry-heaving while washing my face and prepping for a fun, sober day of classes.

A few weeks ago I gave it another shot, foolishly picking up the green flavor. I was able to drink to, oh, where the neck of the bottle stops and traded it in for a vodka-and-Squirt.

The point of all this is...I don't know. I would like to see Mad Dog take a leap forward in our cultural zeitgeist. For all of the tears and joy and tears of joy it has brought me, I think more people should be aware of its magic. Thank you, Mad Dog 20/20. It's been a bumpy road, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.

(But I would trade you for another vodka-and-Squirt.)