Cleaned Out

It was Hell Week. The eight of us had survived late running sessions, massive alcohol consumption, sleepless nights, verbal beatdowns, peeing in bottles because we weren&#39t allowed to use the bathroom and wearing embarrassing X-rated T-shirts around town.

But we hadn&#39t played Don&#39t Screw Your Brother yet.

The game was simple: eight of us lined up in the basement at 4 a.m. We were passed two 64 oz. bottles of prune juice. &#39Drink until you can&#39t anymore, in one gulp. If you put down the bottle, it moves on to the next person. Whatever is left, the last guy has to drink all of.&#39

We weren&#39t stupid: Essentially, if each of us drank one-quarter of a bottle, we&#39d not &#39screw&#39 our last brother, and we&#39d have an equal amount of plumbing issues to deal with in the morning.

I was fifth in line. The first four pledges polished off the first bottle, so I was starting in on #2. I was nervous: I hadn&#39t been doing well during the week, and I was really tired. Determined not to be a wuss, I put the bottle up to my mouth, leaned back and started chugging.

A minute later, people started chanting my name. I was confused: Had I imbibed my 16 oz. yet? This was taking forever. Suddenly, I realized I had gone through 2/3 of the bottle and I seemed capable of finishing it.

So I did. 64 oz. of prune juice, straight through the system.

I was a hero &#39 at least to the next three guys in line. And I was fine, until we were forced to go running an hour later. I made it about five minutes before I felt a very uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. &#39Pledgemaster, sir. I NEED to use the bathroom.&#39 He said wait. I said, in what most have been a very convincing voice: &#39No, I need to go NOW.&#39

I spent about eight hours in the bathroom that day.

But you know what? I think it was worth it.
&#39 Kirk Miller, University of Michigan,

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