Setting: Clyde's Pub, a Saturday evening.
I like to get to know a place when I live there, and there's really no better way to get acquainted with one's surroundings than to visit a local watering hole. Clyde's is just such a place, with emphasis on 'hole'. This particular evening I was sitting with some friends, chatting about quantum mechanics or boogers, when we overheard a wager being proffered. It was extended to a gentleman I'll call Cletus, because Cletus is a funny name, and this was a funny gentleman. Anyhoo...
The bet is that Cletus won't swim in Millcreek Pond for 5 drinks. No sooner is the bet on the table than Cletus is out of the bar and wobbling towards the pond. Millcreek Pond is not known for its cleanliness (although neither is Cletus), nor is swimming allowed or recommended. The bank slopes down, out of sight, and it's difficult to see if Cletus is swimming because it's dark and he's out of sight. He does return from his sojurn, dripping slightly, and wishes to collect his earnings. A kindly bar patron involved in the proceedings notices, however, that Cletus' legs are not wet (he is wearing shorts on this particular evening). Calling the white trash bar equivalent of shenanigans, the patron refuses to pay his end of the wager. Realizing his drinks are disappearing, Cletus seeks to remedy the situation.
Apparently, getting naked is part of his solution.
Pants are removed before he leaves the sidewalk in front of the bar, shirt soon after and underwear is gone before he's across the street. Stark naked, Cletus begins to jog toward the pond, and doesn't stop until he leaps off the bank into the pond. After a brief swim, he returns to the bar (I need reassurance from others that his clothes have returned to their places on his body before I remove my hands from my eyes - one glimpse at his pale asscheeks glinting in the moonlight was plenty for me, thanks) to collect his ransom. This time, there is little doubt that he has in fact been in the water. There is however, still an issue with the barkeep. She refuses to give Cletus his drink (she wagered one drink) because he was supposed to keep his clothes on.
Fortunately for everyone, Cletus consoles himself with his other 4 drinks (likely numbers 47-50 for the night) and the selection of 80s power ballads on the jukebox.
At this point, Cletus' friend returns from parts unknown, and asks why he's all wet. Finding out that Cletus had an impromptu Olympic swimming tryout, the friend expresses his concern over Cletus' health. "Dude. You've got that duck dong disease. That shit's worse than an STD. You're going to have to go to either Biddeford or Portland to get treated." I have stopped wondering how the specifics of duck dong disease (a google search came up empty - perhaps it's swimmer's itch have become so familiar to this gentleman, but I know I'm not alone in appreciating the fact that Cletus has friends like that looking out for him.