I used to depend on a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle to protect me from the monsters that lurked in the dark of night. That really wasn't all that long ago, but since coming to Madison I've learned that darkness harbors no scary beasts—just goofy ass drunken creatures.
Case in point: Last Thursday, exhausted and emotionally drained after the two-hour Grey's Anatomy, I was making my way home. My peaceful and rare Thursday night sobriety was shattered by the panting of a tuxedo-clad guy sprinting at breakneck speed down the sidewalk. I, too, have been known to engage in drunken sprinting, ceaselessly amused by how my legs seem to move independently from my clouded mind.
Just as I neared the sharply-dressed dasher, a rabbit darted across the street. Mr. Tux slowed and prepared to cross the street as well, but when he caught sight of me, he froze, his face sheepishly saying, ""No, I totally wasn't chasing that rabbit.""
A second later, I looked over my shoulder to see him take off at top speed, zig-zagging through an empty parking lot in pursuit of the furry fiend, culminating in an epic face plant.
I've come up with all sorts of likely explanations for this oddity. Maybe Mr. Tux was a traveling Chippendale, whose dramatic entrance had allowed a customer's pet rabbit to escape. Perhaps he was a crappy magician. These are fun prospects, but the Madison reality is far more entertaining: Mr. Tux was nothing more than a drunken celebrant whose childish and/or carnivorous instincts had been spurred by the alcohol-blurred sight of a furry wabbit.
