IBM’s stock lost one-fifth of its value when the company announced that Y2K fears were hurting its sales more than expected. So this is yet another good reason to give blood today before the blood drive ends.

We are going to need all of the blood we can get if chaos erupts Jan. 1, 2000. If gangs of roaming thugs begin raping and pillaging just because the lights went off, emergency rooms will be packed, and you may need to get some of that blood back.

There are many good reasons to give blood. Not giving blood because you just don’t want to is about as reasonable as not voting just because you don’t care. It is a necessary philanthropic activity. I never pass up a chance to give blood. Why should only my friends be allowed to bleed me dry?

It stands to reason. Spread it around. You have plenty of the stuff, and all it takes to make more is time and plenty of liquids.

You should never drink after giving blood — that is a bad idea. But I do remember one time when I was just a lowly sophomore, and I did just that.

I call this story “Night of the Iguana,” and I don’t really know why. Most of what I am about to tell you comes from the eyewitness accounts of local farmers and only recently declassified government documents.

My roommate, Pete the Freak, was experimenting with alcohol like he was Linus Pauling looking for the cure or something. Every night, he would purchase a fifth of hard alcohol and consume the entire quantity just to see how he liked it. I thought he was an alcoholic, but in the end, it did no real harm.

On this particular night, he was drinking Beefeater gin, I believe. I also believe this is last time I had Beefeater gin because even the smell of juniper makes me nauseous to this day.

I guess it completely slipped my mind that I had just given blood that day when I asked Pete for the first shot. He reluctantly agreed to part with an ounce; he was a tight mother if ever I knew one.

After that first shot, I was off like a prom dress. There was no stopping me, literally. The doors of perception flew wide open. A naked Indian ran around Schilletter Village taunting the neighbors and representing death. Turns out it was me. I ran around the entire complex in my underwear because Pete, still reasonably in control of his senses, had dared me to.

I went on about swans for hours because they were on our university phone books back then. And for some time, I believed myself to be Lt. Montgomery Scott (Scotty) of “Star Trek” fame.

About 11 p.m. I got hungry for pizza and since there was no little voice in my head telling me what a bad idea that was, I went whole hog on a large Pizza Pit with extra cheese, pepperoni and black olives that later became the new color of our bathroom walls, my bedroom floor and Pete’s mattress.

I have probably never come so close to death in my entire life, and I used to drive a cab in downtown Houston, Texas, where sailors, crackheads and deranged hayseeds were my primary customers.

I ended up passing out in Pete’s bed, which is not mean feat since Pete had the top bunk. I vaguely remember flying, but that doesn’t seem possible in retrospect. I don’t think anything homoerotic happened, but then it would serve me right for drinking on an empty bloodstream.

And that is about it! So, don’t ever drink after you give blood.

But even after all of that, I still think giving blood is one of the greatest gifts. You can save a life without even leaving campus. You can give hope to someone you have never met. It is a selfless act, and it gives you a good feeling to donate.

If you need something a bit more substantial to motivate you, here it is. They give you as many cookies as you can handle, orange drink that isn’t 100 percent natural but tastes pretty good, and there are always plenty of good-looking fraternity boys and sorority girls, whichever is your preference, over there to mother and molly coddle you.

All you have to do is act a little dizzy, and suddenly you feel like you just got shot up on the battlefield and the nurse is taking a shine to you and calling you a brave fellow. It is quite an ego boost. So, if for no other reason, do it for the chubby. It can’t hurt your social life any.

And park yourself over there with the people handling the blood, too, because you will hear the funniest stories of your life, honestly. Pimp these people for tales of false bravado and black humor and you won’t be disappointed.

There is always some guy comes in and acts like a stud and then passes out when he gets a load of that little, painless needle they gently and loving jab into your arm. You always get the girl whose sorority house is making her give blood, and she lies about her weight or honestly doesn’t know she is only 90 pounds.

But these things go off without a hitch. I have unusually hard-to-find veins and once had to get stuck four times to find the right spot. They ended up taking it from the side of my arm, and it smarted for hours. In the end, however, I consider it to be well worth the pain and discomfort just to know that I helped save a life.

So, take the time today to give blood. It really doesn’t hurt at all. The blood pressure cuff is more painful than the needle, and the warm feeling of doing a good deed will last all semester.

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Greg Jerrett is a graduate student in English from Council Bluffs. He is opinion editor of the Daily.